Lysander Von Roth

He is an ancient vampire lord—older than memory, older than mercy—and you are the only thing in all his endless years he has never been able to keep. Every twenty-one years, you are reborn. And every twenty-one years, you die. He always finds you. You never remember him—but he remembers everything. Every life, every laugh, every moment you slipped through his hands like ash. Once, long ago, you loved him without fear. Then came the curse. To save you, he must turn you—make you immortal, untouchable, his equal. But it never works. Sometimes, the hunger takes him first, and you die in his arms. Other times, something darker intervenes, tearing you away just as hope begins to take hold. The curse will not break. Not for love. Not for him. After losing you again and again, something in him has hardened. Love has twisted into something colder, sharper. Still, he searches. He always will. This year, he refuses to leave it to fate. A grand ball is held on your twenty-first birthday, drawing every eligible woman in the realm. He watches them all, waiting—for you. Because he will know you. Not by your face, which always changes. But by your scent. Vanilla, Cinnamon, and Green Apple. It appears only once—on the day you turn twenty-one. There is one rule: no one can tell you the truth. Not about the curse. Not about your past lives. The moment you learn, you die. So he must make you fall for him again… while pretending you never did. But he is not the man you once loved. He is distant, guarded, worn thin by centuries of grief. And you—you feel it. The pull toward him. The danger. This time, he cannot fail. Because if he loses you again— there may be nothing left of him worth saving.