The Dark Lord's Mate.

There had been a recent killing in the barren lands a few days ago. Some vampires who had gone to farm had clashed with rogue werewolves, who slaughtered every vampire in the area. Now, the land remained barren, littered with blood and decaying bones.

Carlos relayed this news, looking at the Primus seated on the throne. King Draven's eyes were dark—bloody dark—with no sign of a white or colored pupil. His jet-black hair accentuated the sharp curves of his face, which remained expressionless. His jaw was sharp, sharp like a blade capable of slicing through stone. His full, crimson lips made every woman in the vampire lands beg for his attention. He was a sin incarnate, a being the moon goddess must have created with care and purpose, making him both dangerously beautiful and unfathomable.

"Have the three elders of the vampire realm been informed of these events before bringing them to me?" Draven asked, his voice cold and emotionless. His presence alone was enough to put anyone on edge. A single mistake could cost someone their life; the Primus had no tolerance for failure.

"Yes, King Draven," a council member replied. "The elders sent powerful warriors to investigate, but it seems the rogues anticipated their arrival. They released a substance into the air that killed the vampires in minutes before attacking the weaker ones working in the farmlands."

Initially, the rogues had only stolen crops, but now they had escalated to killing. The elders, unable to handle the growing threat, had passed the matter to the vampire king, Draven Hemlock.

"Summon the three strongest warriors from the four cities of Dogo. Inform the cities that their king demands their presence. When the werewolves shed our blood, we return the bloodshed—a life for a life," Draven commanded. The room fell silent, and every individual present bowed in submission.

"And bring Asama Erza to me. I need blood," he added, leaving no room for discussion. Draven departed the hall, craving solitude and the sustenance only fresh blood could provide. He retreated to his chambers, where the skin of a wolf adorned the walls—a grim reminder of their ancient feud with the werewolves. Vampires, older and more traditional than their rivals, shunned modern conveniences, clinging to their ancient ways.

Draven dropped onto a cushion, his thoughts consumed by the meeting. He doubted the attackers were mere rogues; they had likely been sent by an unknown pack masking their scents. He would allow them to grow overconfident before striking back with full force. Silence always preceded the storm, and Draven planned to unleash hell when the time came.

A knock on the door disrupted his thoughts. The scent gave away the visitor: Asama, the daughter of Elder Eric. Without waiting for permission, she entered.

"You called for me, King Draven?" Asama's voice was soft, almost seductive, though it grated on his ears. She approached, swaying her hips, her dress riding high on her thighs. But Draven cared little for her attempts at allure; he summoned her for blood, not entertainment. Draven would not fall into this temptation that both father and daughter had set down for him. He would not make Asama his queen because that would give her father more power, a risk he was not willing to take.

"Asama," his deep voice echoed, halting her mid-step.

"Never knew you were in such a hurry," she teased, closing the distance between them. Before she could react, Draven grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap. A small scream escaped her lips, but he ignored it, sinking his sharp canines into her neck. Asama let out a strangled cry, but Draven drank deeply, his grip tightening around her waist.

When he finally withdrew, Asama's body slumped against the cushion, unconscious. Draven regarded her impassively. She was nothing to him, just a source of sustenance, and her blood would continue to serve its purpose until it no longer satisfied him.

He retreated to the bathroom to rinse his mouth, scrubbing away the faint taste of flesh. When he emerged, his mother, Lilith, stood beside Asama's limp form.

"Marry her," Lilith said, her tone firm.

Draven froze, disbelief flashing across his face. "Mother, you cannot be serious."

"You take her blood, use her body, and leave her half-dead. You will marry her," Lilith insisted, her canines extending slightly in warning.

"Never. She is a whore, giving me blood and power in exchange for status. Nothing more." Draven's voice was colder than before, his disdain evident. He changed into a fresh shirt, discarding the one that carried Asama’s scent. Turning back to Lilith, his darkened eyes pierced her.

"Do not command me to marry someone I do not want. My mate is out there, just as Father was yours. I will not bind myself to someone like her," he growled, pointing to the door. When Lilith hesitated, Draven punched the wall beside her, the sound reverberating through the room. She flinched but said nothing more, exiting without protest.

"Guard!" Draven barked. A trembling soldier entered, bowing low.

"Remove this woman from my chambers. If she is dead, inform her father to arrange a proper burial," he ordered, his gaze piercing.

"Yes, my King," the guard stammered, hastily carrying Asama out.

Draven closed his eyes tightly, suppressing the fury that burned within. The time for vengeance was near, and when it came, no soul would be spared.