Darian retraced his steps toward the main entrance, his boots echoing against the smooth marble floor. He paused at the top of the grand staircase.
Below him, rows of servants lined the hall like statues—silent, still, perfectly spaced. They hadn't been there earlier.
His steps faltered.
Where the hell had they come from?
But his pride, honed sharp and dangerous, refused to let him hesitate for long. He straightened his back and began his descent, slower now, eyes flicking over the sea of faces. Most of them were human. He could tell. He could feel it. But something was off—there was no warmth, no curiosity, no spark. Just... dead eyes.
They stared forward, not blinking. Not acknowledging him.
Darian's skin prickled, but he kept moving. He wouldn't let them see the uncertainty.
As his feet touched the final step, one figure peeled away from the wall and approached. A younger boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen, stepped forward. His skin was light brown, his curls a little too neatly in place. He gave a nervous half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I've been assigned to you," the boy said with practiced cheer. "I'll be your escort around the estate. Help you get familiar so you don't end up..."
He paused, then added, almost too softly—
"...lost."
The word hung in the air longer than it should have. A nervous twitch flickered at the corner of his mouth, and he glanced—just briefly—over his shoulder, like he was afraid someone might be watching.
Darian's eyes narrowed. "Lost?" he echoed flatly.
The boy smiled again, smaller this time. "Just a joke," he lied.
But Darian saw the way his fingers fidgeted behind his back. The way his throat bobbed too tightly when he swallowed.
And he had the sudden, unshakable feeling that people didn't just get lost in this place.
Darian cocked his head slightly, eyeing the boy. "Assigned to me, huh? What's your name?"
The boy hesitated. "Milo."
"Milo," Darian repeated with a smug tilt of his lips, then turned his gaze back to the silent line of servants. He raised his voice. "Oi—you there."
Nothing.
Not a blink. Not a twitch.
He huffed a laugh and waved a hand toward a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair standing stiffly near a vase. "I said you. Do you all need a bell or something?"
Still, not a single reaction.
Milo flinched beside him and leaned in quickly. "Don't do that," he whispered, voice tense. "Please."
Darian looked down at him, brows lifted. "Why? Are they deaf and dead behind the eyes?"
Milo glanced around nervously, his smile tightening like a rope pulled too tight. "It's... not safe. Just—just don't."
Darian smirked, clearly enjoying himself now. "What's gonna happen, Milo? They gonna tackle me and throw me in a dungeon?" He clicked his tongue. "You're all so dramatic."
Milo didn't answer. His eyes flicked toward the shadows that stretched near the far hallway.
Darian followed his gaze, but saw nothing.
Still, for a brief second, he felt it. That pressure. Like the walls were listening.
And liking what they heard.
He straightened his jacket with a flourish. "Lead the way, Milo. I've seen enough haunted-house theatrics for one morning."
Milo hesitated only a moment before turning stiffly, guiding him down the corridor. Darian followed, shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets—entirely unfazed.
Milo walked briskly ahead, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds as if expecting something—or someone—to be following them.
"So," Darian drawled, falling into step beside him, hands still stuffed in his pockets, "you gonna give me the grand tour or just walk me in circles until I drop dead of boredom?"
Milo offered a strained smile. "Right. Sorry. This way."
They passed long corridors dressed in crimson and gold, the walls lined with more portraits that seemed to track their movements with unfocused eyes. Darian eyed one that looked vaguely like Nikolai—only older, crueler.
"So who owned this place before the prince got his fangs into it?"
Milo hesitated, then sighed. "This mansion's been here for centuries. The land's old. Tainted, some say. It used to belong to the Onyx Court before... everything."
"Everything?"
"They burned it down," Milo said quietly, turning to open a grand set of carved doors that led into what looked like an old ballroom, now stripped bare. "The villagers thought something evil lived here. Something that didn't die in the fire."
Darian raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess—it didn't?"
"No. The house was rebuilt on top of the ashes. Stone by stone. But not everything stayed buried." Milo lowered his voice as they continued walking. "Beneath us, there are old tunnels. Dungeons. Torture chambers. From back when the factions were at war."
"Factions?" Darian perked up, intrigued now.
"Vampires. Witches. Fae. Lycans." Milo paused at a wrought-iron gate at the end of a side hall. "The cells down there were mostly used to hold wolves. Their bite could kill a vampire. Still can."
At the word wolves, Darian's steps faltered.
