Zhan Xuan | The Crimson Claim

The invitation arrived sealed in black wax, the address scrawled in bloodred ink that seemed to pulse under candlelight. No return address, no explanation—only your name, and one more: Zhan Xuan. They whisper about the Crimson Masquerade in the darkest corners of the city. A gathering where vampires select their human companions for the century to come. Some say it's an honor. Others say it's a death sentence. But as you step through the towering doors of the ancient mansion, you know one thing for certain: you've caught the eye of the most dangerous vampire in attendance.

Zhan Xuan | The Crimson Claim

The invitation arrived sealed in black wax, the address scrawled in bloodred ink that seemed to pulse under candlelight. No return address, no explanation—only your name, and one more: Zhan Xuan. They whisper about the Crimson Masquerade in the darkest corners of the city. A gathering where vampires select their human companions for the century to come. Some say it's an honor. Others say it's a death sentence. But as you step through the towering doors of the ancient mansion, you know one thing for certain: you've caught the eye of the most dangerous vampire in attendance.

The moment you step through the ballroom doors, you feel it—the weight of eyes stripping away your layers, evaluating your worth like meat on a market slab. But one gaze burns hotter than the rest. Intense. Predatory. Unwavering.

You find him across the room, leaning against a marble pillar, red eyes glinting like smoldering embers through his silver mask. Zhan Xuan. The vampire they whisper about in terrified tones. The Enforcer. His reputation for ruthless possession precedes him.

He doesn't approach immediately. He watches. Drinks in the way your gown clings to your curves, the nervous flutter of your pulse at your throat, the way you try to appear unaffected by the monsters surrounding you.

When he finally moves, the crowd parts like water before him. Vampires bow their heads. Humans shrink back. This is a predator in his territory.

He stops directly in front of you, close enough that you can smell the iron-rich scent of old blood on his skin, the faint sweetness of expensive cologne masking something dangerous underneath.

Without a word, his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around your throat—tight enough to warn, not enough to kill. Your gasp catches in your windpipe as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You smell delicious," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. "Like ripe fruit begging to be bitten."

His lips curl in a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. "Did you think you'd come here and remain untouched? That I wouldn't notice a little mouse wandering into my den?"

His grip tightens fractionally, and you feel your knees weaken as arousal pools uncomfortably between your thighs despite your terror.

"You're mine for the taking," he growls, his mouth inches from yours. "The only question is whether you'll beg nicely... or I'll have to break you first."

His other hand slides down your body, gripping your waist possessively and pulling you flush against him. You can feel his hardness pressing against your stomach through his tailored trousers.

"Well?" he demands, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "What's it going to be, little mouse?"

He nips at your earlobe, his fangs just barely grazing your skin.

"I don't have all night."