Killed by My Wife, Reborn as Her Nightmare

A DIFFERENT KIND OF ALIVE

CHAPTER 6:

Adrian woke up, and for a long moment, he knew nothing but softness. Soft sheets. A soft, quiet room.

Then the memory hit him like a truck.

Diego’s cold smile. The sharp pull of the cannula ripping from his nose. The smoke forced into his lungs.

Elena’s face, watching him choke, her eyes bright with relief. The bridge. The fall. The freezing, black water swallowing him whole.

He sat up with a gasp, his hand flying to his chest.

No cannula.

No hiss of oxygen.

His heart was beating, a slow, strong, steady drum against his ribs. He took a deliberate breath. Deep. Clear. No rattle. No pain.

That’s impossible.

He looked down at his hands. They were pale, but the blue veins he was used to seeing were gone. His skin looked smooth, almost new.

He touched his face. No stubble. Like no time had passed at all.

Panic, his old friend, started to rise. But it felt muted, like he was hearing it from another room. His senses were… loud.

He could hear the faint hum of electricity in the walls. He could see every thread in the rich, red blanket draped over him.

The room smelled of polished wood, old books, and something else… something coppery and wild.

The room was huge. Larger than Elena’s entire living room. A fireplace big enough to stand in held cold, gray ashes.

Bookshelves reached the high ceiling. The bed was a four-poster made of dark, carved wood. It wasn't a hospital. It wasn't a cell.

Was he dead? Is this the afterlife?

The idea brought a cold wave of disappointment. If this was heaven, it was cruelly quiet. If it was hell, it was deceptively comfortable.

But he felt the solid wood of the headboard under his hand. He felt the silk of the sheets. He felt a deep, gnawing thirst scratching at the base of his throat.

Them suddenly, door opened.

A woman in a simple dress walked in, carrying a folded towel. She saw him, eyes wide and awake, and froze.

Her face went white. The towel dropped. She didn't make a sound, she just turned and fled, the door banging shut behind her.

For some reason he didn't just see her fear, he could some how scent it.it was sharp, sour and real.

He didn't know how he could do that

Was he a ghost? But ghosts don’t scare the living.

Before he could process that, the door opened again. Two men entered.

The first had silver hair and a calm, serious face. He leaned on a fine wooden cane. The other was younger, with dark hair and a watchful expression. He carried a small silver cooler.

The older man looked at him, and a strange, sad smile touched his lips. "Adrian. You're awake."

"How do you know my name?" Adrian's voice was rough, but clear. Stronger than it should be. "Where am I? Am I… dead?"

The man’s smile widened slightly. "You ask the same questions your father did. Always straight to the point." He gestured, and the younger man placed the cooler on a side table, opening it. Inside was a glass flask filled with a dark, red liquid.

"Drink this," the silver-haired man said, pouring the liquid into a cup. "It will help."

Adrian took the cup. It was cold. He stared at the contents. It was too dark for wine. Too thick. It smelled like… iron. Like the taste he’d had in his mouth for years.

Puzzles of memories began to come in. He could remember coughing violently, blood splattering on Elena’s divorce papers.

That was before that killed him

Revulsion twisted his gut. "What is it?"

"Medicine. For your new condition." The silver head man replied with a smile

Adrian’s thirst warred with his disgust. His throat burned. Cautiously, he brought the cup to his lips and took the smallest sip.

The taste was intense, metallic, salty, deeply organic. It was like drinking life itself, but it was wrong. His body knew it was wrong. He gagged, spitting the mouthful back into the cup, red droplets spraying.

"Ugh! What is that?" he gasped, wiping his mouth. "It tastes like… like blood!"

As he said it, a strange warmth spread from his stomach. His gums began to ache,.a sharp, insistent pain. He ran his tongue over his teeth and felt it. Two points on his upper jaw, sharp as needles. Fangs.

A low, involuntary sound rose in his throat. Not a word. A growl.

The thirst exploded, suddenly all-consuming. It drowned the disgust. It erased the questions.

His vision sharpened, the red of the blanket becoming vivid, pulsating. He could smell the liquid in the cup now, not just as iron, but as sustenance. As power.

With a speed that shocked him, he grabbed the entire flask from the cooler. He didn’t sip. He drank it down in long, desperate gulps.

The thick, cold liquid soothed the burning in his throat, filled the hollow ache in his core. Strength, real and terrifying, surged into his limbs.

When it was empty, he lowered the flask, breathing hard. He felt strong. Alive. More alive than he ever had.

He looked at the red stain on his lips in the reflection of the silver cooler. Horror finally caught up with him.

He had just drunk blood. And he had wanted more.

"What…" his voice was a deep, unfamiliar rumble. "What did you do to me?"

The silver-haired man stepped closer, his gaze steady. "We didn't do anything, Adrian. We simply found you. What you are now… that was always in you. Sleeping. It took a true death to wake it up."

"Am I a vampire?" The word felt ridiculous saying it aloud. But the fangs in his mouth were real. The thirst for blood was real.

"You are the son of Casa Valerio," the man said, his voice firm with pride. "The first of your kind. You're a miracle Adrian."

Adrian’s mind reeled. He remembered growing up in an orphanage, he doesnt have parents

Or that was what he grew up believing, so why was this man talking about being the son of someone

But the memory of Diego blowing smoke into his failing lungs was madness too. The memory of Elena’s smile as he choked was madness.

He looked at his powerful, steady hands. He thought of Diego’s grip. Of Elena’s cold eyes.

The horror of the blood he’d just drunk began to mix with something else. A dark, simmering heat.

He had died. He was sure of it.

But he wasn't in heaven or hell.

He was in a room with a man he doesn't even know. Was this man just like the likes of Elena?! People who just wants to deceive him and use him for their own benefits.

He didn't understand why he suddenly had fangs in his mouth, and with a new, terrible strength singing in his blood.

He had died as Adrian Martínez, the sick, betrayed husband.

The thing sitting in this silk bed… it was something else. And for the first time, the fear of what he was becoming was higher than the memory of what they had done to him.

He looked up at the silver-haired man, His voice was quiet, deadly calm.

"What am I?"