PREFACE:

*

In a world filled with various species; werewolves, vampires, fae, witches, humans, and more—the Urekai stood apart as one of the most powerful of them all. 

And to tell you a little about them, you should know; like werewolves, they could shift into beast form. Like vampires, they drank blood. And moved unnoticed among humankind.

The Urekai lived long, near-endless lives with memories that stretched across centuries. Possessing a heightened sense of sight, smell, and hearing, and were also known for their highly sexual nature.

But for all their strength and pleasures, meeting their true soulmate, or even a compatible match, was incredibly difficult for them. Yet many held onto hope of one day finding a mate destined for them.

And should you cross them, remember this well: their memories are eternal, their grudges immortal. To provoke a Urekai is to seal your fate, for they never forget.

 And they always collect.

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PROLOGUE

FIVE YEARS AGO.

Urekai land: Vallen Falls, Urai.

*

LORD REVANDREL.

I owned many whorehouses scattered across the city, but one was special to me above the rest, and it is called Naked Den.

I have a goal to make it the largest, most renowned, and most profitable pleasure house in all of Urekai lands and far beyond its borders.

So, here I was, stepping out of my carriage and surrounded by my sentinels, as I made my way into Pleasur’io—the largest whorehouse in the city. For now.

 Bass-heavy music blasted from above as I entered, the air smelling of sweat, smoke, and lust.

Males shouted, whores danced, and laughter spilled through the floors.

Eyes followed me, especially the idle whores lounging in the corners, eager for customer and coin.

They got my perpetual black scowl in return. That alone sent this message clearly: do not come close.

If I were here for pleasure, I might have bothered to look more approachable. But I was not, so I did not.

We took the private corridor, bypassing the mess and music.

Vincent Loran, my ever-efficient overseer, moved ahead as we neared the secured wing, stopping in front of the guards stationed at the grand double doors.

“We would like to see Merchant Lord Jolan Kolls.” Vincent said evenly.

The guards gave us the once-over, unimpressed. “Do you have an appointment?”

“We do not," he replied.

The broader of the two crossed his arms. “Then you will have to return another day. Our master meets strictly by appointment.”

Vincent held his eyes. "Tell your master, Lord Cel'theren is here is to see him."

Recognition dawned instantly. Their eyes shot wide as they looked at me.

Both snapped into immediate bows so deep their noses nearly scraped the floor.

“My lord! Forgive us, we had no idea—“ one said.

“It is an honor, truly—” the other added.

Their overlapping voices was giving me a headache.

The other guard tried to speak above the broader one. “I will go in there immediately and announce your—”

“Never mind.” I moved past them. “I will do it myself.”

They practically stumbled out of my way. I grabbed the doors and pushed them open hard enough to shake the hinges.

The chatter inside stopped.

At the far end of the lavish chamber, sat the male I was here for. Jolan Kolls looked irritated at the noise… until he saw me.

He gasped, leaping to his feet so quickly his chair scraped against the floor with an ugly screech.

“Lord Revandrel! What a pleasant surprise!” He sounded shocked and way too eager. Then gestured toward the robed man beside him. “I am sure you recognize Lord Cyrus—”

“Of course, who does not know the High Magister?” I said smoothly. “But I am afraid I will have to steal his time. I need to speak with you, and I am sure the Cyrus will not mind.” I turned my gaze to him. “Will you?”

“Not at all.” Rising from his seat, the High Magister retrieved his hat and headed for the door. “We will continue our discussion another time, Merchant Lord.”

Jolan raised his voice after him. “Yes, yes, I will send a messenger bird with the details!”

I slammed the door shut behind the High Magister.

Now alone, Kolls was smiling widely at me like a male who did not know whether to offer wine or whip out his favorite underwear for an autograph. “Lord Revandrel, what an honor. To what do I owe this visit?”

I settled into the chair the Magister had vacated like I owned the place. Leaning back, I pinned him with a stare.

“You are a difficult man to pin down,” Jolan Kolls continued, laughing nervously. “I have spent years trying to meet with you. I have a business proposition I believe—”

“I am afraid that will have to wait,” my tone was flat. “I am here on my own business. And I intend to get straight to the point.”

“Sure, sure, of course, by all means,” Kolls settled forward with an attentive look.

“I want the very first ten whores who ever worked for you in this place,” I stated bluntly. “Specifically, the five known by these mask colors: Red, Blue, Green, White, and Yellow.”

There it was, the end of his smile.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. So predictable.

He cleared his throat, suddenly looking so uncomfortable like someone had replaced his chair with a bed of nails. “You know I cannot do that. You, of all people, know a good businessman never reveals his secrets.”

