Page 12

Eleven

ALEC

Sinclair takes her seat on the dais, looking exactly what she’s supposed to be portraying: a broken captive, saddened by her new life.

Her head’s low, and she’s staring at the cuffs with a strange intensity. If she had her magick, I’d be convinced she was working to get them off. And maybe, I’d think that was the case—that she was hoping it’d return now and help her get free—until she strokes over one of the scars that interestingly line up with the cuff’s edge.

Like she’s been cuffed before.

Arguably, there’d be numerous suitable reasons for her to have been in handcuffs in the past, but none of them should have been so lasting that scars formed. The scars are…concerning. Not sure why, but they are. She’s been hurt before, and either she’s doing a damn good job at lying to protect the bastard or she truly doesn’t remember.

Knowing what I do about humans, trauma is one of the worst forms of ongoing pain a person can survive through. Being cuffed long enough to leave lasting scars would surely result in a kind of trauma one doesn’t simply forget.

Something else is going on, and I vow to figure it out. Why…because I must know all about my little captive. For her own safety, of course, which in turn is for my benefit. If someone out there wishes to harm her, they’ll have a bitch of a time getting to her. I’ve found her, claimed her, and she’ll be protected from anyone else.

Lost in thought, I miss the moment the others begin showing up. Most walk straight to me, bowing deeply as they use the appropriate greetings, but their eyes remain on the witch. She stiffens under the attention and subtly shifts closer to me, making me smirk. Despite her hatred of me, I’m the safest killer in the room. At least, to her.

A short while later, the ballroom is full of vampires in their finest, eager for the first party in a century I’ve put on. After so long of hosting them, they’ve grown tiresome and boring, but tonight, it’s serving another purpose.

After all, no investor will provide money without seeing the goods. I don’t even need to show the witch off; she’s doing it all on her own by simply being here.

The Sinclairs have always hidden themselves away so well, and time for vampires is fleeting. For some of them, the last time they thought to seek out the cure may have been during a previous generation. When they failed, they disappeared for what felt like a couple years, but decades passed, and they began their quest all over to find the current living Sinclair. Vampires are, unfortunately, so easily deterred.

Most of them. Not me.

Age. Personality during our human lives. So much can decide how we act as an immortal.

I snap my fingers at Sinclair. She twists with a glare, and I snap again, this time pointing by my feet. “Here.”

She doesn’t move at first, her lips pursing. She seems to be in debate with herself and, after a quick glance toward the crowd, most of who are raptly watching, she scoots herself backwards. It becomes a complicated laughing matter, the dress bunching beneath her and getting tangled.

Finally, she makes it beside me, muttering, “Dick.”

I reach down to pet her hair, aware of the hundreds of interested eyes drilling into us. They can all smell her blood and the cure it holds, and by tonight, I anticipate the number of eager vampires who are ready to end their immortal lives to be high.

Interestingly, she doesn’t flinch, playing the part I need her to well. I lean close to murmur, “Continue being good, and I may be satisfied enough to hand over my name. The audience is very captivated by you.”

I am too. In part.

She reaches for my hand again. “I don’t care about your name anymore. I want to go home.”

Oh, she couldn’t have said a more perfect thing. Raising my voice ever so slightly so it’s heard by the entire room, I tell her, “This is your new home. You’re never leaving, so get that silly notion out of your head.”

Her eyes blaze an interesting mix of irritation, fury, and something even more depraved. I stroke over her hair again, dragging my fingers through the silk. Her hair is softer than anything I’ve felt in a long damn time, and it’s only the audience preventing me from getting lost in the sensation.

More and more stop their own conversations to observe. Towards the end of the night, I’ll offer one lucky customer the chance to be the first: to change right after the party. They can bid on the chance.

In truth, I need to confirm that earlier was simply because I didn’t ingest enough. Can’t build a business on a broken product.

A familiar figure breaks away from a nearby group and strides forwards, his attention bouncing between the witch and me. He passes her and comes close before dipping into a low, mocking bow.

“Your Majesty.”

Like every time someone’s approached tonight, Sinclair glances at me, the throne, and then the walls around us. She’s presumably finally pieced together who I am. A part, anyway. A role.

Cedric straightens from his bow before all proper etiquette—the little he holds on to—disappears, and he slouches, shoving his hands in his pockets. Up close, it’s obvious the little care he puts into his appearance. The rumpled suit, his unbrushed hair, the drops of blood in the corner of his mouth he’s never bothered wiping off after his latest feeding.

