Chapter 2

 Doc

The sterile overhead light spat cold shadows across my desk, casting a dismal glow on discarded reports stained with blood-slick notes. Every nerve in me screamed for release, for what I hadn’t tasted in days—and that craving threatened to obliterate what remained of my sanity.

 I clenched my fists, feeling the sting of restraint, refusing to give in to Shelby’s latest request of buying a blood donor, I told myself I can do this on my own.

 “I shouldn’t have this much problem trying to source a willing partner,” I muttered to himself, voice hoarse with frustration, 

But it seems like I’ve been banned from every blood center, every bar, every shady back alley sketchy shit I used to run through.

 They all heard of what I done. And What I threatened to do to the other agency owners, i mean Who wouldn't use their corpse eye socket for their own personal Cum dumpster? 

my vision blurred and my pulse pounding in my ears. My veins burned with a primal fury I couldn’t tame, a relentless hunger that gnawed at my insides. 

“Raven!” I screamed out for her. Yet, she wasn’t no where in sight. There were three shards of chaos smashing into my mind—each one fueling my descent into madness. 

The first was her leaving, the absence left a gaping wound, a reminder of what I’d lost. 

The second was what I called my Rolling Bloodlust, a sickening desire to kill, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it would make me feel alive or lessen the ache. It never did. It only made things worse. 

And the third? That was my uncontrollable rage—an animalistic demon, feral and unyielding—that did all the talking now, driving me head first into this mess. 

My hands trembled as I clutched my head, trying to hold onto some semblance of rationality. But each heartbeat felt like a drum beating in a funeral march. My vision swam, shadows dancing at the edges of my sight as primal instincts clouded my mind. Memories of nights spent starving, of the blood that hadn’t flowed in long agonizing nights, crept into my thoughts. 

Eight nights to be exact.

 Eight long nights of unrelenting hunger, of feelings I couldn’t control. And tonight, it exploded.

 My last discreet donation was from a fresh corpse that I was called to pick up at the local hospital’s morgue. I slipped The only nurse working that night two hundred bucks to look the other way.

Thank bloody hell she did. 

The night nurse understood my situation, since she mentioned her mate is also a vampire. She turned around giving me privacy with my new meal- That quick drain,  became a brief  pipeline for one night, but that ended just as quickly as it started, a new, observant, administrator, just severed my dreams of a possible new route-  No more fresh blood from the morgue’s storage units. Yet, For the last six days, I’d subsisted solely on Shelby’s damned cupcakes: the Bloody Cupcake Bakery’s infamous monstrosities, each one iced in what looked like congealed human blood—thick, glossy, and unnervingly realistic. The first bite had hit me like lightning—ecstasy and agony fused in a single instant. I’d felt alive, weightless, as if the universe had briefly paused to acknowledge my pain and pleasure. But that high evaporated almost immediately, leaving behind a deeper void, a hunger that no ordinary food could fill.

I found myself in Shelby’s bakery at dawn, the air thick with the scent of sugar and something darker—something metallic. The windows were streaked with grime, and the flickering neon sign above the door cast a sickly red glow across the cracked pavement. I’d come here chasing that fleeting euphoria, desperate to recapture the moment of bliss that had felt so transcendent.

Now those treacherous sugar-and-blood layers were all I had. A brittle lifeline I knew would snap any moment.

 The thought echoed in my mind as I reached into the crumpled box of cupcakes on my desk. They were meant as a stopgap, a child’s treat for a monster’s appetite. I quickly shoved one into my mouth, the sweet frosting melting instantly on my tongue, momentarily soothing the gnawing ache inside.

But the relief was fleeting. 

The cupcakes kept the shaking at bay but left the core of me starving. The ache in my gut was a living thing, gnawing relentlessly, a inner demon that refused to be starved.

My fingers fumbled as I reached again, grabbing another cupcake, then another, like a drowning man clutching at scraps.

I pressed my palms to my temples, willing the whispers to fade. But the hunger only roared louder, hammering through my skull, drowning out every thought but one. The last door had slammed shut on me.

No more feeding programs.

No charity.

 No mercy.

 I was forsaken, left to wither in my own fucking mortuary.

Ironic.