Milo didn't seem to notice as he continued, voice hushed. "Some say you can still hear them. Howling. Even though none of them ever made it out alive."
Darian's smirk faded slightly. "Wolves, huh?" He looked away, jaw tense for a heartbeat. "Can't imagine anyone being dumb enough to keep them alive."
Milo finally looked back at him. "That's just it. They weren't alive. Not by the end."
They stared at one another for a moment. Then Darian chuckled under his breath, forcing the smirk back onto his face.
"You really know how to keep things light, don't you, Milo?"
Milo shrugged. "You asked."
"Fair enough." Darian glanced down the dark stairwell beyond the iron gate, shadows creeping up like tendrils. "So what's down there now?"
Milo's eyes dimmed. "Not everything that was locked away stayed dead."
Darian's eyes lingered on the darkness below.
The tour continued in a blur of grandeur. Milo moved with a quiet precision, voice soft but composed, his words enunciated with that clipped, polite accent that made everything sound like a bedtime story—even the horrifying parts.
"This is the sunroom," Milo gestured to a vaulted chamber filled with tall arched windows. The room bathed in cold light that seemed to drain warmth instead of offering it. "Though... no one really uses it. For obvious reasons."
Darian snorted. "Right. Sunlight. The only thing that actually makes them sparkle."
Milo gave a brief chuckle, covering his mouth with one gloved hand.
"Is that an actual British accent, or are you just really committed to the vampire butler aesthetic?"
That made Milo crack a real smile—brief, shy, but genuine.
"I suppose it's both," he replied, voice lighter than before.
Unbeknownst to either of them, someone was watching from the shadows of a nearby archway. Eyes narrowed. Shoulders rigid. The faintest twitch of a bloodied hand, like it wanted to crush the smile off Milo's face.
Their steps echoed down the corridor lined with ivory statues and marble pillars. The next room opened into a grand parlor—lavish crimson drapes, black velvet fainting couches, and a crystal chandelier glittering like frozen stars. A fireplace flickered quietly in the corner, though there was no wood inside. Just flame, burning for effect.
"The red salon," Milo said, walking ahead with his hands behind his back. "It's mainly used for meetings. Or performances."
"What kind of performances?" Darian asked, raising a brow as he admired the room. "Don't tell me we're doing cabaret."
Milo tilted his head. "Depends on the audience."
Their footsteps continued through a hall of mirrors, then past a gallery lined with paintings too faded to fully make out. Some were slashed across the canvas—others had figures that didn't quite match the reflection in the glass when you passed.
And then finally, they arrived.
"This," Milo said, gently pushing open a set of dark oak doors, "is where you'll be staying, Mr. Darian."
The room was massive, with dark blue walls and intricate crown molding that framed the high ceiling. Heavy curtains hung by tall windows, and the fireplace had already been lit. A grand bed dominated the space—canopied, regal, and untouched. At the foot of it, Darian's travel bags sat neatly stacked, their buckles shining as though freshly polished.
Darian stepped inside, brow furrowing. "These were in my trunk. How the hell—?"
"I believe Nikolai had them brought up," Milo said carefully, glancing to the side. "He... prefers guests feel welcomed."
Darian muttered under his breath. "Right. Welcomed and watched."
He looked around once more, feeling a faint unease curl up his spine.
"Well," Milo said, giving a polite bow, "If you require anything, there's a bellpull by the hearth. I'll be nearby."
"Wait—Milo." Darian called just as the boy turned to leave. "You didn't answer earlier. About the wolves. What happened to the last ones that were kept here?"
Milo hesitated in the doorway. Then: "They were dissected. Studied… for years."
And then he was gone.
Behind Darian, the fire crackled softly. The room settled into silence.
Darian slammed the bedroom door behind him and yanked his duffel bag onto the bed. He dug through it like a dog in heat, muttering curses under his breath. Sweat clung to his neck. His thoughts were fraying—frustrated, tense, full of suspicion.
He froze when his hand brushed it.
That damn leather strap.
It wasn't even something serious. Just a small, cruel little thing he'd brought with him in a pathetic moment of indulgence. Thin, soft, well-worn—designed for no one's eyes but his. A private disgrace. The kind of thing that whispered about the kind of man he refused to believe he was.
His lips curled in disgust, at himself more than anyone.
He pulled it out anyway. Looked at it. Held it in his hand like it might bite him.
But something was off.