Speaking low and hurried so our conversation won’t be heard by Sinclair or the others, he asks, “So this is her? Took you long enough.”

Her eyes narrow on us, our conversation a mere hiss to her ears.

I bob my head in a single nod at the man who’s been my longest friend, dating all the way back to our human lives. Cedric and I changed shortly after one another, and we’ve been putting up with each other ever since.

He grins before crouching in front of her. She leans away, pressing herself into the throne’s side, her cuffed hands coming up to hide herself; a useless endeavour, because Cedric reaches and grasps her chin, angling her head towards him.

I watch them.

I don’t like it.

“You certainly are a pretty one, aren’t you?” He strokes her cheek, and every nerve in my body tightens in response.

After all, she’s my prey. My conquest.

Cedric has as much reason to despise the Sinclairs as I do. Difference is, he took a different approach to healing himself. He’s numbed himself with alcohol, blood, and fucking to the point I barely recognize him anymore while I’ve chased revenge.

“Fuck off.” She tries to jerk away, her attempt causing the cuffs to clang against one another.

Cedric chuckles, gripping tighter. “With a mouth on her too. Keep it up, sweetheart. Our friend here doesn’t like when your kind fights back. He may accidentally kill you, and we can’t have that, can we?”

My eyes drill into where his thumb sweeps over her pulse, which is beating faster than normal. Even faster than when she found me in her room. An interesting fact I tuck away for later.

Clenching my hands around the throne, I muster everything into my words, unwilling to beat my long-time friend over someone as minor as her. “Get your hands off her.” The threat, the desire to kill, slips into my tone, not acknowledging our friendship and only recognizing him as a threat.

Both glance towards me with varying expressions of confusion. Sinclair with a bit of fear, but Cedric smirks before slowly—too slow for my liking—releasing her face and returning to my side.

Before he says anything, I utter my words quietly. “I need her alive and unharmed.”

“Mhm.” He claps my shoulder. “Your pupils are red. You seem a bit…threatened.”

Fuck.

I snap my fingers, and a human servant comes rushing forward with a glass of blood. I down it in one go and give her the glass back. It helps a little.

Cedric watches, amused. “Good luck, and nice to meet you, Harlow Sinclair.” He shoots a final wink at her and then glances my way, laughing when the same sensation starts making me tight again.

Once we’re alone, she twists to me. “What the hell is your problem all of a sudden?”

I gesture for another glass of blood, chugging this one just as quickly. I’m debating signalling one of the humans over again, this time demanding a vein, but the concept of feeding straight from any of their bodies doesn’t interest me at the moment. So I take a third glass, this time sipping it to prolong the healing. Like a glass of bourbon mortals would consume slowly after a long day at their pitiful jobs.

“What’s your name?” She moves on to her next question. “You told me if I played the part, I’d get your name.”

“My last name,” I correct, lifting a finger off the glass. “Night isn’t over yet.”

“Asshole vampire it is then. Your choice.”

I hide my smirk behind my glass and catch Cedric’s attention from across the room. He’s leaning against a wall, his own glass of blood drained, while he talks to two businessmen from across the world. He glances over their shoulders at me. While our conversation hasn’t been loud, many of the older ones here, Cedric included, can overhear.

“Dormer. That’s my last name.”

She blinks, her snark momentarily slipping away. I’m learning, with this Sinclair, surprise is key to dismantling her.

“You’re a king?”

“The castle didn’t tip you off?”

“Assumed you stole it.”

She’s not far off. “I once conquered it.”

She snorts, scanning the tapestries, all of which are original and date back centuries. Some even before my mortal birth. “Isn’t that stealing?”

“It’s different. Conquering is a sign of strength.”

“When did you do that?”

She’s probing for my age in that indirect way of hers. “A while ago.”

“Were you a king in your human life too?” Her voice picks up, like she’s genuinely interested in my backstory. No doubt it’s a ploy, and she thinks that by playing nice, she’ll earn her freedom. Or she’s searching for a weakness. Either way, it won’t work.

“Yes.” It’s a slight lie. Technically, I was a prince at the time.

“King Dormer,” she mocks. Her jabs irritate and fascinate me all at the same time. “How’d you become king of the vampires then?”

