Mira

I’ve always been a spark, a flame that flickers too bright to hold still. At twenty, I’m a whirlwind—hair like dark silk whipping in the wind, eyes that catch the light and throw it back sharper, a body that moves with a grace I never had to earn. People notice me, always have—guys tripping over themselves at parties, girls eyeing me with a mix of envy and want. It’s effortless, this pull I have, this heat that simmers under my skin. Mom says I get it from her, that radiant thing she’s got, but there’s more to it, something deeper, hungrier, gnawing at me like a secret I can’t name. It’s why I left—packed my bags, kissed Dad’s cheek, hugged Elena and Jasper tight, and told them I was off to study in London. Art history, I said, a half-truth to cover the real one: I needed to run, to chase something calling me across the ocean.

London’s a maze of gray stone and neon, a pulse that matches mine. I settle into a cramped flat near Bloomsbury, the kind with creaky floors and windows that rattle in the rain. Classes at UCL are fine—old paintings, older professors—but they’re not why I’m here. It’s him. I feel him in the damp air, in the shadows that stretch too long at dusk, in the way my blood hums when I’m alone. I’ve dreamed of him since I was little—silver eyes, a voice like velvet and smoke, a cold that burns. “The man,” I used to call him, whispering it to Mom when the nightmares woke me. She’d hush me, her face tight, but she never knew I remembered. I’ve always remembered, even when I shouldn’t.

The hunger’s worse here, a ache that twists in my gut, sharp and sweet. It’s not food I want, not sex—though I’ve had my share, quick and hot, leaving them dazed and me unsatisfied. It’s something else, something vital, pulling me through the city like a thread I can’t see. I prowl the streets at night, my boots clicking on wet pavement, my leather jacket hugging me tight. I’m a firecracker, they say—mates at uni, blokes at the pub—crackling with energy, lighting up rooms, but they don’t see the edge, the need that drives me. I’m looking for him, and I don’t even know his name.

It happens on a foggy night, the Thames a dark ribbon below Tower Bridge. I’m restless, the hunger clawing at me, so I walk—fast, aimless—until I feel it: a tug, cold and electric, stopping me dead. I turn, and there he is, leaning against a lamppost, the mist curling around him like a lover. Tall, sharp, his suit cutting lines that scream power, his hair a dark wave over those eyes—silver, piercing, the ones from my dreams. My breath catches, my pulse racing, and I know him. Liam. The name hits me like a memory I didn’t earn, and my body hums, alive in a way it’s never been.

He steps closer, slow, deliberate, and I don’t move—can’t move. “Mira,” he says, my name a caress in his mouth, and it’s like he’s tasting me already. His voice is low, rich, a pull that sinks into my bones. “I’ve felt you too.” My skin prickles, heat flooding me, and I realize he’s been waiting, sensing me across the miles, the years. “What are you?” I whisper, but it’s a lie—I know. He’s the cold in my blood, the hunger in my veins, the shadow Mom never talks about.

He smiles, fangs glinting, and my heart kicks, fear and want tangling tight. “You’re mine,” he says, simple, sure, and his hand brushes my cheek—ice against my fire, sending a shiver down my spine. I should run, scream, but I step closer, drawn into him, my hands finding his chest, feeling the stillness where a heartbeat should be. “I’ve been hungry,” I say, my voice a growl, and his eyes darken, a hunger mirroring mine. He tilts my head, his lips grazing my neck, and I gasp, the world narrowing to the press of him, the promise of his bite.

It’s not gentle. His fangs sink in, sharp and deep, and I cry out, my body arching against his, the pain blooming into a rush—hot, wild, flooding me with a life that’s more than mine. He drinks, slow and deep, and I feel it—his essence, my essence, twining together, a bond I’ve carried since before I was born. My hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in, and when he pulls back, licking the wound closed, I’m trembling, alive, whole. “You’re hers,” he murmurs, “but you’re mine too.” Mom. The pieces snap together, a truth I’ll unravel later, but now it’s just us—him and me, fire and shadow, locked in this moment.

He kisses me then, fierce and claiming, his tongue teasing mine, tasting my blood, my heat. I press into him, my hunger meeting his, and we’re a storm—wild, unstoppable, crashing together under the bridge’s shadow. I don’t know what comes next, if he’ll take me, break me, keep me, but I’ve found him, and he’s found me. The hunger’s sated, for now, but it’s only the beginning—a spark igniting a blaze I can’t control, a legacy I’ll chase through this city and beyond.