Chapter 1

“Argh, that’s a good boy.”

I grunted, beads of sweat dripping down my chest as I pounded into the handsome stranger I’d dragged home for the night. We’d been at it like rabbits since sunset, and yet neither of us seemed willing to stop. I smacked his perfect, rounded ass, watching with satisfaction as it jiggled at the impact. His back arched beautifully, his body offering itself to me, making it easy for every thrust to slam right into his prostate.

His loud moans filled the tiny hotel room, echoing off the walls, a soundtrack of pleasure that only spurred me harder. My grip on his hips tightened. My rhythm faltered into something messy, desperate. The heat between us was unbearable.

“I’m cumming,” I managed to gasp, words breaking into a strangled moan.

And then—

The shrill sound of my phone cut through the air.

For a moment, I ignored it, burying myself deeper, chasing the relief that was already clawing its way up my spine. My release hit me in a rush, blinding, leaving me trembling and gasping as I collapsed against his slick back.

Only then did I peel myself away, sweat cooling on my skin. The phone was still ringing. Annoyed, I staggered over to where it vibrated on the nightstand, lighting up the room with its glow. Unknown Caller.

I debated letting it ring out, but curiosity—and a faint prickle of unease—won. I pressed accept and held it to my ear.

“Hello?” My voice was rough, edged with irritation.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Santa Griffin?” A woman’s voice. Stiff, official. In the background, I could hear sirens and static, her words nearly drowned by the noise.

“Yes, this is him. Who is this?” I asked, tugging on my discarded boxers as I paced back toward the bed.

The man I’d been with lay sprawled naked across the sheets, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He was gorgeous—sculpted jaw, lashes too long for a man, lips parted just enough to remind me of how they’d looked wrapped around me only an hour ago. A grin pulled at my mouth despite the rude interruption. Maybe we’d go for one more round once I ended this call.

“I’m sorry to inform you,” the voice on the line said, clipped but trembling, “that Inspector Sam Griffin, your father, was just found dead in his home.”

Everything else blurred.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, sucking the air from my lungs. My father. Dead.

The stranger’s body blurred in my vision. The sweat cooling on my chest, the faint smell of sex and alcohol, the warmth of the bed—all of it faded under the weight of that sentence.

“Sorry?” The word escaped me before I realized I’d spoken. My throat felt raw. “No, you must have the wrong number. That’s not—he’s not…”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” the woman said, her tone firm but not unkind.

My knees buckled, and I dropped onto the edge of the bed. My father. Inspector Sam Griffin. The one man who had never truly understood me, yet had never turned me away. He’d raised me alone after my mother disappeared. We fought, we argued, but he was mine. My anchor. My only family.

And now he was gone.

I realized my hand was shaking, the phone slipping against my palm. “H-how?”

Silence hummed through the line. Then: “It appears to be suicide. That’s all we can say for now.”

The news of my father’s death still rang hollow in my ears, like a cruel joke whispered by fate. I stumbled back onto the edge of the bed, my half-naked body trembling though the room wasn’t cold. Inspector Sam Griffin was many things—distant at times, frustratingly rigid in his morals—but he was still my father. And despite our differences, I loved him. The thought of his body, lifeless and alone, made my chest ache in ways I wasn’t ready for.

The stranger in my bed shifted, letting out a satisfied sigh as if still dreaming of our little marathon. Normally, I would’ve made a snarky remark or climbed back on top of him for another round, but the weight pressing down on me was too heavy. I dragged a hand through my damp hair and stared at the muted glow of the hotel lamp, trying to process what I’d just heard.

Dead. Suicide.

Suicide? My father? No, that didn’t sit right. Sam Griffin had been stubborn to a fault, a man who clenched his jaw at life and refused to bend no matter how hard it pushed. He wouldn’t have left me—not like this.

My jaw tightened. Something was off.

I dressed quickly, pulling on my jeans and shirt with jerky, impatient movements. By the time I slipped into my leather jacket, my decision was made. I had to see the truth for myself. I had to go home.

The streets outside were still drenched in night, the faint blush of dawn nowhere in sight. I lit a cigarette, but the taste burned bitter on my tongue instead of calming me like usual. Everything around me felt muted, unreal, like I was wading through water. My boots clicked against the pavement, each echo louder than it should’ve been. I walked faster.

That’s when I noticed the shadow.

At first, I told myself it was paranoia. The grief, the shock—it had to be messing with my head. But as I turned down a narrow street to cut toward my father’s neighborhood, I caught it again. A figure, tall and draped in something more cloak than coat, moving with a kind of grace people shouldn’t have at this hour.

My pulse spiked.

“Santa Griffin?”

The voice came from my left, smooth and cold, like glass dragged over stone. A man stepped out of the darkness, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat, his clothing too deliberate, too formal for a random passerby. His lips curved into something that might’ve been a smile but carried no warmth.

I froze, cigarette halfway to my mouth. “Yeah,” I said slowly, forcing boredom into my tone even though every muscle in me tensed. “Depends, who’s asking.”

The man tilted his head, studying me like I was something displayed in a shop window. “My lord requires your presence.”

I let out a sharp laugh, though it sounded thinner than I liked. “Right. And I require another drink and a good lay, but you don’t see me dragging strangers off the street. Why don’t you run back to your lord and tell him I’m busy?”

I stepped back, ready to turn the corner and leave this creep in the shadows where he belonged, but I didn’t make it two steps. A sharp, stunning blow slammed into the back of my head. The world lurched violently, my knees buckled, and I went down hard.

My vision blurred, narrowing into darkness. I fought to stay conscious, fought to curse, to scream—anything—but the shadows swallowed me whole.

And just before the blackness claimed me, I heard a voice, low and amused, right against my ear:

“Sire will enjoy breaking this one.”

Everything went blank.