The bed beneath him bled color—deep crimson, like the last breath of something sacred and ruined. Velvet clung to Darian's skin, soaked with sweat and the heat of his own humiliation. The scent of himself—musk, fear, arousal—thickened the air.
Leather cuffs bit into his wrists and ankles, stretched wide. Every muscle in his body strained against them—raw, trembling, perfect. His chest rose in shallow gasps, sweat gliding down the deep cut of his abdomen. A body built to dominate. Broad shoulders, thick thighs, veins etched down his arms like a roadmap of restrained violence.
And yet he couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
Couldn't even see.
The blindfold dragged across his skin every time he shifted, soaking up sweat and shame. The gag forced his jaw open, drool slipping down the corner of his mouth, collecting at the edge of his chin like spit on a rabid dog.
And still…
His cock was hard.
No—throbbing.
Red and slick, flushed and leaking, twitching in the open air with every beat of his heart. His hips moved on instinct, grinding against nothing, seeking relief like a rutting animal. The ache was unbearable—heat blooming at the base, the head so sensitive it hurt to breathe.
He heard it then.
That low voice.
Not from across the room—but right beside his ear.
"You're dripping like a bitch in heat."
Darian growled behind the gag, his pride bristling—but his cock twitched, a bead of precum weeping from the tip as if it agreed. He hated that voice. Smooth, wicked, velvet-coated steel. Nikolai.
The vampire.
The one who now owned him, inch by trembling inch.
"I wonder," Nikolai whispered, "how long you'll hold out before you beg me to hurt you."
Something snapped. Not in the room—in him. His spine bowed off the bed as something cold and sharp dragged down his inner thigh. A blade? A nail? He didn't know. It didn't matter. Pain bloomed in thin, precise lines—and his cock jerked, a moan tearing from his throat like it had betrayed him too.
Nikolai chuckled. "Your body's smarter than your pride, Alpha."
A slap—sharp, punishing—landed across his thigh. Then another. Higher this time. Flesh stung, heat radiating outward in red-hot waves.
Then fingers closed around the base of his cock—tight.
Too tight.
Not stroking. Just holding. Possessive. Denying.
Darian's whole body shuddered. His toes curled. His abs flexed, muscles trembling from the strain of holding back. He was right there, so close to release—but trapped. Caged in Nikolai's merciless grip.
He whimpered.
Fucking whimpered.
"Oh, now that sound," Nikolai said, voice low and dark, "That's what I want to hear. The moment the alpha realizes he's just a plaything."
Darian's breath hitched, chest heaving. His cock was an open wound of need—pulsing, swollen, desperate to be touched. His balls tightened, aching with denied pleasure. His hips jerked again, futile, wild.
Then came the bite.
Not on his neck—but lower. On the inside of his thigh, just shy of where he needed it. Fangs sank in, and Darian cried out—guttural, unfiltered, pure. His cock jerked violently, precum spilling, nerves lit like fire under his skin.
He didn't know if he wanted to come or scream.
Or both.
And still, Nikolai didn't let go.
Didn't stroke.
Didn't show mercy.
He just whispered, lips brushing the skin over Darian's pulse:
"You're mine now."
Suddenly, something sharper slid into place. Purpose. Memory.
This wasn't why he came.
---
The morning had been quiet, unnaturally so.
Darian had driven past iron gates and long, winding roads that cut through acres of mist-choked forest, his sleek black car barely whispering against the gravel. The mansion rose at the end.
He stepped out, boots crunching on the gravel. His reflection in the car's side mirror looked calm—sharp jaw, tousled dark hair, hazel eyes cool with confidence. But inside, his gut twisted with unease.
He was eighteen, barely a man, but carried himself like someone used to being obeyed. A future alpha. His body was already built for it—tall, broad, powerful. Years of combat training had sculpted him into something imposing. Useful. Disposable.
The plan was simple: infiltrate the coven, gain their trust, locate the artifact. And never, under any circumstances, reveal what he was.
He could hide the scent for now. He hadn't shifted yet. His wolf still slept in his blood, quiet and waiting. That was the advantage. His father had made it clear—this mission wasn't just about trust. It was a test.
Darian adjusted his collar, took a breath, and scoffed softly.
His father had trusted him with it. Said he was the only one with the discipline, the poise, the restraint. Darian figured what he really meant was: You're the only one arrogant enough to get away with it.
He knocked—three sharp raps. Not tentative. Not aggressive. Just enough to say I don't care if you drink blood, open the damn door.
And it did.
No sound. No servant.
It just opened.
Of course it did.
He stepped inside.
Marble floors, crimson runners, gilded walls lined with portraits of people who looked like they'd never smiled in their lives. Cold air kissed his cheeks, scented with dust, lavender, and something darker underneath—like copper and old secrets.
He glanced at one of the paintings. The vampire in it had a face like carved stone.
Footsteps.
