Theron's head was fucking pounding.

The blood the church had been sending lately was absolute filth—probably seventy percent pig, and the rest some diluted cocktail of corpses long gone cold. It tasted like rot and regret, metallic and unpleasant on his tongue.

Their latest "bride"—the poor girl meant to feed them for the next two years—had lasted only a few months. Fragile. Impure. The kind of woman who sinned in the dark then begged the light for forgiveness. Her blood had that bitter aftertaste of guilt, like ashes on the tongue, clinging to his throat for days after feeding.

And Nero, in one of his oh-so-charming fits, had snapped the little thing clean in half. Literally. Now the rest of them had to suffer through the consequences of his carnage—choking down pig's blood like beggars. Disgusting.

Whistling lazily, Theron strolled the halls of the manor, feigning casualness as he attempted to slip out undetected. The stone floor echoed under his boots, cold and unyielding. The mansion loomed dim and silent around him, shadows stretching long across the polished surfaces like grasping fingers.

A sharp cough cut through the stillness like a blade.

Lucien.

There he was, lounging in that pretentious throne-like chair as if he were something more than a spoiled firstborn in velvet. His posture oozed authority, crimson eyes glinting in the dim light. Theron saw only delusion.

"You do know," Lucien said, voice as cold and clipped as always, "that it's forbidden for us to roam freely among humans." His crimson eyes locked onto Theron's silhouette in the shadows, unblinking.

Theron turned with a slow, mocking grin. "The great Theron does whatever the fuck he wants." Lucien didn't flinch. Of course he didn't. Just kept staring like he was carved from ice. Theron scoffed, turning away.

"Whatever. Not worth the fucking hassle." He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders rolling with a cocky nonchalance. "And don't get it twisted—I'm not staying because you told me to. I'm just not in the mood anymore."

He wandered off toward the grand foyer and collapsed onto his favorite lounge couch like it was a throne of his own. Eyes closed. Arms behind his head, enjoying the coolness of the velvet against his skin.

Damn, he missed the old nights. Before the tech. Before the tracking. When he could walk into a brothel, pick the prettiest girl who didn't belong there, pay, drain her dry, and disappear into the night. No questions. No consequences. Just pleasure and power and the high of warm blood on his tongue.

Now? Even a single drop out of line and the church's little dogs would come sniffing, silver weapons at the ready.

He let out a loud, irritated sigh and the front doors creaked open on their ancient hinges. He heard footsteps—heels on marble,清脆 and feminine, not the heavy tread of any of his brothers. He didn't move. Didn't care.

Until he heard her voice.

Annoying. Too chipper. Too soft. She kept talking, kept pressing, her words muffled but persistent. He ignored her until he couldn't anymore, the sound burrowing under his skin like an insect.

With an annoyed grunt, he snapped open his eyes, grabbed her wrist in a blur of movement, and yanked. Her skin flinched under the shock of his ice-cold touch. Good.

"You are so fucking annoying," he muttered darkly, tugging her hard until she stumbled onto the couch beside him. His eyes flicked lazily to her luggage, discarded carelessly by the door. A name tag caught the faint light: your name.

So that's the name of this cunt.

In a flash, he was on her. He caged her with his body, his mouth brushing the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply. Her scent hit him like a physical force—warm and alive, sweet with a hint of something floral and utterly human. His breath, cool and slow, ghosted over her pulse, feeling it race beneath her skin.

He laughed—a low, dark sound against her skin. "Mm," he purred, his tongue tracing a slow line along her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, "you taste fucking divine."

His fangs slid free, sharp and deadly, grazing her neck—just enough to sting, to make her gasp. He didn't bite. Not yet.

No, Theron wanted this to last. The fear. The tension. The power. And he was going to enjoy every second of it.