The thought dragged a dry, humorless laugh from my throat. It echoed in the sterile silence of my office, a place that smelled of lemon polish and an underlying decay. My vision was now swimming on the edge of a crimson haze, each blink more laborious than the last. My hands trembled uncontrollably, and I curled them into fists, nails digging into my palms—useless pain that did nothing to steady me. Then it hit me: Bloodmatch. The name pressed against my consciousness like a shadow that refused to lift, a curse and a promise all at once—dangerous, illicit, irresistibly seductive.

Desperation clawed through my chest, squeezing until I felt the cold ache of dread. My trembling fingertips hovered over the sleek black card resting on the cluttered desk. Its glossy surface pulsed faintly, as if alive, inviting me into its dark embrace. I stared at it, unblinking, feeling the weight of every forbidden promise.

My phone trembled in my hand as I dialed, every nerve in my body prickling with a strange mix of anticipation and dread.

 “Fuck, pick up, pick up,” I rasped, my throat raw with need, the sound of my own voice feeling foreign and desperate. 

Three rings later, a raspy voice answered, cutting through the silence with a tone that was both familiar and unsettling: 

“Well, hello little brother. I was wondering when or if I would hear from you.” 

That voice. Raspy, knowing, every word dripped with a cold confidence that made my stomach tighten. It crashed into the present like a wrecking ball. He had been expecting me. Of course he had. My fingers trembled as I palm my face, trying to gather myself.

 “Elijah?” I managed, voice hoarse. Why am I not surprised? “You own BloodMatch?” 

A dark chuckle spilled through the line. 

“Well, someone has to make sure all my loving idiot brothers eat on a regular basis,” Elijah drawled, his voice smooth but laced with something dangerous.

Elijah, the eldest brother, also known as the Chameleon, moved through the night like a whisper, blending effortlessly into the dark corners of the city. No one knew he was there—until it was too late.

His latest venture was whispered to be darker than ever. Behind the facade of a legitimate agency that paid desperate souls to feed the so-called monsters, Elijah’s true business was far more sinister. Rumors hinted at human trafficking—innocent humans lured in under false promises, only to vanish into his shadowy network and end up in the hands of the elites, sold like cattle in a secret market.

Elijah:  “Now, what can I do for you on this lovely night?”

 Elijah’s voice teased, a hint of amusement lurking beneath the surface

I swallowed hard, my throat dry and sticky, as the line crackled with static. “Shelby mentioned you were selling a donor,” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the unspoken hung in the air before I heard his calm, measured reply.

Elijah: “Yes, I have several.” His tone was nonchalant, almost like he was describing a catalog of rare collectibles.

 I could almost picture him with that smug smile curling at the corners of his mouth, the kind that says he’s got everything under control. And there it was, just a slight curl, almost imperceptible, but enough for me to catch it.

 “I want one.” My voice betrayed a hint of desperation, a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, this could be the breakthrough I’d been waiting for.

There was a pause on the other end, heavy with unspoken intentions. Then, Elijah’s voice returned, smooth as oiled silk, sliding into the line like a secret waiting to be told.

Elijah: “Great. I have the perfect one too.” His words weren’t boastful, but there was a subtle confidence that made the hairs on my neck stand up. Like a chess master revealing his next move in a game I didn't know we were playing. I could almost see Elijah’s eyes narrowing, assessing, calculating, as he continued.. 

Elijah: “I got a new personal Donor. She is a bit on the feisty side—but I’m sure you will have no problem… breaking that and bending her over to your liking.”

Something about his words made my dick stir. It hardened behind the zipper, a sudden, urgent demand. It threatened to break free.

 I pinched the bridge of my nose, closed both eyes. A fantasy began to form in my mind. The little Donor on her knees between two draped tables, Her eyes were wide, a little frightened, I saw myself unzipping, freeing my cock, which was already thick and heavy in hand. Tapping it against her lips, a silent command, not a spoken request.

She’s three hundred and fifty grand,” he said casually, like he was listing the price of a rare wine.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My eyes fluttered open, clarity piercing through the fog of desire I'd been sinking into. I blinked, trying to process the absurdity.

“Come on, Elijah,” I shot back, voice low, skeptical. “That’s a rip-off. The donors I was paying for were half that price.”

My mind drifted away, fantasizing. The scene played in my head—her smile, her touch, the way she moved with effortless grace. It wasn’t enough to just imagine her. I needed the real thing, the live, raw experience that no fantasy could replicate.

