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P ercy Hutton stared at his reflection in the antique mirror, fingers tracing the spot where the Blackthorn’s signet ring had rested for the past century.

The bare skin felt wrong, naked. Like everything else that had been stripped from him—his title, his status, his very identity as a vampire noble.

God, Percy was tired. Tired of the perfect smile, the careful manners, the endless political dances that New Vale demanded. For centuries he’d worn the mask of the perfect noble son, playing at civilization while his true nature screamed for blood and chaos.

All it took was one tiny vampire prince to shatter that carefully constructed facade.

Percy’s hands clenched, cracking the mirror’s ancient surface. The spiderweb fractures distorted his reflection, turning aristocratic features into something darker, more primitive. More true. Finally, the outside matched what lurked within.

That night at the Crystal Palace still burned in Percy’s memory.

The humiliation of being forced to kneel, to beg forgiveness from a minor vampire prince who shouldn’t even exist. The Whitlock brothers’ overwhelming display of power had been bad enough, but it was that Valentine nobody’s presence that truly haunted him.

There had been something about Luca—a light that called to the darkness in Percy, awakening a hunger he hadn’t known existed.

Even now, Percy could feel that pull, that maddening compulsion trying to make him kneel.

It made him want to destroy that boy, to snuff out that light that dared try to control him.

Dark Haven called to Percy like a siren song.

He’d heard stories of its brutal beauty, of ancient vampires who embraced their true nature without New Vale’s pretense of civility.

Where power wasn’t measured in council votes and diplomatic ties, but in blood and conquest. Where the strong ruled and the weak served—or died.

Percy moved silently through the darkened mansion, timing his steps between guard rotations.

The Blackthorn library’s forbidden section held what he needed—the Crimson Grimoire , an ancient tome containing secrets of blood magic that Dark Haven’s vampire lords had sought for centuries. One book to buy his way into paradise.

A week ago, Percy had overheard a conversation that still echoed in his mind. He’d been lurking outside Alpha Blackthorn’s study, mapping guard patterns for tonight’s theft.

“The signs are clear, Sebastian,” Lord Richard Blackthorn Sr.’s voice had carried through the door. “Dark Haven’s hunters are already searching.”

“Uncle, these fated ones are merely legend,” Alpha Blackthorn had responded, though something in his tone suggested uncertainty.

“Tales that Dark Haven takes seriously enough to send hunters,” the elder Blackthorn had insisted. “You must be vigilant. If your fated mate appears?—”

“I have more pressing concerns.” Sebastian’s dismissal had been clear. “The clan requires?—”

“The clan requires its alpha to find his mate.” Lord Blackthorn’s voice had hardened. “Before Dark Haven finds them first.”

Percy had dismissed it then as the ramblings of an elder obsessed with ancient prophecies. But now, as he crept through shadows toward the library, new whispers reached him.

“—did you see Lord Blackthorn’s face when the ancient blood reacted to him? I haven’t seen him this excited since finding those prophecy scrolls?—”

“—Lady Elena’s journals mentioned these exact symptoms. The fever, the strange effect on ancient beings… Alan swears he saw Alpha Blackthorn’s hands trembling?—”

“—and Lord Johnathan Whitlock himself at the hospital? When was the last time three elders gathered for one fledgling vampire’s fever?—?”

“Do you think…” One voice dropped even lower, trembling with excitement. “Maybe this is… he’s the first… you know…”

“A fated one?” another whispered back. “The one the elders have been searching for for centuries? I mean, the signs, the awakening of the tomb under Council Hall…”

“Shhhh! You know we’re not supposed to speak of it! But… did you feel it? That strange compulsion when he looked at you?”

“Sweet blood, this morning was…” The vampire’s voice softened with reverence.

“We were delivering the promised daily vial—you know how precious that ancient blood is—and there he was, this tiny thing drowning in silk blankets, looking more like a doll than a vampire. Until he smiled at us. Have you ever seen sunlight hit crystal? That kind of pure, breathtaking radiance that makes you forget how to stand?”

“And then what? The feeling everyone’s whispering about?”

“Gods, yes. My body just…” The vampire’s voice held a mixture of awe and confusion.

“I’ve never felt anything like it. This overwhelming urge to drop to my knees, to serve, to protect.

