Your hands gripped tightly to the white and blue vintage dress, clapping your black high heels together, as you saw him walk in. He closes the door behind him, and you can see his back reflected in the glass, effectively surrounding you in a hall of mirrors.
He wears a tall black hat, deep purple ribbon rapped around it, matching the pin-stripes of varying purple and blue of his pants and jacket, chest left teasingly bare, green eyes capturing.
Five months ago, a new residence had made home in your town. He did not leave his house much, but whenever he did- he seemed to be around you. He came from England, and when you spoke to him the accent that proudly showed through made you weak in the knees.
You spoke of literature and fine dining- something your father had trained you in. He wanted you to marry some high-in-society, well mannered, rich male. But, truthfully, though you never told your father, if you ever had to have your hand grasped by a man as horridly conceded as one of the men he wished for, you would become a dramatic character- coming from Shakespeare's fine writings himself. You would rather face a quick death by poison or blade, than a slow, life long punishment of being treated as house slave.
You had even told the English man these things, though you were not sure why you had. But he had seemed sympathetic, expressing how a fine lady should be treated as such, and not as a lower class servant.
Last night you had been lost, stumbling upon a residence unfamiliar to you. When you had knocked the door had opened in welcome. As the thunder had raged on outside the walls of the home, you had found a secluded room, unused and clean. You had laid down in the red and gold satin sheets for but a moment when your eyes betrayed your wish of continued exploration, your breath feel into steady rhythm as you feel into dreams.
Your sleep was not filled with dreams or nightmares, but of a drugged like state, were everything felt vaguely connected but at the same time could not be farther apart. You found yourself falling through a large framed glass, dipping into a room lined with British authors and poets. A raven sat on the head of the single chair in the room, before flying over your _________ hair, giving a call as it went through the reflective surface.
Few feet away from you had sat a man in a red chair, the legs made of cheery colored wood. You had seen his pale hand placed upon the arm rest, two rings being rubbed between his thumb and forefinger, emeralds on the middle of a gold band.
As you had walked closer, your vision became more blurred, your body harder to carry against gravity, before you dripped forwards, feel soft fabric of sleeves brush your cheeks as you were embraced from falling. You had seen blonde hair, and orbs that reminded you grass fields.
You had awoken here, your previous attire nowhere to be scene, the door and bed you had wandered through and slept on had descended into mid-air, leaving you waiting for the owner of this hidden place.
"Arthur?" The name left your lips, "Arthur, were am I? Why are you here? What is this place!?" You stomped your foot slightly as if the clanking of your heel would make an answer appear quicker.
A smile only you received frequently appeared in his face, "Why, _________, did you not dream of coming to a place like this? Where you could focus on yourself as a person, and the figure your father had tried to grow you into since you were a child,"
..... Was that what this was about?! Did he do this to spite your father!? You know he does not like the French man but if this was some odd form of vengeance for how your father tried to mold you then you didn't want this! If Arthur had made this space for you to find peace and escape- you wanted it to be for you, not for the sake of casting a strike at Francis.
"Is this some twisted attack on my father!? Arthur, why did you do this?! You know I can handle myself! Father will not twist my wishes or how I inspire to be!!~" Maybe you were simply being vain, but you wanted him to do this out of care for you. You, yourself felt a warm heat build inside at a glance his way.
And to your surprise, your heated words were met with laughter. He took long strides toward you, watching carefully as you back away, hands pushed behind you so you could be the cold glass before your back was completely trapped against it.
"_________,... Give me some credit. I know a powerful soul when I see one, and if I am sure of anything, it is that you will never be held under the clutches of your father nor any other bloody git who dare touch you,"
His arms pinned around you, lips and head lowering to your neck, tongue probing and prepping your skin. Your fingers come to tangle within the curls of his hair, wanting to draw him away at first before melting into his touch and if anything pulling him closer. Your body is ruling over though, your brain having left you the instant you saw his bare chest teasing you with it no being covered.
"... No man but me," The strong whisper shakes your body, the gasp immediate as the area directly above the juncture of your neck and shoulder becomes numb, skin being pierced as Arthur Kirkland claims you as his own.
You know the legends. Why Arthur moved from his previous home, and why he always avoided telling you. How all the books you read were of myths and fiction. Why temperature never bothered him.
A newly claimed vampire must find his true mate immediately so that they my spend an eternity together.
You know almost everything about his kind. How this painless draining is a sign of love. This process didn't gave to be blissful painless, but he made it this way to spare you any awful feeling. There were worst ways to live a life...
Maybe this is some kind of wish. Maybe this is a blessing. Your entire lives you have both saved yourselves for your true other fragment in every possible way. And now because of his transformation you could easily find it each other, a calling that brought you both together, letting you live without regrets of choosing the wrong person. You would have a life worthy of storybooks. A man who would not dread to live with. Time would be of little meaning; you would witness history decades before it was written in textbooks and read aloud to a bored class.
As he pulls back you feel yourself starting to slouch to the floor, being caught by arms that were quickly becoming familiar. And though your gaze is hazy, you glance up at his face, seeing a drop of your crimson blood run a trail from the corner of his mouth; running your hand down his chest, you lean forward taking his lips in an experience you can both proudly claim as a first kiss, before the drugged feeling completely takes over, and you fall limb in his grasp.
His footsteps are silent as he carry you to bed.
And in your partial consciousness you ask yourself if this is true wonderland, where you are just a lucky maiden who feel into the hands of a man who made your fantasies reality, and makes you feel wonderfully maddened by the joyful pleasure he brought you.