He turned.
A woman appeared at the top of the grand staircase. Her red gown pooled behind her. Pale, elegant, and expressionless—except for the faintest twitch of disdain when her eyes landed on him.
"You're early," she said.
"I'm efficient," Darian replied. "Some of us are punctual by nature. Or breeding."
She blinked, then descended.
"Name?"
"Darian Voss. Representative of the Neutral Archives. Here to assist with cataloging rare acquisitions." He handed over a sealed document, all wax and official ribbons. "I trust everything's in order."
She took it, scanned him once, then turned on her heel.
"This way."
Darian followed, slow and composed. He knew the type— cold etiquette, superiority carved into their bones. They didn't need to speak to make you feel beneath them. But Darian had grown up under an Alpha's roof. He'd learned early that respect could be feigned like anything else.
"You don't speak much," he said casually.
"I'm not required to," she answered, not looking back.
"I admire that. Some people talk just to hear their own voice." He smiled, knowing full well how it landed.
She paused at a door and turned to him. "You'll find Lord Versyn less tolerant of insolence."
Darian's smile didn't falter. "Good. I was getting bored of polite conversation."
The door opened.
And his mission truly began.
_____
Darian stepped through the heavy door, expecting the cold formality of Lord Vercyn. Instead, the room was filled with soft light filtering through tall windows, dust motes dancing like lazy ghosts.
And then he saw him.
A boy. Or maybe barely a man. Not the predatory lord Darian had imagined.
Thick glasses perched crookedly on a pale face framed by unruly blond hair. Green eyes—sharp, alive, vulnerable. And feet that fumbled clumsily against polished hardwood, betraying every step he took like it was new territory.
This wasn't the vampire Darian expected.
But something in him stopped. Coiled. Not fear—something stranger. Something low and magnetic.
A flicker of something—panic? instinct?—flashed in the boy's eyes as he spotted Darian. His hands fluttered, as if ready to flee.
Then, just as quickly, it changed.
His spine straightened—not enough to be obvious, but Darian caught it. The subtle stilling of his body, the way his gaze sharpened. For one breathless moment, he didn't look weak at all.
Then it was gone.
Hidden behind shy eyes and uncertain steps. The boy blinked, as if startled by his own reaction.
"No," Darian said, voice steady but firm. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The boy spun, almost losing balance, and Darian stepped forward instinctively. "Darian Voss," he said, holding out his hand.
The boy hesitated. Those emerald eyes searched his, too long, too deep. Like he was memorizing something. Or recognizing it.
Then, slowly, softly, almost like a secret:
"Nikolai," he whispered, fingers brushing Darian's.
Heat struck through Darian's chest, feeling like a electricity coursing through his veins. Unwelcome. Disorienting.
For a moment, the room held its breath.
Darian's smirk twisted with cold amusement. A shield.
That's when Darian felt it—a cold presence.
He spun around sharply, but the vampire was already seated. Calm. Collected. Watching.
Lord Vercyn.
The man who needed no introduction.
Vercyn's eyes locked onto Darian's instantly, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips. "I know who you are," he said quietly. "Sit."
Darian hesitated, then obeyed.
Nikolai stepped aside, giving Darian a wobbly smile, the nervousness returning to his boyish features. "Nice to meet you," he said softly.
But Darian swore he caught Nikolai's eyes lingering on his face just a moment too long
When Nikolai left the room his gaze returned back to the lord of the manor.
Darian squared his shoulders, voice sharp. "I'm here for the artifact. My father entrusted me with its retrieval."
Vercyn raised a hand, fingers splayed, cutting him off before he could say more. Without looking up, he reached for a stack of papers on his desk, scanning them with practiced ease. "I'm rather busy at this moment," he said, voice flat but edged with fatigue. "I understand you'll be staying with us for a few days."
Darian nodded once, unamused but cautious.
"Good," Vercyn continued, dropping the papers back down with a soft thud. "We'll leave the formalities for tomorrow. You've traveled far to reach us."
There was an exhaustion to his tone, a weariness Darian caught immediately—no ancient immortal acting eternal tonight. Just a man burdened by the weight of his duties.
Darian paused at the threshold, irritation flashing across his face. "With all due respect, I didn't come here to lounge around. We should be discussing access to the artifact—not delaying it."
Vercyn didn't look up this time. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded with something unreadable. "A young man in such a hurry… is either desperate or hiding something."
Darian stiffened.
The silence was pointed.
Then, slowly, Vercyn raised a hand and spoke again, his tone far more casual than his words. "Tell me, Darian—what exactly does your father want? The power of the artifact? Or merely its secrets?"
That stopped him.
Darian's breath caught in his chest, and for a brief, dangerous second, he felt like Vercyn could hear it. But he was trained for this—years of political grooming and diplomatic discipline. He blinked once, cool and composed again, and offered the careful smile of someone who knew how to lie without saying a word.