I tear my eyes away from the interested crowd to the witch sitting ever so pretty by my side, like the perfect little captive. Her cuffed hands are a striking difference from the dress, her hair unruly around her face, the splattering of freckles looking brighter beneath her rage and determined eyes are focused entirely on me.

I could get used to this. Fuck the cell she’ll later return to.

“You’re awfully interested.”

One bare shoulder shrugs, which only shifts hair forwards. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll need an inscription for your headstone. Here lies the asshole vampire who once stole a king’s castle, named himself as the new ruler, and then took over the vampires too. Do they know you’re a fake king?” She nods to the crowd.

A few gasp, others chuckle. I let her speak freely, because it’s only providing a show that’ll encourage the bidding later.

“They know enough.”

She huffs, shaking her head. It blows her enticing scent towards me, and between my hunger, her taunts, our audience, and my vastly declining mood, those forbidden and strange feelings from earlier return. Before they consume me, I need to regain control of her and of myself.

I snap my fingers, earning her glare once more. “Stand.”

Defiance exudes from every pore, but a quick glance to our audience shuts her down. It’s wise since she has no idea how unsafe she is inside a room full of vampires who desire draining her dry.

I point to the space beside my throne, and she shuffles there, the clanging of her cuffs the only noise in the suddenly silent room. Hundreds of eyes are on us with a mixture of interest and hunger. Few begin showing those very signs of hunger, which only adds to my next taunt.

I reach for one of her wrists, bringing it up to my face, her pulse deliciously rapid. Given both her arms are clasped together with a little chain separating the cuffs, they move together.

Just the sweet, addictive smell of her has my fangs lengthening, and I drag them along her pulse point, keeping my attention on the audience. Sinclair gasps but wisely doesn’t try to yank away. I trace a vein, inhaling deeply before lifting my head, pretending to ignore the subtle scent of her desire that flares so suddenly…and enigmatically.

“So you see, my friends, how mortality is but a bite away. I know many of you are here out of curiosity, to see the youngest and remaining Sinclair witch for yourself, while many others are here for the chance to end your immortal life.”

A few nods of agreement. A shuffling amongst a community who lives within stillness.

“Of course, I have claimed the Sinclair witch as my property, which makes the cure mine as well. If you wish to be human, you may, for a fee. Gaze upon the witch tonight and be in contact tomorrow.”

More hissing, more murmurs—more interest.

Sinclair shifts beneath the weight of their gazes. Before I comprehend my ridiculous actions, my thumb strokes over one of her many scars to ease her, the curiosity behind their origin still lingering. It’s bothersome not to have all the facts about her.

“But”—I pause, letting the single word bounce around the room—“this is a party, which means a celebration is in order for my successful capture of the witch. I have no desire to be human; therefore, I will not be claiming the first drink, so one of you may take it. For a price, after the party, one of you may remain behind and be human before morning hits. This can be your final night as an immortal.” I pause again, letting the buzz of conversation carry before providing more enticement. “When the sun rises, you may stay up with it. Her blood will be the final blood you’ll ever have to drink. So many possibilities.”

“Straight from the vein?” one calls from the left side of the room.

Initially, I did debate the extra fee associated with drinking the cure directly from the vein, but knowing my kind, so many are careless, and it’d be a risk they wouldn’t stop when commanded and they’d try to drain her dry. Fighting a vampire mid-feed is a nuisance I don’t need nor want.

I glance towards Sinclair, spotting true terror in her expression. For the first time since meeting her, the mask has fallen. She said that no vampire has drunk from her before, and that memory brings a surge of something twisting inside me. Something protective.

No one will, if I have anything to do with it.

“No. I don’t wish my asset to be drained dry by accident. You all understand.”

Some sneer, some laugh. Sinclair audibly sighs in relief, and my thumb does another sweep of her scars, this time slipping beneath the cuffs. Her pulse jumps.

I bring her wrist back to my mouth, pressing my lips to the vein that exudes temptation. She shivers before trying to yank away, obviously not enjoying her body’s response to my touch. It’s not her fault, though, and it means nothing of what she’s probably guessing it does. Exactly how she described vampires and sex going together, the influence of a feed, even when accompanied by fear like Miss Sinclair’s feeling, dulls that fear into something else. Something that makes them compliant for us.

Lust.

And Harlow Sinclair is dripping with it.