Prologue

“It reeks of dogs again,” Arce muttered beneath her breath, wrinkling her nose as she leaned forward in her seat.

Beside her, the Vampire King, her father, sat with the same solemn expression he seemed to reserve for every public occasion, his gaze fixed upon the arena below. 

The Bloodmoon Duel.

For centuries, vampires and werewolves have fought for dominion over the human world.

This endless struggle, later known as the Clash of Fangs, drew the attention of humans, who soon prepared to wipe both races out. Forced to retreat into the underworld, the two clans had no choice but to make peace.

In the end, the elders agreed on one rule: only one clan could rise to the human world each year to feast, so as not to disturb the balance. Thus, the Bloodmoon Duel was born, a battle that would decide which race claimed that right.

For half a century now, the vampires had suffered nothing but defeat. Each year, each battle, each clash against the wolves ended in humiliation.

To Arce, who was born into this era of loss, triumph was a story told by elders with wistful eyes, not something she had ever witnessed herself. She had never once tasted the fabled human blood that her kind referred to as Lucifer’s Nectar. The elders claimed it was a gift beyond description, a flavor so exquisite it seemed as though Lucifer himself had blessed it.

Arce had always suspected that half of those descriptions were exaggerated, but she remained curious enough to wish she could judge for herself.

Unfortunately, she had little reason to believe today's duel would change anything.

It would surely be their loss again. Werewolves lived and breathed battle, training from the moment they could walk, while vampires, well, vampires preferred to lean back on their ‘natural gifts’, lounging in silk sheets and drowning themselves in wine, music, and flesh.

She watched another vampire fall beneath the claws of his opponent and released a quiet sigh. Another defeat, another effortless victory for the wolves, and apparently another reason for her people to pretend that everything was perfectly respectable.

She had just begun to consider leaving when a gaze from across the arena caught her attention, forcing her to look back.

One of the werewolf Alphas stood among the others, his eyes fixed upon her with such unsettling intensity that Arce immediately narrowed her own. He was staring at her as though he were considering whether she would make a satisfactory meal, and the arrogance of the assumption irritated her more than the defeat itself.

“What the hell is wrong with that bastard?” she muttered.

“Language, Arce.”

Her father's voice interrupted her thoughts as he reached over and drew her back into her seat. “You are a princess. Conduct yourself accordingly, and remain with your people until the end.”

Arce settled back into her chair with a restrained sigh, arranging herself as gracefully as she could while the arena erupted around her.

Another clean victory for the werewolves was announced, the score standing at three victories to none, and the crowd responded with the sort of enthusiasm one might expect from people who had forgotten they were supposed to possess dignity.

How splendid, she thought bitterly. A graceful display of defeat.

When she looked toward the Alpha again, intending to return his insolent stare with one of her own, he had already disappeared from view.

Unlike the vampires, who were governed by a single monarch, the werewolves were divided among dozens of packs, each ruled by its own Alpha.

One would have expected such division to weaken them, yet somehow they remained far more united when confronted with a common enemy than the vampires ever managed to be.

The thought alone was enough to sour Arce's mood further, although she would rather have bitten her own tongue than admit that there was anything admirable about them.

It was not Lucifer's Nectar that truly concerned her. She had lived for twenty-six years without tasting human blood and had survived quite comfortably, thank you very much; what infuriated her was the sight of werewolves claiming victory year after year while her own people continued to accept defeat with remarkable patience.

She hated their scent, their arrogance, their constant displays of strength, and most of all, the manner in which they looked at vampires as though the two races were somehow equals.

Which made her father's decision, announced one week later, particularly difficult to tolerate.

“Outrageous!”

Arce's voice rang through the throne room as she stared at her father in disbelief. She had been summoned under the impression that the matter of the Bloodmoon Duel was to be discussed, only to discover that the kingdom had apparently found a solution to its humiliating losses by offering her to one of the werewolf Alphas.

A dog, in other words, and not even one she had the pleasure of disliking personally before being informed that she was to belong to him.

Her father remained composed upon his throne, seemingly unmoved by her outrage.

“Despite my reluctance, it has been far too long since our people last tasted human blood,” he said. His voice remained calm, although there was something beneath it that Arce recognized immediately. “Unlike the werewolves, this deprivation has begun to weaken us. I treasure you more than anything, Arce, but our people have come to understand that—”

“—they are willing to sacrifice me for their own benefit?”

Arce finished the statement for him, her jaw tightening as her fangs pressed against her gums. Of course they were. Vampires had always possessed an extraordinary talent for disguising selfishness as necessity, particularly when the thing they desired was something they believed themselves entitled to.

“And your pride permits this?” she asked, her gaze fixed upon him. She did not need an answer, because the faint hunger in his eyes had already provided one; he wanted the Human World, and he wanted Lucifer's Nectar badly enough to justify almost any sacrifice.

“It is only until the next Duel,” her father replied as he rose from his throne.

His cold hand came to rest against her cheek, a familiar gesture that somehow felt entirely different under the circumstances. Arce resisted the urge to pull away, although the thought of being handed over to a werewolf was becoming increasingly difficult to tolerate with every passing second.

“Why would an Alpha surrender a victory simply to have me?” she demanded. “And why would the other Alphas permit such an arrangement?”

Her voice had lowered, but the question had troubled her ever since she remembered the Alpha's gaze from the arena. It had not been the look of a man who had merely noticed a princess among the crowd; there had been something far more possessive in it, something that had made her wonder whether he had already decided what he intended to do with her.

Her stomach tightened at the memory.

That dog wanted her as a possession.

A vampire princess reduced to a pet.

She had thought being traded to a werewolf was humiliating enough, but apparently her father had managed to find an even more distasteful version of the arrangement.

“The wolf who wants you is Alpha Ynovar Hyde,” her father finally announced, his tone carrying a strange mixture of gravity and interest. “His pack breeds some of the strongest warriors among the werewolves, and he is said to be the strongest of them all.”

Arce gave a quiet scoff.

How perfectly predictable.

She had heard the rumors before, of course, concerning werewolves who coveted vampires and nobles who indulged in substances and other depraved pleasures in pursuit of sensations their ordinary lives could no longer provide.

She had never imagined that she would one day become part of such a disgraceful arrangement, much less that her own father would be the one presenting her as its offering.

Her fingers curled against her palms until her nails broke the skin, but before her anger could overcome the last remnants of her composure, her father leaned toward her and lowered his voice.

“But you have a chance.”

Arce looked at him.

“Weaken them,” he murmured. “Or kill their Alpha.”

Her expression changed slightly.

“By accident, of course.”

For a moment, Arce remained silent as the meaning settled between them. Her father was not merely sacrificing her for the sake of the vampires; he was sending her into enemy territory with an entirely different purpose, intending to use her position beside their strongest Alpha against them.

Her body, her title, her blood, and now even her marriage had become weapons in a game she had never agreed to play.

Yet despite herself, Arce felt the corner of her mouth lift.

Perhaps the situation was not entirely hopeless after all.

If the wolves believed they were receiving a helpless vampire princess, then they were considerably more foolish than she had originally assumed.

Arce had no intention of making Alpha Ynovar's life comfortable, and if her father wished to use her as a weapon, she saw no reason to deny herself the opportunity.

She would make a werewolf pay.