Children

Years slipped by in a blur of love and chaos, the kind only a full life can bring. Ethan and I built something beautiful—a home on the outskirts of the city, its walls echoing with laughter, its windows framing a life I’d once only dreamed of. Our marriage was a steady flame, fueled by the tension that never quite faded, reignited in stolen kisses over breakfast or late-night tangles in our bed, his hands still tracing my curves with a hunger that made my breath catch. My transformation—Liam’s gift—remained a quiet undercurrent, a strength and allure that defined me, though I rarely thought of its source. Until the children came.

First was Elena, born under a harvest moon, her tiny fists clenched as if claiming the world. Then came Jasper, two years later, his cries sharp and insistent, a storm in a small body. Finally, little Mira arrived, her birth a quiet dawn, her gaze unnervingly steady for an infant. They were ours, Ethan’s and mine, their features a blend of his warm brown eyes and my sculpted grace, but there was something else—something I couldn’t place at first, a shadow that flickered in their laughter, their movements, their very being.

Elena was six when I first noticed it. She stood in the garden, her dark hair glinting like silk in the sunlight, and tilted her head, her hazel eyes—my eyes—catching the light in a way that stopped my heart. They shimmered, silvered for a moment, a mirror of Liam’s gaze, and a chill raced through me. She smiled, sharp and knowing, then darted off, her laughter a melody too old for her years. I brushed it off as a trick of the light, but the unease lingered, a whisper I couldn’t silence.

Jasper showed it next, at four, his small frame taut with a strength that defied his age. He’d climb the oak in our yard, higher than any child should, his movements fluid, predatory, his grin flashing teeth that seemed too pointed in the dusk. “Look, Mommy!” he’d call, and I’d watch, my chest tight, as he leapt down, landing with a grace that wasn’t human. Ethan laughed, proud of his boy, but I saw it—the echo of Liam’s power, the cold fire that had reshaped me, now pulsing in my son.

Mira was different, subtler. At two, she’d sit quietly, her tiny hands tracing patterns in the air, her eyes fixed on shadows no one else saw. She’d hum, a low, hypnotic sound that made the room feel smaller, and once, when I tucked her in, she touched my neck—right where Liam’s fangs had pierced me—and whispered, “Cold.” Her voice was soft, but it cut through me, a memory I couldn’t share. I pulled her close, her warmth grounding me, but the question gnawed: what had I passed to them?

They were ours, yet not entirely. Liam’s essence wove through them, a thread I hadn’t meant to spin. It wasn’t just their looks—Elena’s silken agility, Jasper’s untamed strength, Mira’s quiet, piercing awareness—it was deeper, a vitality that hummed beneath their skin, a hunger I recognized in my own transformed core. I’d catch them watching me sometimes, their gazes too sharp, too knowing, and I’d wonder if they felt him too, the shadow of a man I’d buried in my past.

Ethan saw their brilliance, their beauty, and adored them without question. “They’re like you,” he’d say, pulling me close, his lips brushing my temple. “Strong, unstoppable.” I’d smile, hiding the tremor in my chest, because he didn’t know—not the bites, not the thrall, not the cold fire that had forged me. I’d watch him wrestle with Jasper, read to Elena, cradle Mira, and my heart would swell, a love so fierce it drowned the fear. They were ours, I told myself, no matter what else flowed in their veins.

But the signs grew. Elena, at eight, could charm anyone—a teacher, a stranger—with a tilt of her head, her voice a velvet pull that echoed Liam’s command. Jasper, at six, healed too fast—a scraped knee fading in hours, leaving no trace. Mira, at four, would wake from dreams, whispering of “the man with silver eyes,” and I’d hold her, my pulse racing, praying it was coincidence. I never saw Liam, never felt his call, but he was there—in them, in me, a legacy I couldn’t escape.

One night, as Ethan slept beside me, I stood over their beds, watching them breathe—Elena’s graceful sprawl, Jasper’s restless twitch, Mira’s stillness. My children, my miracles, infused with a power I’d never asked for. I felt it then, the weight of Liam’s gift, not just in my body but in theirs—a strength, an allure, a shadow that bound us. It terrified me, yet it thrilled me too. They were extraordinary, and I’d protect them, raise them, love them, no matter what stirred in their blood.

The future stretched before us, a tapestry of light and shadow. Ethan and I would grow old together, our love a constant, while our children—touched by something ancient, something mine—would carve their own paths. I didn’t know if Liam would return, if he’d claim what he’d sown, but I’d be ready. For now, they were ours, and that was enough—a family forged in love, tempered by a fire I could never fully extinguish.