All Chapters of The Vampire King's Virgin Mistake : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Silence stretches, heavy and charged. “This is not the first time a pull like this has defied logic,” my father says at last. I look at him sharply. “You’re thinking of my mother.” He nods. “I am.” My birth mother had been human. Not a Sancta. Before there were Sanctas, only the royal purebloods, could procreate. They turned human women for this purpose. Turning was the only way to ensure conception and a successful birthing. But the women withered right after the birth of the child. Always a male pureblood. It became a vicious cycle. For anytime a royal required a child, a human life was lost. Then the blood began to fail. The human women stopped surviving the turn. One after another. The council soon declared creating female purebloods as forbidden. Mercy, they called it. In truth? It was a slow extinction of the royal line. It was at this time Sanctas were discovered. A small victory for the entire Sanguinari race but not for purebloods. For us, conception remained

Rosalinda's POV It has been seven days. Still I am unable to stop thinking about him. Every night I lay awake in bed still beneath the sheets. My body betrays me in quiet humiliating ways. I am not able sleep. Tusing. Turning. Catching only short spells, moments that are filled with memories of him. Memories that come to me uninvited, unrelenting. His hands. His mouth. That precise devastating way he moved inside me. My body remembers without discretion what my mind refuses to indulge. It remembers without mercy the way want felt like surrender and surrender like truth. At night I wake up tense my thighs pressed together. There is that low persistent ache in my abdomen. The one that started from the moment he first touched me. Like an awareness. Insistent and intimate. I sometimes wake with his name on my lips. Max. A quiet whisper. A moan. I never say it aloud. I would not dare. No one knows about him, not even Betty. I have not been able to tell her anything of that nig

Alexander’s POV I have never been accused of being unreasonable. The word follows me around anyway. It appears in boardrooms, in council chambers, in the careful pauses before a decision is announced and no one bothers to argue. Reasonable does not mean merciful. It means I know precisely how far to go, and when to stop. I stand at the window of my office at Graham Constructions, one hand resting against the glass. The city lies below, sharp and disciplined. Steel and concrete arranged into something that mimics permanence. Order imposed on chaos. I built this company the same way. Layer by layer. Control first. Everything else after. Behind me, the office moves as it always does. Footsteps pass without hesitation. Phones ring and are answered. Conversations lower when they reach my door. People work efficiently because they trust that someone above them knows where this is going. They are correct. I have been alive long enough to see what indulgence does to my kind. Sanguinari

Not long after Mother leaves, there is another knock, soft. Almost hesitant. “Miss?” Betty’s voice, muffled through the wood. “C...can I come in?” “Yes.” She steps inside and closing the door quietly behind her. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her face drawn with exhaustion. For a long moment we simply stare at each other. Her gaze drops to my stomach. Something shifts in her expression. Shock, recognition, fear all at once. She breathes the words so low. I almost miss them. I notice that since this pregnancy my sense of smell and hearing have heightened. “This is too fast… even for them." I tilt my head “What did you say?” Betty startles. Hand flying to her mouth as though she can pull the words back. “Nothing miss. I...” “You said ‘even for them.’” My voice is calm, but the edge is unmistakable. “You know about Sanguinari pregnancies.” She freezes. For a heartbeat she looks ready to deny it, then “You know about Sanguinari?” she whispers. “Yes.” I say, "and Alexander is one"

Alexander’s POV My jet touched down smoothly with barely a tremor through the cabin. The flight was short, but it felt longer than it should have. Anticipation does that. Distorts time. Stretches minutes untill they feel unbearable. For someone who has waited over three centuries, a few hours should not be of any consequence. And yet. The final moments always carry weight. I unfasten my seatbelt before the engines fully power down, already reaching for my phone as updates come through. Zurich. London. New York. Numbers shifting. Markets adjusting. Decisions being executed without my physical presence. This is the machinery of power. Systems responding because they are built to. Control is a language I speak fluently. Outside the jet, the night air is cool and sharp. Security moves ahead of me automatically, clearing the way through the private terminal. My presence draws attention without effort. It always has. Roland falls into step beside me, his expression neutral but a