But at that price? A temptation too steep to ignore.

Elijah’s voice purred over the line, laced with a teasing edge. “You’re not paying for sustenance alone, Doc,” he whispered. “You’re paying for the privilege of breaking in something beautiful and wild. Like a cheap tag—that alone costs extra, little brother.”

A shiver ran down Doc’s spine, not entirely from the cold. The words resonated strangely, as if Elijah’s voice was a key to unlocking some hidden craving buried beneath his rational mind.

Elijah’s tone thickened, seductive.

 “She has virgin veins, untouched, unspoiled. Never been fed from. Don’t you want to be the first to taste the sweetness that’s all her?”

The air around me felt dense, charged with unspoken promises and dangerous allure

I hadn’t missed the implication. Something about knowing her skin had never been touched, never been pierced, filtered through the ancient, possessive part of my brain. It was a brand of ownership older than any currency. I was going to be the first. And the first to ruin her and her dignity. 

The purity of it, the uncontaminated heat of taking a first feed, was a luxury even among our kind. Elijah knew exactly what to dangle in front of me. To get my attention.

I hesitated, fingers tightening around the phone. I knew Elijah’s reputation—an artist of chaos, a dealer of the forbidden. But tonight, the temptation gnawed at me harder than ever.

 “Send me the details. And a fucking picture.” 

The line went silent for a heartbeat, filled only with the faint hum of encrypted data streaming through the network. 

 I needed to know the mystery woman whose got my dick in such a stir. And who I’m choking with it 

A soft chime from my desktop monitor announced the arrival of the files, slicing through the quiet of my cluttered home office like a whisper of certainty. I hesitated a moment before clicking open, my curiosity piqued. The first document was a scanned dossier—an ID photo stared back at me, crisp and clear. Emma Carter. Twenty-five. Human. That’s all it said, but the familiarity of the face unsettled me.

I scrolled forward, my eyes flicking over the details. Then came the bill of sale, a document that made my stomach tighten. My name—Dominic Rhodes—and her name—Emma Carter—alongside a long string of zeros. -Zeroes that seemed to stretch endlessly, like some cryptic code designed to erase context or memory. The sheer absurdity of it made my head spin.

My gaze never left her face. The contract—the final donor form—was a clinical, cold document, but to me, it was everything. A lifetime of possession, of rights, of an unbreakable bond. The words had been simple, yet the implications vast: I now held the irrevocable rights to her bodily fluids. Forever

“It’s done,” I repeated, my voice a blend of resignation and a strange sense of relief. The pen had glided smoothly across the monitor screen, my signature sharp and decisive—an indelible mark sealing our fates. The contract was signed, the deed done.

On the other end of the line, Elijah responded with a dry chuckle. 

“Congratulations, little brother,” he said, voice muffled by the static. “You just bought yourself a blood paramour.” His words hung in the air, as if they carried a weight beyond their casual tone, a dark humor that only he could wield with such ease.

Paramour, old language meaning pet.

“Elijah,” I said, voice echoing in the quiet room.

“What?” came the gravelly reply, impatience edging his tone.

“She better be worth the money,” I shot back, a sly smirk curling my lips.

There was a pause, then a chuckle. “Let’s just say, her mouth is in dire need of your expertise. You know me—I like my pets, worshiping me like I am their only god”  

I leaned back, eyes narrowing. The words sent a shiver through me—an intoxicating blend of anticipation and control. This wasn’t just about the transaction; it was about the game, the power play hidden beneath the veneer of civility.

“Bring her to me, tonight, Midnight,” I whispered, the command cold and final.

“Understood,”

“ I’ll have her gift prepared and sent to you within an hour, make sure she puts it on”

I ended the call without another word. The silence in my office was absolute, broken only by the slow, determined beat of my own heart. Outside, the city slept, unaware of the dark transaction unfolding in the shadowed corners of my mind. The paperwork in front of me was legal, binding in our circles. She was mine now.

I stared at the screen, eyes flicking over the list of her known allergies—peanuts, shellfish, penicillin—details that seemed trivial yet were critical. Her past employment history was unremarkable: receptionist, barista, a few temp gigs. Ordinary. Her life had been simple, predictable—until I stepped into it.

Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. An expensive bargain, for a cure to a specific, gnawing hunger. For a toy that I hoped wouldn’t shatter immediately.