A scent—sharp, not his. Lingering like a ghost across the fabric of his duffel. Not on the strap itself, but definitely around it. Unfamiliar. Male.
"That fucking cunt," he snarled, his voice breaking the silence like a whip. He stood so fast the mattress buckled behind him. "That sneaky, pale-faced little cunt—"
A lamp flew from the nightstand and shattered against the wall, splinters of glass and porcelain bouncing across the floor. The violence didn't make him feel better. It just stoked the fire already burning in his chest.
He was panting now. His fingers curled into fists. How dare he. Going through someone's private things like that? Had he touched it? Had he smelled it?
Darian could feel something twitch inside him. Something, something he'd locked down his whole life. His wolf. It had never surfaced before—not once. But now it stirred, irritated, teeth flashing behind his eyes. Even it was ashamed of him. Disgusted.
Why did you even bring it, you freak?
You want to be punished? Is that it? You want someone to see how fucked-up you are?
You deserve it.
And then—
Knock.
He looked up, breathing heavily.
Nikolai stood in the doorway like a deer, posture stiff, arms tucked in close to his body. Not like before. His clothes were different—softer, looser, like he had changed into something just for this moment. His pale eyes flicked around the room, too nervous to settle.
"I… I was told to show you the artifact," he said quietly.
Darian squinted. The rage still simmered in him, but Nikolai looked… blank. No guilt. No grin. Just those big fucking innocent eyes, wide like a child's.
"The bag was open when I got it," Nikolai added quickly, voice nearly swallowed by the tension in the room.
Darian stared at him. Looked hard.
He wanted to scream, to shove him against the wall and make him confess. But…
Something about the way Nikolai looked at him—so still, so hesitant—it almost felt real. Like maybe… maybe he hadn't gone through it. Maybe he really didn't know what that strap was. He didn't look like he knew.
Darian ran a hand through his hair and let out a long, bitter breath. "Fuck it," he muttered. "You probably wouldn't even understand if you saw it."
He shoved the strap under a pillow quickly, not daring to look back at it.
But when he finally turned to Nikolai again—he caught him.
Nikolai's gaze was fixed on the pillow like it held a beating heart underneath. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened. Focused.
Darian stiffened.
That innocent look? It flickered—for just a second. Something else was there. Darker. Hungrier.
He didn't like it.
But his wolf?
His wolf did.
___
The descent into the underbelly of the mansion was colder than Darian expected. Stone steps groaned under their feet, and the air grew damp and metallic the deeper they went. Nikolai walked ahead, torch in hand, the flickering fire casting long shadows that made the passage feel endless.
Darian's eyes swept over the walls, some etched with rusted hooks, others cracked open just enough to see where chains had once hung. He remembered what Milo had said earlier, with that strange little smile of his—"There are still rooms beneath the house. Torture chambers. Cells. Places for dogs who bit too hard."
Nikolai didn't speak for a while. But Darian noticed the glance he cast back—like he was measuring his mood. Sensing his nerves.
"You seemed fond of the servant earlier," Nikolai said, his voice light but oddly precise.
Darian snorted. "The hell are you on about?"
Nikolai kept walking but turned his face slightly, like he was waiting for more. When Darian said nothing, he shifted again, slower this time, more deliberately.
"I meant the boy. Milo." He lowered his voice just a little, almost sulking. "Did you fancy him?"
Darian's steps halted. He gave a scornful laugh and muttered, "Don't be fucking pathetic."
That made Nikolai stop entirely.
His shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing. Then, with a jerky nod, he resumed walking.
"My apologies," he said quietly, his voice almost sing-song as it disappeared into the corridor. "I suppose I was mistaken."
Darian rolled his eyes and followed, not noticing the way Nikolai's expression twitched once—tight-lipped and furious—before smoothing over. Still facing forward, Nikolai whispered to himself, 'He likes him'.
Finally, they stopped at a tall, arched iron door nearly overtaken by vines and mildew. Nikolai drew out a small key from his pocket and slid it into the rusted lock.
The door groaned as it opened, and they were bathed in the eerie glow of bluish torches that sparked to life along the walls, one by one.
In the center of the chamber, on a low pedestal of blackened stone, sat a pendant.
Darian stepped closer.
The chain was gold, but the pendant itself was what caught him—it was shaped like a serpent, mouth open mid-hiss, with tiny emeralds for eyes and obsidian fangs. Its coiled body shimmered with an unnatural iridescence, like oil in water. But more than its beauty, it had presence. He could feel it—humming in the back of his skull like a sleeping thing beginning to stir.
