Page 67 of His Ruthless Match

“To a vampire den,” I said simply, and she stiffened.

“Avampire den? Are you insane?”

“Don’t worry. They operate under strict codes of conduct. No violence unless sanctioned by the house. It’ll be fine.”

“Fine?” She was practically yelling now. “I’m a human. You’re taking me into a den of vampires, and I’m supposed to feel safe?”

“You will be,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “I’ll make sure of it. Now, do you want to change, or are you going inthat?”

She glanced down at her sweatshirt and jeans. “What’s wrong with this?”

I shrugged. “The den’s a bit swanky. You might stand out.”

She threw her hands up. “This is unbelievable. You—fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

As she stomped off to change, I turned to Grelth. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

Grelth frowned, gesturing to the plates. “Master Grelth slaved over this food, and now you’re not going to finish it? Unacceptable.”

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” I promised. “You can cook for us again.”

Grelth huffed in displeasure, but he didn’t argue. Eva returned, wearing a black cocktail dress that nearly had me drooling and muttering a string of profanities under my breath.

I raised an eyebrow. “What was that you said?”

“Nothing,” she said sweetly. “Just thinking about how I should invest in a laser pointer. Keep you entertained so you can’t come up with stupid ideas.”

I rolled my eyes and opened the door, stepping aside to let her pass. “Keep it up, Eva. Maybe I’ll let the vampires have a taste.”

She huffed and marched out the door.

The Below never slept.It festered. Shifted. Slouched against its own bones like it had something to hide.

I ducked into the corridor between what used to be an alchemy shop and whatever the fuck that glowing fungus den had turned into. The stench of ozone and old spellfire hung in the air. In the distance, someone shouted in a language I didn’t know.

I kept walking, one hand in my coat pocket, thumb grazing the hilt of a dagger I hadn’t consciously grabbed.

A billboard overhead—sleek, silver-edged, too polished for this stretch of The Below—flickered to life above a graffitied tunnel. On screen, a young warlock of maybe sixteen grinned as he held up a certificate like he’d won the fucking lottery.

Text unfurled beneath him in soft blue script.

The Cerulean Scholars Initiative: Investing in the Next Generation of Magical Excellence.

A second image blinked into place. A fae girl with sigils inked across her cheekbones. Behind her, a crystal ring formed that looked like a cage, with the wordCeruleanentwined around it.

I paused. I’d never heard of Cerulean.

And I fucking knew everything.

At least, I used to before the magistrate started getting more creative.

Scholarships? It didn’t make sense here among the wreckage and back-alley debt collectors. Pushing recruitment posters for magical children was fucking creepy. Felt like grooming.

I could feel it in the phrasing. Magical Excellence.

Not survival. Not potential. Not inclusion.

Excellence.