Reincarnated as Dracula’s Son

"What?" Damian managed to sputter out, his voice a feeble protest against the series of emotion that threatened to consume him.

His face bloomed with a crimson hue, the heat of embarrassment racing through his cheeks as he grappled with the implications of their words.

But beneath the surface, a fierce current of elation surged within him, like a river of adrenaline that pulsed through his veins.

The word hung heavy in the air, its weight bearing down on Damian like a leaden weight of pure vulnerability."You've seen me...naked?" he ventured, his voice a timid whisper that seemed to echo with a quiet longing for understanding.

The girl's nod was a confident affirmation, her smirk a playful tease that hinted at the depths of their shared history.

"A lot," she added with a knowing smile, the words sending a tingle of excitement coursing through Damian's body.

"Why?" Damian pressed, the question a gentle plea for answers in a sea of confusion.

The girl, her expression morphing from smirk to puzzlement, turned to Tyrion, a silent query etched into her features. "What is wrong with him?" she asked, her confusion palpable in the pause that hung between them. "Does he not remember?"

"Actually, I don't," Damian confessed, his words a confession that rocked the very foundations of their understanding."What??" the two chorused, their shock a resounding exclamation that reverberated around the room.

The air seemed to freeze, a chill settling upon them as the implications of Damian's admission slowly solidified in their minds. They exchanged a glance, a fleeting moment of unspoken communication that conveyed the full weight of their realization.

I can't remember. Damian replied. As if to distract himself , his eyes zeroed in on a shirt hanging carelessly on one of the nearby chairs. With a swift motion, he reached for the garment, his fingers sinking into the soft fabric with a deliberate sense of purpose.

He slipped into the shirt, the motion a familiar dance that was both comforting and disorienting. As the cloth fell against his skin, he felt a fleeting sense of normalcy, a tiny island of familiarity amidst the chaos of his situation.

The girl, her face a mask of pouty disappointment, watched with a pang of regret as the shirt covered the tantalizing edges of Damian's abs.

Tyrion, his concern now a feelable undercurrent in the room, turned to Damian with a probing stare.

"What do you mean you can't remember?" he asked, his voice a probing scalpel that sliced through the thick veil of confusion. "You don't remember anything at all?

"Damian shook his head. "Nothing.

Damian's shoulders rose and fell in a resigned shrug, his gesture a testament to the futility of his situation. "I remember my name is Damian. I remember my family," he spoke, his words a list of aching truths. "But that's kinda it."

The girl inhaled sharply, her breath catching in her throat as the implications of his words sank in. "Wow," she breathed, her voice a mixture of awe and disbelief. "So you don't remember my name?"Damian, his mind grasping at the slippery strands of his memory, shook his head.

Damian, his face a mask of regret, shook his head in apology. "I'm sorry, I don't," he said,

A flicker of hurt crossed her face, subtle yet undeniable, as if an old wound had been touched. Her lips parted briefly, as though she was debating whether to speak at all. Finally, she straightened her shoulders, brushing away whatever emotion had surfaced.

"It's Seraphin," she said, her voice stead "My name is Seraphin, but my friends call me Seraph."

Damian, his smile a radiant beam of friendliness, returned Seraph's introduction with a heartfelt response. "Okay Seraph, nice to meet you," he said.

Tyrion, added his own name to the mix. "And my name is Tyrion," he stated, his tone a friendly overture that echoed the enduring bond of their friendship.

Damian's words hung in the air with a sense of deep gratitude. "I know yours already," he acknowledged, a note of recognition in his voice. "My mom said you were with me when I was attacked." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "I wouldn't have made it without you. Thank you."

Tyrion, his thumb fidgeting with nervous energy, deflected the praise with characteristic modesty. "It was nothing," he murmured, his eyes averted. "You'd have done the same for me."

Damian, despite not knowing what their friendship was like, could feel the truth in Tyrion's words. The bonds of their friendship seemed to whisper to him, like the echoes of laughter on a distant summer day, whispering of their mutual trust and loyalty. Somehow, he believed that, in a world that seemed to defy all sense and logic, Tyrion's words were a rare anchor of truth.

Tyrion shook his head, his incredulity a palpable presence in the room. "I can't believe you don't remember anything," he said, his words a mixture of sympathy and disbelief. "There's so much to catch you up on."

"I'll go join your mom in the kitchen," he offered, his tone a gentle suggestion. "It'll give you two a chance to talk things out."

He gave serpah a knowing glance as he said this and slid out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as the latch clicked, Seraphin, her movements graceful and fluid, climbed onto the bed. Her legs dangled off the edge, a playful invitation to join her in this intimate space.

"So you've forgotten everything we did?" she asked, her voice a melodic blend of curiosity and excitement . In her eyes, the light of an unknown memory flickered, a secret longing that tugged at the frayed edges of her heart.

Damian's eyes narrowed, a wariness creeping into his expression as Seraphin's voice took on a playful edge.

"I guess," he answered, his words a cautious step towards the unspoken words that lingered between them.

Seraphin, her gaze a tantalizing mix of mischief and desire, leaned closer, her lips curling into a sultry smirk. "How would you like a refresher?" she asked, the words an invitation that crackled with an electric charge.