Page 48 of Vampire Soldier
I glance at the tablet still in my lap—the guest list glowing in soft blue against my fingers. Every seat sold. Every request processed. Every elder of our clan present, from whispered lineages and age-old power rings.
And still.
The words didn’t wound me.
They branded me.
I hadn’t known. But now that I do?
It changes everything. It doesn’t soften what I feel—it sharpens it. Makes every possessive instinct settle deeper into my bones like ancient law. It doesn’t shame me. It strengthens me. Her body had been untouched until me. Her pleasure, her surrender—mine. Not because I demanded it, but because she gave it. Freely. Fiercely.
She’d never let anyone in before. And I’d been her first.
That knowledge doesn’t cool the fire in my blood. It fuels it. Because no one else will ever know her like that. No one else will ever see her unravel the way I have. Every instinct in me howls at the thought of anyone else trying
Her taste. Her voice. The way she fought not to fall, even as her body begged for more. She is not fragile. She’s not prey.
But she is mine.
And now I want her more than I ever did before—not just in body, but in every shadowed, unguarded corner she still tries to hide.
I scrub a hand down my face. My palm comes back dry. No blood. No sweat. Just tension grinding along my jaw like old gears refusing to shift.
Kasar has two of his best on Kit’s tail. They’ve pushed him into the outskirts of the district. He won’t come near her tonight. Not with five layers of protection woven through this building—cameras recording, entrances manned, my own security team looped into clan surveillance protocols. She’ll be safe.
On my desk to the side, my phone lights up with a ping, Perry’s name on the screen. I slide my arms into my suit jacket, deftly buttoning it and straightening my cuffs. It’s time for me to do my job as the owner of The Place.
The walk from my office to the grand floor feels like stepping into another life—one I built brick by brick, thread by thread, every polished edge a promise I now have to keep. Crystal chandeliers hum overhead like captured stars, casting kaleidoscope prisms across varnished wood and blood-toned velvet. The air is thick with expensive perfume, truffle oil, and anticipation.
The Place glows, and I bask in it—for exactly five seconds before my thoughts are pulled into focus by my manager.
Perry greets me at the base of the stairs, his tux pressed and perfect, a headset tucked discreetly into one ear.
“Stage team’s ready,” he says quietly, nodding toward the shadowed edge of the theater floor. “Sound check’s tight, dancers are prepped. You’ve got the mayor’s deputy in the center circle with half the cultural council. They’re waiting for your welcome.”
I nod once, focused. My eyes sweep the floor—cataloging every detail with the precision that centuries of warfare taught me. Every table, every guest. The cultural council. The deputy mayor. Familiar faces from curated dossiers. No supernaturals in attendance, as planned. My security is in place, unobtrusive but absolute.
Clapping Perry on the shoulder, I step onto the edge of the floor, offering a polished, practiced tilt of my head as the room registers my presence. There are moments for power. Moments for theater. Tonight, both matter.
A woman to my left leans toward her companion, voice hushed with the kind of intrigue Topside elites save for men who exude danger dressed in elegance.
“That’s him,” she whispers. “Malachi Casadecappa. He owns the place.”
Her companion hums, gaze trailing after me.
I don’t stop, but I do glance her way—just enough to meet her eyes and offer a faint, practiced smile. The kind I’ve used for centuries. Arrogant. Knowing. The kind that promises sin in the shadows and never makes apologies.
She flushes instantly, looking down with a flustered laugh.
I keep walking. The smile stays etched on my face like a mask carved from charm and calculation—hollow, effortless, and meant for everyone and no one.
A table of financiers rises slightly, before I wave, urging them to remain seated. One offers a hand for a shake. The other offers his wife’s elbow. She smiles too long, too wide. Her fingers brush my sleeve as she takes her seat again, and I do not miss the way her pulse skips.
But I barely feel it. Barely hear the words we exchange before I move on to the next.
The scent of her slides over me on currents of motion—honeysuckle and the faintest trace of warm skin, still sharp with the tang of adrenaline. A faint trace drifting on the air currents stirred by the crowd. I make my excuses and finally push through the door leading away from the restaurant floor.
Backstage is flooded with layered voices—techs calling cues, dancers stretching in full regalia beneath overhead stage bulbs, velvet curtains fluttering beneath warm gusts from the old HVAC system. The air is thick with powder and anticipation.