“I know,” I said calmly with a nod. “And I also know this: you want to expand your guild. You want more economic power, political influence and social leverage. You are struggling with your black market operations and your contraband relics never make it past the third tollhouse before they are seized. How good am I doing so far?"

He lowered his head, chagrined.

"All of this is why you have been trying to get a meeting with me for how long now?” I tilted my head slightly. “Twenty-five years?”

“Thirty-five,” Jolan Kolls muttered.

I gave a single nod. “You want my help. You want into my good graces. You want to do business with me. Well, I am finally listening because now you have something I want.”

He remained tensed and wary.

“So, give me their identities. Those ten whores you used to build your whorehouse empires. Especially the Red Mask.”

His broad shoulders slumped.

“Even after seven centuries, Pleasur’io is still known as 'The Brothel of the Red Mask'," I continued casually. "That female is the only reason your name still has weight and your pocket has not dried completely. She is the legacy itself, and I want her."

"I really cannot..." he began, looking green.

"I want all the files on them, and in exchange, I will lend you my name.” I stated bluntly.

His pale face looked stunned first. Then, incredulous. “You would really do that?”

I raised a ‘wait’ hand. “Do not get ahead of yourself. There will be conditions. But yes, I will.”

Koll looked highly tempted. My name was a very huge offer after all. But at the same time, he looked genuinely puzzled.

“But you are the Cel’theren. You have power, wealth and influence. You have never shown much interest in your brothels, making them the runt of your empire. So why is this suddenly important to you? Why now?”

“That is none of your concern,” I said evenly. “So. Will you accept my offer or not?”

Jolan Koll's face was screaming 'yes!', his eyes filled with eagerness and greed. Already, he was calculating all the doors my name would open for him.

But there was also hesitation.

“Must the Red Mask be included..?” he faltered, pleading silently with me.

Ah, of course. She was the jewel in his empire. His goldmine. His ghost.

The Red Mask's hidden identity was his greatest secret.

“Especially her.”

He winced. “I made a vow. An agreement with her, long ago. When she left, when her contract ended, I swore never to reveal her identity to anyone. An oath I have never broken. Ever.”

I merely watched him in silence.

“She was different from the others.” Still uncomfortable as fuck, he added. “See, I will gladly give you the others, all nine of them. But not her. Please, can we exclude her?”

“Time’s up.” I stood. “Nice to meet you, Merchant Jolan Kolls.” I headed for the door.

“No, wait!”

I stopped. Turned.

“I will give you everything you need! Just, please, wait here!” he blurted before scrambling to his feet. His footsteps echoed off the walls as he disappeared through the door on the right.

Yeah. That is what I thought.

I walked back and reclaimed my seat, letting myself relax again.

Moments later, a stack of aged files lay open before me, spread across the table like a tribute. Names. Faces. Records. And proof.

I skimmed through them methodically.

A few of the females were Urekai, but the rest were mostly Succubi.

No surprises there. They had to be Succubi; the specie known for their sexual prowess, in order to pull off the kind of reputations they had.

But I knew what I was looking for, exactly who I needed to find. I opened the last folder. The one labeled Red Mask.

And the world... stopped.

I stared.

My heart did not pound. My breathing did not hitch. But something cold slid through my veins like poison.

My eyes snapped up. “No. That cannot be right.” Rage filled me. “How dare you try to dupe me?”

“I would never, Lord Cel’theren,” Kolls insisted, hands raised in quick defense. “She is the Red Mask.”

I pointed to the parchment. “Lady Baevera Sevriel Eldareth?” I said the name out loud, slowly. “Only daughter of the late Supreme Lord Magmus Duskbane Eldareth, the Grand Magnate of House Eldareth... that Lady Baevera?”

“The one and the same,” he confirmed quietly. And for some reason, the bastard actually looked guilty.

Things rarely got to me anymore. When you have lived the way I have, seen the things I have seen, very little has the power to shake you. Even less confuses you.

And yet, I just sat there, staring at her name, written in clean, elegant ink across old parchment. Waiting for it to shimmer… shift… correct itself. For the ink to swirl and reveal the real name underneath.

It did not.

Baevera fucking Eldareth is Red Mask.

I shoved the fury back down, hard. I could not let it cloud my thoughts. I had to process this.

Prim, proper, cold as an icicle and proud as a fucking peacock, Baevera?

The female I hated more than anyone else in this cursed world. 

The prey running from me, avoiding my path for over a thousand years.

The spitfire heir to the Eldareth dynasty, that Baevera was the infamous whore behind the Red Mask?

I blinked once. Twice.

For the first time in centuries, I was completely stunned.

And, gods help me, genuinely confused. It really does not make any sense.

What the actual fuck?