Chapter Five

The room falls quiet, the weight of my words settling like dust. They watch me now without pretending otherwise.

“You fear losing control,” Lady Carrow says.

“No,” I reply. “I do not wish to bind myself to the wrong blood. Instinct will tell who can sustain my seed.”

No one dares an opinion after that.

The meeting ends shortly after. It always does when the conversation reaches this point. No formal close. No victory claimed. They have learned to retreat when they realize they cannot force me without risking war within their own ranks.

I leave the chamber immediately. Irritated. Pressure coiling tight behind my ribs.

Damon is waiting as usual. My bloodbond. A human. But Damon is almost as old as I am. Three hundred and forty-five years. Does not look a day above thirty.

He is my aide, butler, personal assistant, chief of staff, friend, brother. Chosen by instinct. Bound by ritual blood. My blood. He lives as long as I live. When I die, he dies.

He is always close. My trusted companion.

He looks at my face once, and nods. "That bad, huh!" He says.

"Worse" I respond, as we make our way out of the building. "Now they want them drinking from me."

"Bloody hell!"

He glances sideways his dark eyes reading me like an open book. "Let me guess, Carrow is leading the charge again?"

"Always. She is convinced a blood bond will 'secure the realm.'"

"Secure it for her, more like. Bet she's got a niece or cousin lined up, blood 'compatible' by her standards. You know how they play these games, alliances disguised as destiny."

"It's not just games anymore, Damon. My father and I are the last purebloods. So unless either of us produces an heir, succession may eventually go to a half-blood."

There are those with their eyes on the throne. The only reason they haven't shown themselves is because I am the one sitting on it.

No one would openly challenge me. To do so would mean certain death. And all without me raising a finger. But it appears they are getting clever. Short of performing a blood ritual, now they want to drink my blood.

Probably in hopes that whatever powers I possess could be transfered. They think a queen would placate the factions, but instinct has never lied to me. It has to be the right blood.

"You mean, unless you. I doubt your father is interested in going down that route again. Besides, your instincts have saved us countless times. I'd trust it before any planned strategy. Trust it now. They'll back off eventually. Or you'll make them."

His confidence bolsters mine, a reminder of why I chose him all those years ago. Not just loyalty, but that unflinching honesty. "And if instinct points elsewhere? Beyond their precious lineages?"

Damon raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Then we follow it. King or not, you're still Max, the one who broke the old covenants. What's one more rule bent?"

We don't speak after that. He knows what my mood calls for.

The car waits outside. Black. Idling.

The city slides past in blurred streaks of light. Time stretches. My body feels keyed too high, instincts scraping against restraint.

We head for Club Nocturne. Owned by Eric Olderman. Lady Carrow's cousin.

When we get there, Eric appears almost immediately, materializing from the crowd like mist. Tall, lean, with the sharp features of his mixed heritage, vampire speed tempered by human warmth.

He bows slightly, modern etiquette blending with old respect. "Your Majesty," he greets, voice smooth over the music. "An honor, as always. The booth is prepared. Anything else? A vintage from the reserves?"

I wave it off with a faint smile. "Just space, Eric. The night calls for observation, not indulgence."

He nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Of course, Sire. Signal if that changes." With that, he melts back into the throng, efficient as ever. Owning a neutral ground like this demands diplomacy, he knows not to hover.

We step inside and I take my usual booth. Damon understands my need to be alone. He stays back. Far enough to give space. Close enough to still matter.

Shadow breaks the light here. From this angle, I can see everything without being part of it.

The club pulses with noise and life. The sound thick enough to drown thought.

I let the noise press in, hoping it will dull the edge. The bass vibrates through my chest, syncing with my undead heart's faint echo.

My restlessness sits low and insistent. Not hunger. Not lust. Something else. I scan the crowd again, searching without knowing for what.

Then something shifts.

The air tightens. Sound dulls. My senses snap into brutal focus honing in on a single point.

Her.

Magnifica. Stunning.

Her dress leaves very little to the imagination. Short and clinging to every curve. The skirt riding high on smooth, pale thighs.

She turns and my attention is drawn to the plunging neckline of her dress. To the soft rise of her breasts. Her pulse beating slow and steady beneath skin that looks impossibly soft.

My fingers twitch with the need to run them through her hair. The colour of fire dulled by gold, tumbling around her face in soft waves.

Bellissima.

I can sense her hesitation. Her eyes darting as if weighing her choice to stay or leave. Then she straightens and steps forward with quiet grace.

She side steps to let someone pass and unconsciously flips her hair. Her scent reaches me and my control slips a fraction.

Warm. Clean. Alive.

It cuts through the room and hits deep. Sharp enough to make my jaw tighten. My fangs press against my gums. My cock strains against my trousers.

No. She is human. I tell myself even as I inhale to get another whiff of her. Humans do not smell like this. Not this intoxicating, layered with hints of wildflowers and something ancient, forbidden.

I track her. The rest of the room losing clarity, edges softening until there is only her movement. Restrained. Measured. Like control drilled into her bones.

She moves in and sits at the bar ordering a mezcal mojito. She takes a tentative sip. Her fingers trace the glass rim, a small ritual of composure amid the frenzy.

Something answers inside me.

Heat coils low and sharp. Territorial. Certain. A sensation I have not felt since my coming of age. And never for a human. It's as if my blood recognizes her, awakening urges long dormant.

My fingers dig into the leather beneath them.

This is wrong. Humans are fragile, off-limits for anything beyond fleeting amusement. Yet this pull defies reason, demanding more.

She lifts her head.

Our eyes meet.

Everything locks.

Her breath stutters. I feel it like it happens inside my own chest.

I don’t look away. I can’t.

Because in that instant one truth lands with terrifying clarity.

Whoever she is, human or not, I must have her.

Tonight.