Seed Of The Damned

Story Excerpt

Ancient Romania 1854 Vlakovic Estate

A dimly lit bedroom on the second floor of a crumbling estate in rural Eastern Europe, late at night. A single candle flickers on a weathered bedside table, casting flickering shadows across cracked ancient stone walls. The air is thick with the scent of old wood, wax, and stinking fear. A tattered quilt lies crumpled on the floor, and the wooden bedframe creaks under violent strain.
Dragomir ruts relentlessly with Anastasja pinned beneath him, her nightgown shredded at the hem and bunched around her waist, exposing pale, trembling thighs. Her dark hair is splayed across the pillow, damp with sweat, as her wrists strain against his iron grip above her head. Her buxom chest heaves with ragged sobs, each breath a sharp gasp of terror as her father looms over her, his movements brutal and unrelenting. Dragomir’s pale skin gleams unnaturally in the candlelight, almost translucent, his black eyes glowing with a feral light that pierces the dimness. His lips curl back, revealing sharp fangs that hover inches from her throat, glistening with restrained hunger as he thrusts into her with a desperate, animalistic force.
“Please, Father, stop!” she cries, her voice breaking, high and raw with panic. Her legs kick uselessly against the mattress, heels digging into the coarse fabric as she tries to shove him off. “This isn’t you—don’t do this to me!” Her wide eyes are wet with tears, darting toward the locked door as if salvation might burst through, though she knows no one will hear her screams in this forsaken place. Every muscle in her body tenses with dread, her stomach churning as his weight presses her deeper into the sagging bed, his presence a suffocating cage. Her heart slams against her ribs, so loud she’s sure he can hear it, feel it, and it terrifies her more—knowing what that pulse might provoke.
“Silence, girl,” he growls, his voice a low, gravelly growl that echoes with something inhuman, something that vibrates through her bones. “You’re mine to keep alive. I’ll fill you, make you carry my seed. We’ll defy death together.” His words are a twisted vow, each syllable dripping with a sick obsession as his hips snap against hers, relentless. Inside, he’s a storm of conflicting hungers—lust and blood hunger warring in his cursed veins. The scent of her fear, the heat of her living flesh, it drives a spike of need through him, not just to claim her body but to sink his fangs into that throbbing vein at her neck. Her pulse is a siren’s call, pounding beneath her skin, tempting him to drink, to tear into her and sate the gnawing ache in his jaw. But he holds back, fangs biting into his own lip instead, a trickle of black blood staining his mouth as he snarls through the effort. No, not yet—he needs her womb, needs to spill his seed, to plant something of himself that death can’t steal. His eyes flicker, glowing brighter with every thrust, as he forces his focus downward, away from her neck.