Killed by My Wife, Reborn as Her Nightmare

THE BLOODLINE

CHAPTER 7:

Adrian stood before the tall, gilt-framed mirror in his room. He didn’t recognize the man staring back.

He was dressed in soft, ash-gray joggers and a simple black t-shirt, both bearing a subtle Adidas logo.

They felt expensive, the fabric was weightless, breathable, and carried the faint, clean scent of cedar and linen, not the chemical smell of cheap polyester. They fit him perfectly, as if tailored to his new, leaner frame.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, still trying to wrap his mind around it all. The silver-haired man, had been nothing but kind. But kindness was a currency Adrian couldn’t trust.

In his experience, it was always a down payment, with a brutal interest to be collected later.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

The younger, dark-haired man from yesterday stood in the hallway. He bowed slightly at the waist, his expression respectful but guarded. “Young Master. Breakfast is prepared. Please, join us.”

Young Master.

The title echoed in the quiet hall. It felt like a costume that didn’t fit. He was Adrian Martínez, the deliveryman. The sick husband. The ghost. Not a ‘Young Master.’

He took a slow, unnecessary breath, a habit from a lifetime of struggling for air, and followed the man out.

The hallway was wide, lined with dark wood panels and paintings of misty, moonlit landscapes.

As he walked, a young maid in a crisp uniform approached silently. Without a word, she knelt and slid a pair of soft leather sandals onto his feet.

“Ah, th-thank you,” Adrian stammered, flustered. He could have put them on himself. The act of service felt alien, almost accusatory.

He continued down the hall. Every servant he passed, a man polishing a vase, a woman carrying linens, would stop, bow their head, and wait for him to pass before resuming their work.

Their silence was deafening. Their deference made his skin crawl.

“This way, Young Master,” his guide said, opening a set of double doors.

Adrian stepped into the dining room and froze.

The table was a river of dark, polished mahogany, so long it seemed to vanish into the distance. It was laden with food. Not just plates, but feasts.

Clay pots steamed with birria. Platters held golden chilaquiles dripping with salsa verde and crema.

There were enchiladas suizas, huevos rancheros, molletes, a whole cochinita pibil, baskets of warm, blistered tortillas, bowls of fresh fruit, pitchers of deep-red jugo, and delicate pastries dusted with sugar.

The aromas, roasted chili, melted cheese, slow-cooked pork, sweet bread—wrapped around him in a warm, overwhelming cloud.

Rafael sat at the far head of the table. He smiled, a genuine warmth in his pale eyes. “I didn’t know what you liked,” he said, gesturing to the spread. “So I asked them to prepare a little of everything from home.”

He stood and walked over, pulling out the heavy chair to Adrian’s right and sitting beside him, not across. A gesture of closeness, not authority. “How did you sleep, Adrian?”

Adrian finally found his voice, though it trembled. “You… you really didn’t have to do all this.” His eyes stung.

He remembered too many nights curling around an empty stomach on the kitchen floor. The shame of begging Carlos for a leftover taco. The hollow acceptance that hunger was just part of the pain.

Now, he sat before a king’s ransom in food, and he felt… full. Just looking at it. The gnawing, biological need was gone, replaced by a deep, emotional ache.

Rafael’s smile faded. A shadow of profound sorrow crossed his face. He reached out, his hand hesitating before resting gently on Adrian’s arm. “You’ve had it so hard, haven’t you?” he murmured, his voice thick. “They treated you like trash. The heir to the Valerio legacy.”

Adrian flinched at the word ‘heir.’ The kindness was getting specific, and that’s where the trap usually sprung.

“I can smell your confusion,” Rafael said softly, withdrawing his hand. “It fills this room. And your suspicion. It’s sharp, like lemons and gunpowder. I want to explain. To clear the air.”

“Start with why,” Adrian said, his voice gaining a little steel. “Why are you being kind? Everyone who’s ever been kind to me wanted something. What do you want from me?”

Rafael looked pained, as if the question physically hurt him. He picked up his crystal goblet, the one Adrian now knew did not hold wine, and took a slow sip of its dark contents. He met Adrian’s gaze squarely.

“My name is Rafael Valerio. I am your father’s brother. Your uncle.”

Adrian let out a short, disbelieving breath. “That’s impossible.” He shook his head, a defensive frown settling on his face. “Look, if you don’t want to tell me the truth, fine. But don’t lie to me.”

“I do not lie,” Rafael said, his voice flat and final. “Not about this. Not to you.”

The absolute certainty in his tone was more convincing than any plea. Adrian felt the ground under his old reality shift. “How?” was all he could manage.

Rafael’s gaze grew distant, looking into a past Adrian couldn’t see. “Twenty-four years ago. You had just been born. Your first cry… it was like a beacon. The hunters, we call them Cazadores de la Sombra, had tracked your parents for months. They surrounded the safehouse the night you arrived.”

He took another sip, his knuckles white on the glass. “Your parents knew they could not escape. But you could. They entrusted you to a nurse who was also a nun, Sister Margarita. They paid her everything they had to take you far away, to hide you where the hunters’ lore and their witch-forged tools could not sense an infant’s dormant power. She left that night. You were taken to an orphanage in a city your mother had never even seen. Your name was changed. Your history was buried.”

Adrian sat motionless. The story felt like a script from a telenovela, yet it slithered into the empty spaces of his life, the lack of records, the nun’s unusual kindness at St. Mary’s, the way he’d always felt like a transplant in his own skin.

“I was not there to protect them,” Rafael continued, the guilt etching lines into his face. “I was… bound elsewhere, by duties of our kind. When I returned, it was too late. They were gone. I searched for you for years. But you hadn’t Awakened. To my senses, to the world’s supernatural tracking, you were just another human soul. We had to wait. We knew the only thing that could trigger your birthright was a true death. We watched, and we hoped we would reach you in time. The moment your heart stopped in that river… it was like a flare in the night for us. A beacon, just like your first cry.”

“So I did die,” Adrian whispered, the finality of it settling cold in his stomach.

“Yes. The man you were died. But the seed within you, the legacy of our blood, did not. Death was just the water it needed to grow.”

Adrian shook his head, the supernatural explanation too much to accept. “Please don’t tell me I’m a vampire. They’re not real. I’m still trying to believe I have an uncle. Don’t make it a fairy tale.”

A sad, understanding smile touched Rafael’s lips. He stood. “Come. Let me show you something.”