"My father believes in the value of knowledge," he said, smooth and clipped. "He trusts I'll return with answers, not weapons."
Vercyn studied him for a beat too long.
Then he gave a single nod, almost as if they'd both said more than the words allowed.
"Good," the vampire murmured. "Then you'll find our library extensive. I trust you'll know where to begin."
Darian offered a tight smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "I always do."
And then he stepped out, jaw clenched, pulse just a touch too fast.
He hated lying. Hated it almost as much as he hated being patronized.
But the mission came first.
Even if it meant playing the part of the respectful envoy… instead of the thief he was meant to become.
_____
Darian's heart pounded in his chest as he hurried away from the room, forcing his breath steady. He needed to explore the mansion—fast. Every step echoed through the cavernous hallways, but he kept his head low, blending with the shadows.
He had to find his escape routes: the back stairwell, any hidden exits, the security checkpoints. But that wasn't all. He also needed to locate the master bedroom, the library—where the real power and secrets of this place lay—and most importantly, the room where Vercyn kept his private collections. Darian suspected the man hoarded more than just dusty old books and paintings. Maybe weapons, rare artifacts, or clues to his vulnerabilities. That "more" could be his ticket out when the coven that was said to come on the 3rd day arrives he'll use that time to steal the artifact.
His mind raced with possibilities as he rounded a corner—and collided hard into a solid form.
They both stumbled and crashed to the floor. Darian's bag flew open, scattering papers and a small, sealed envelope across the polished floor.
Nikolai was sprawled beneath him, his back to Darian. The sudden closeness left them entangled in a way that made Darian's cheeks burn. Anyone who saw this might jump to conclusions—and Darian hated that kind of weakness showing, especially now.
Darian stumbled backward but quickly regained his footing, trying to keep his cool. Nikolai, clumsy from the fall, was already pushing himself up, reaching out as if to steady Darian.
"Let me help you," Nikolai said, voice calm but oddly soft.
Darian barely spared him a glance. He snatched the scattered papers from the floor, his fingers curling tight around them. "Mind your fucking business," he growled, voice low and sharp.
For a moment, the room froze. Nikolai's pupils dilated unnaturally wide, an eerie blackness creeping over his irises that sent a chill straight through Darian's skin.
Darian's body stiffened, chest heaving as his glare pinned Nikolai in place. He didn't like the way Nikolai just stood there—like a creep.. It made his skin crawl
He took a step forward, towering, jaw clenching. "You got a staring problem?" he snapped, voice low and sharp. "Or do you just not know when to mind your damn business?"
Nikolai didn't answer. He just dropped his head, trembling—not from fear, not exactly. Something in the way his fingers twitched, the tension in his shoulders—it wasn't weakness. It was restraint.
But Darian didn't see that. All he saw was Nikolai folding.
That lit something hot in his chest.
"Yeah," Darian scoffed, stepping closer, voice tightening. "That's what I thought. Keep playing the mute act. Creeping around like a goddamn shadow."
Nikolai turned slowly, keeping his head down. "Sorry," he said, voice soft, breath catching like he'd just swallowed something wrong.
The apology only fed Darian's pride. He rolled his shoulders back, posture loosening with arrogance.
"Thought so," he muttered, more to himself.
He didn't notice the way Nikolai's fingers curled slightly at his sides. Or the faint hitch in his breath that had nothing to do with fear.
Darian turned on his heel, boots striking the floor with a heavy stomp, each step echoing his mood. His shoulders were tense, jaw set tight, adrenaline still humming through his veins like fire. He didn't look back—didn't need to. He could feel it in his gut: Nikolai was scared of him. Folded. Backed down.
"Damn right," he muttered, a smug smirk curling on his lips.
But when he glanced over his shoulder—just to savor the look on the guy's face—there was nothing. No Nikolai. Just empty hallway.
Gone.
Darian's smirk deepened. Couldn't handle it.
He didn't see the figure just around the corner, pressed against the cold stone wall.
Nikolai's shoulders shook, not with fear—but restraint. His hand was crammed against his mouth, fangs buried deep into the soft flesh of his palm. Blood gushed around his fingers, thick and hot, sliding down his wrist in a crimson stream, pooling at the floor beneath him. The skin around the bite had turned nearly black from the pressure, muscle shredded from how deep he'd torn into himself.
And still, he bit harder.
His eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the iris, and his lips were smeared red. He moaned softly against his own hand, trembling with a dangerous hunger.
"So cute…" he whispered, voice hoarse and wet. "So fucking perfect."
He dragged his fangs free with a slow, wet rip, a soft shlick echoing in the silence. His bloodied mouth curved into a twisted smile. The wound closed almost instantly—but not before one last thick drip of blood rolled down his chin and fell to the floor.
Nikolai licked his lips, tasting himself, eyes still fixed on where Darian had been.