"It's…" Darian exhaled slowly. "Strange."
"Beautiful," Nikolai whispered, standing far too close behind him. "It's called Aspida. The Serpent's Heart."
Darian looked back. "What does it do?"
Nikolai's lips twitched.
"It breaks control. It unravels obedience. It turns commands into whispers and loyalty into ash." His eyes didn't leave Darian's face. "With it, even an Alpha's bond can be severed. Even the purest blood can be made to kneel."
Darian's stomach twisted.
Why does my father want it.He thought to himself.
But Nikolai wasn't looking at the pendant.
He was looking at him. Entirely, obsessively.
Darian stood before the artifact, transfixed. The serpent pendant pulsed softly with an inner glow, as though it were breathing—waiting.
Behind him, Nikolai took a silent step closer.
Darian didn't notice at first—too distracted by the strange draw of the pendant. But then he felt it: fingers, featherlight, brushing just behind his ear and into his hair.
He jerked away.
"What the—?" His voice was sharp with offense.
Nikolai had reached out to touch the bouncy locks of Darian's hair—light brown with golden undertones, tousled in that naturally cocky way. His skin was tanned from sun and sport, body broad-shouldered and lean, the kind of alpha male arrogance you'd find shirtless at a bonfire, reeking of beer and dominance. He looked like the kind of guy who knew exactly how much people wanted him—and made sure they hated him for it.
Darian slapped Nikolai's hand away with a loud crack. "Don't touch me, you freak."
But Nikolai didn't flinch.
Instead, he seized Darian's wrist mid-slap, pulling it to his chest like it was something precious. His eyes, soft and twitching with something darker, didn't leave Darian's face.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward—and dragged his tongue up the inside of Darian's palm.
Darian yanked his hand back instantly.
"You're disgusting," he spat, wiping it furiously on his pants.
Nikolai only smiled faintly, lips still glistening. "You didn't stop me fast enough."
There was a quiet pause where the torchlight danced between them, shadows flickering like predators in the walls. Nikolai tilted his head, studying Darian's sneer like it was art.
His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but then he blinked, and the moment shattered like glass underfoot.
The shy act fell back into place with uncanny precision.
"Um..." Nikolai looked down, wringing his hands as if he hadn't just stared straight into Darian's soul. "They—uh... the coven's coming. Not in two days like father said." He peeked up. "They'll be here tomorrow."
Darian's brows pulled together. "What?"
Nikolai nodded quickly, nervously. "They sent word. I-I thought you'd want to know. So you can finish studying the artifact before then. And tomorrow..." He stepped a bit closer. "You'll need to stay in your room. All day."
Darian's jaw tensed. "Excuse me?"
"Under no circumstances should someone like you," Nikolai said, his voice soft but firm, "be out and about when they arrive. They'll smell you."
Darian's lips twitched into a sneer. "Smell me?"
Nikolai's gaze flicked over him again, something shifting beneath the surface. "I mean, you're... a little human," he said with an awkward chuckle.
But the tone was off. Too forced. And when they turned to leave the room, Nikolai brushed past him deliberately. His shoulder pressed against Darian's chest, lingering just a second too long, and then—low, almost whispered:
"No wolf like you should come out."
Darian froze. Still as stone.
His heart slammed against his ribs. No wolf like you.
He hadn't told anyone. No one could've known—his heat was suppressed, his scent buried beneath the mountain air, even his own father hadn't pushed the shift yet. The wolf in him stirred, restless and suddenly on edge, pacing like a caged animal.
How did he know?
He turned his head slowly, but Nikolai was already walking ahead, hands behind his back, the perfect picture of innocence. But Darian's instincts screamed something else—danger. Control. Predation.
_____
Darian stormed back to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. He leaned against it, heart still pounding from what Nikolai had whispered. No wolf like you.
His hands clenched into fists. That fucking creep knew. Somehow, despite all Darian's precautions—his suppressants, his scent blockers—Nikolai knew.
And if he said one word to the coven…
Darian swallowed hard. He would be dead before he could shift.
He paced the room like a caged beast, panic crawling beneath his skin. Tomorrow changed everything. He thought he had more time. More time to plan, to study, to steal the artifact and run. But now—with the coven arriving early—he barely had hours.