Alan actually stumbled! And you know how graceful he usually is—hasn’t tripped once in three centuries of blood deliveries. ”

“Alan? Our Alan who dances across rooftops with full blood trays at the galas?”

“The very same. Nearly dropped our one precious vial of ancient blood. Lord Blackthorn would have had our heads if we’d wasted even a drop.” The vampire shuddered. “But can you blame him? When we’ve been searching the texts for centuries, documenting every sign, every prophecy…”

“It’s exactly like the ancient texts describe! Remember those passages about presence and power? The way they spoke of light calling to darkness, of ancient beings feeling compelled to serve?”

“To think we might actually be witnessing it…”

The whispers faded as Percy’s mind snapped back to that moment at the Crystal Palace.

That split second when Luca had turned those lavender eyes on him, and Percy’s own treacherous body had frozen, fighting that same maddening compulsion to kneel.

He’d seen it affect others too—Sebastian fucking Blackthorn himself bowing lower than protocol required, Kai Park’s proud shoulders dipping in deference.

Ancient beings who’d made lesser vampires crawl, all of them responding to something…

primal. Something that called to the darkness in their very blood.

Percy’s fangs extended at the memory, sharp with hatred. If what these research rats were saying was true… if Luca really was what Dark Haven had been hunting for centuries…

The Crimson Grimoire suddenly seemed like a paltry offering.

But a fated one? The first to appear in recorded history?

That would buy Percy more than just entry into Dark Haven’s elite circles.

That would give him real power, the kind that could restore everything Sebastian had stripped from him.

The kind that could bring the mighty Blackthorn Clan to its knees.

Percy’s original plan of simply stealing the grimoire seemed childish now. Why settle for an ancient book when he could deliver them something far more precious? Something they’d been hunting for centuries?

A cold smile curved Percy’s lips as he turned away from the library. Let Sebastian keep his precious tome. Percy had a much more valuable prize in mind—one currently lying helpless in a hospital bed.

Dark Haven would provide everything he needed. They’d been hunting fated ones long enough to have plans in place. All Percy had to do was reach out to the right people.

One call was all it took. Burt and Clive were still bitter enough about their fall from grace to jump at any chance for revenge.

Like Percy, they’d lost everything that night at the Crystal Palace—their titles, their status, their very identities as vampire nobles.

Now they spent their nights drowning their sorrows at cheap blood bars, reminiscing about their glory days and cursing Sebastian Blackthorn’s name.

“It’s a hospital,” Percy explained to their eager faces. “We don’t need elaborate plans or forged documents. We just need chaos.”

The afternoon visiting hours at New Vale General the next day were perfect—the halls crowded with patients and visitors, medical staff rushing between rounds. Even better, Percy had heard the Whitlock brothers were occupied at the council meeting, discussing Luca’s condition with the elders.

Percy checked his watch. Three forty-five p.m. Fifteen minutes until Burt would pull the fire alarm.

He watched the steady stream of people passing through the main entrance —worried families clutching flowers, outpatients heading to appointments, staff changing shifts.

No one paid attention to three well-dressed vampires who looked like any other visitors.

“Remember,” Percy muttered as they split up, “wait for my signal.”

The two idiots nodded eagerly, their former aristocratic bearing slipping as they practically bounced with anticipation. Percy suppressed a sneer. They’d serve their purpose soon enough.

When the fire alarm screamed through the building at precisely four p.m., the effect was instantaneous.

Emergency protocols blared through the speakers: “Attention all personnel and visitors. This is not a drill. Please proceed to your nearest exit immediately. All security teams to evacuation positions. This is not a drill.”

Chaos erupted as patients, visitors, and staff began evacuating. Even the Whitlock guards stationed near Luca’s room couldn’t ignore emergency protocols—their training kicked in automatically as they began assisting with the evacuation, helping move patients who couldn’t walk.

In the growing chaos, Percy slipped into Luca’s room. The prince lay unconscious, his skin barely glowing with fever-bright power. Even weakened, that maddening compulsion tugged at Percy, a faint echo of the force that had made him kneel at the Crystal Palace.

Percy’s hatred gave him strength against even this dim remnant of Luca’s power. Within minutes, Percy had the prince transferred to a wheelchair—just another patient being evacuated to safety. Luca’s power pulsed weakly, but in the chaos of evacuation, no one noticed.