All Chapters of The Vampires innocent Prey : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The servants’ quarters carried a strange kind of silence. It was not peace—peace was something soft, something that soothed. This was heavier. The silence pressed against the walls, interrupted only by the faint rattling of dishes being cleared away far in the castle above. Sophia sat on the narrow bed, skirts brushing the cold stone floor, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. She had told them she was tired, and they had let her go. Truthfully, she wasn’t tired at all. Her thoughts were too restless, pacing circles in her mind. All evening she had been observing. Watching, listening. Charlotte moved through the corridors like she already owned them, her voice carrying in every room she entered, as though the walls themselves bent to her whims. She didn’t ask for anything—she demanded. The servants bent beneath her presence quickly, eager to satisfy her, but Sophia saw the tension in their shoulders, the wariness in their eyes. Charlotte was arrogance wrapped in silk, and the castl

Charlotte woke to the soft glow of morning light filtering through the tall drapes of her chamber. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and the lingering scent of the fire from the night before. She stretched slowly, letting the silk sheets fall away, her mind already scanning the day ahead. Adjusting to the mansion would require patience, she knew, but she welcomed the challenge. Every corner of the house, every gilded frame, every polished surface was a lesson in control, power, and observation. Rising from her bed, she allowed her eyes to wander over the room. The trunks she had brought remained neatly arranged, the fabric inside carefully folded, a testament to the discipline instilled by her father. The quiet hum of servants moving in the corridors outside reminded her that the house was alive with order, each step measured, each gesture precise. Charlotte relished the subtle power of simply being awake in this space before the world stirred. She dressed deliberately, cho

Azriel moved through the corridors of the estate with the quiet precision of someone who had mastered the art of control. Every footstep was measured, deliberate, each echo against the polished floors a reminder that the house bent to his will—or at least, it should. The morning sun spilled through the towering windows, cutting angled beams across the tapestries and marble, but he paid them no mind. There were more pressing matters: correspondence to review, reports to inspect, the staff to oversee. Every inch of the household needed his scrutiny, and no distraction could be permitted. He entered the study, where the faint scent of old parchment and ink lingered. The ledgers were neatly stacked, each one a testament to the order he demanded. He scanned the numbers with an unflinching eye: estates’ incomes, expenditures, worker schedules, security rotations. Each detail mattered; each omission could unravel months of careful planning. Efficiency, clarity, and precision were his consta

The pale light of dawn crept through the tall windows of Azriel’s chambers, painting long streaks of silver across the stone walls. He lay on the edge of the bed, half dressed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Sleep had been scarce; every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of glowing eyes in the dark, teeth snapping too close, the stench of fur and blood hanging thick in the night air. At last, he swung his legs to the floor and rose. The palace was waking—he could hear it in the distant footsteps of servants preparing the halls, in the faint clatter of dishes being set for the morning meal. Still, something about the silence beyond those sounds felt stretched too thin, as though the entire house was holding its breath. He dressed swiftly in a dark tunic, belted neatly at the waist, then stood before the tall mirror. His reflection stared back, eyes a shade darker than usual, carrying the weight of what the night had revealed. He adjusted the collar of his coat, ensuring no trace of

The Luparis ran until the night swallowed the sound of the carriage wheels. Their paws drummed against the forest floor, weaving between roots and fallen logs, until at last the trees opened into a clearing where jagged rocks jutted up like broken teeth. Beneath the largest stone, hidden by ivy and shadow, yawned the entrance to their lair. One by one, they slipped inside. The den stretched deep underground, carved from stone and soil, lit only by the faint orange glow of smoldering torches wedged into the walls. The air was thick with the musk of fur, blood, and damp earth. Bones littered the ground in places, trophies of hunts long past. At the center lay a hollow where the pack gathered. The leader, scarred and broad-shouldered, shifted into his human form. His chest heaved as he stood upright, his skin pale beneath the moonlight that filtered weakly through cracks above. His golden eyes, however, remained the same—sharp, feral, glinting with power. The others followed suit,