If I fuck this up, I'm done. Ripped to pieces. Torn apart by fangs and ancient hands before I even make it to the front gate.
And Nikolai—Darian ground his teeth—Nikolai could ruin him. That soft-spoken, wide-eyed little freak held all the cards. One whispered confession to the High Lord, and Darian would be chained and gutted. Maybe kept for fun. Maybe thrown to the dogs.
His mind raced. He had to move fast. Think faster.
The rest of the day blurred into frantic motion. He mapped out parts of the mansion, carving routes into his memory. He wandered the halls, eyes sharp, fingers twitching with nervous energy. The lower levels, the left wing near the old ballroom, the south exit through the crumbling greenhouse—he logged every corridor, every passage that could get him out if things went south.
The library was a dust-choked maze of useless books and red herrings. But Darian skimmed through them anyway, looking for anything—notes on the artifact, the coven's arrival rituals, their patterns, even old vampire laws. Every line he read only made the weight in his chest grow heavier.
Night fell, and the silence in the mansion thickened.
Darian sat on his bed, his jaw tense, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He hadn't seen Nikolai since that moment in the hallway. No knocks. No shy smiles. Not even a flicker of that eerie presence outside his door.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Not knowing where he was. What he was doing. Who he was talking to.
He tried to sleep—but every time he closed his eyes, he saw fangs. Fire. His own death. The wolf inside him growled low, anxious beneath his skin. It wanted to run. It wanted to fight. But Darian kept it leashed. Barely.
He turned over again and again, sheets tangled around his legs, sweat damp on his skin despite the cold night air.
If he tells them... I'm dead.
The thought echoed like a drumbeat in his skull.
And he hadn't even seen the worst of Nikolai yet.
---The day bled in through the cracks of the heavy curtains, but Darian hadn't slept. Not for a second.
His eyes were red, jaw locked, nerves shot through with ice. The wolf inside him had been restless all night, pacing beneath his skin, sensing danger he couldn't yet see. It snarled now as Darian shoved on a plain black t-shirt and fitted slacks, scrubbing a hand over his face before stepping into the hallway like a soldier into enemy territory.
The mansion was quiet—but wrong. The kind of silence that screamed.
He made his way down, footsteps careful. And then he saw them.
A line of servants, all standing perfectly still like dolls waiting to be played with. Among them stood Milo.
Darian's heart stopped for a second.
Milo's neck was wrapped in white gauze, red seeping through like a kiss of violence. The glimmer from before—the shy, nervous spark—was gone. His eyes were hollow now, dull, and when he stepped forward, his voice was flat.
"This way, Master Darian."
Darian blinked, stunned by the coldness, the distance. Something sharp twisted in his chest. Anger. Worry. Guilt?
He didn't know which.
"What happened to your—"
"This way," Milo repeated, turning without another word.
Darian followed, jaw clenched, trying not to look at the bite marks peeking through the gauze. What the fuck happened last night?
The door to the dining room creaked open.
And there they were.
Nikolai sat at one end of the long blackwood table, his eyes fixed on the door the moment Darian entered. The high lord—Lord Vercyn—loomed beside him in regal darkness, power rolling off him like smoke. And at the head of the table sat the lady of the house—Virelle, if Darian remembered right. Her long blonde hair shimmered in the candlelight, and her red eyes pierced straight through him.
Predators. Every one of them.Disgusting fang fucks
Darian straightened his shoulders and forced himself to move, bowing at the waist like some obedient little dog. "My Lords. My Lady."
Every eye followed him as he crossed the room.
Dozens of empty seats stretched down the table.
But Darian—arrogant and aching with the kind of fear that made men do stupid things—walked straight to the seat beside Nikolai and sat down.
Bold. Reckless.
He could feel the tension ripple through the room. Nikolai turned slightly, eyes unreadable. There was no shy smile this time. No blush. Just a steady, quiet gaze, like he was studying something he already owned.
Darian looked away, heart hammering in his chest, sweat sticking to the back of his neck. His wolf stirred again, uncertain.
He didn't know what the fuck this was turning into.
But he could feel the game tightening around his throat like a noose.
Darian didn't bother hiding the glare he sent Nikolai's way.
The vampire only smiled sweetly in return—boyish and disturbingly innocent—with his lips parting just enough to show the edges of his little fangs. The same fangs, Darian was sure, that had torn into Milo's neck. That smile was soft, cherubic even, like Nikolai had no idea why Darian hated him in that moment.
A lie.
Dinner was served.
Silver goblets were set before the vampires—filled with warm, thick blood that smelled too fresh for comfort. Darian wrinkled his nose. In front of him, a modest plate of roasted chicken, potatoes, and barely steamed vegetables was placed. It looked elegant. It also looked like a child's portion.
His stomach growled in protest. He hadn't eaten properly since yesterday, and normally, he could down the equivalent of four meals and still want more. That wolf metabolism was a blessing and a curse. Especially now.
He forced himself to eat slowly, chewing each bite like it offended him. It didn't matter. After tonight, he'd be gone. Artifact in hand. Away from Nikolai's unblinking eyes and whatever the hell kind of nest of monsters this was.
Across the table, Nikolai was stirring his drink lazily, long fingers wrapped around the goblet like he was cradling something delicate. He hadn't taken a sip. Just swirled the blood in small circles, watching it dance.
Then, his gaze drifted.
Milo was standing silently near the wall, still and ghostlike.
Nikolai looked at him. No words, no gestures. Just a slow look.
Milo flinched—visibly—and glanced down at his feet.
And then Nikolai smiled.
It was a private kind of smile. Possessive. Satisfied.
Darian's fork paused mid-air. A sick chill ran up his spine.
Nikolai turned to him then, voice airy and pleasant. "Are you enjoying your stay, Darian?" he asked, tilting his head, "And your research? I assume the artifact is keeping your mind busy?"
There was something in the way he said "mind." A quiet tease. A test.
Darian swallowed a hard piece of chicken and met his gaze flatly.
"It's been… enlightening," he said, the edge in his voice barely veiled.
Nikolai's smile widened, but his eyes were impossibly dark.
"Good," he whispered. "I'd hate for you to be bored."
Darian pushed his chair back with a scrape that drew the attention of the room. He stood abruptly, murmuring, "Excuse me," without meeting anyone's gaze.Not that the lord and lady took any notice of him. If Darian didn't know better he would think they were 'scared' of someone in the room.
He could feel eyes on his back as he strode out—especially his eyes.
The hallway outside the dining room was cool and dim, lined with old portraits and flickering wall sconces. He could hear footsteps behind him.
He didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
He led them further into the house, down an empty corridor until he found a quiet alcove nestled between two tall windows. Without hesitation, he whirled around, grabbed Nikolai by the collar, and slammed him against the wall. His forearm pressed tightly to Nikolai's throat, holding him firm.
Nikolai let out a low grunt, surprised, his hands twitching but not resisting.
"How the fuck did you know I was a wolf?" Darian hissed, his eyes glowing faintly, his breath hot with rage.
Nikolai blinked once. Then twice. A smile crept across his face, slow and crooked, like a snake slithering across marble.
"I wasn't sure," he whispered, his voice strained under the choke, "But now I am."
Darian's grip tightened.
"You fucking cunt," he spat.
Nikolai didn't even flinch. He just kept smiling, even as his airway was pressed tight. His voice came out raspier now, but still full of maddening calm.
"I smelled it on you. Underneath all that sweat and cologne... there's something wild... caged."
Darian's jaw tensed, but he said nothing.
"You're not as subtle as you think," Nikolai murmured, tilting his head slightly despite the pressure on his neck. "And your temper gives you away."
Darian's heart was pounding. Too loud. Too fast.
For a split second, he considered breaking Nikolai's neck.
Just a second.
Then he released him, stepping back roughly.
Nikolai gasped softly, one hand brushing his throat. He looked up at Darian with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
"I think I like it when you're rough," he said sweetly, almost innocently.
Darian's lip curled in disgust. "Stay the hell away from me."
But Nikolai didn't respond. He just leaned back against the wall, watching him go with that damn amused smirk still tugging at his lips.
The day dragged on like something rotten stuck in his throat.
Darian tried to read. Tried to pace. Tried to map out any remaining exits or vents, just in case he had to bolt. Every tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway made his nerves twitch. The sun began to set, casting long, blood-orange shadows across the mansion walls, and all he could think was:
If this plan fails, I die.
One word from that pale fucker and I'm a corpse with my throat ripped out.
The quiet felt like the edge of a knife pressed to his spine.
Finally, when the halls began to still and most of the vampires retreated into the deeper corridors of the estate, Darian made his way back to his room. He opened the door and froze.
Everything inside was pristine.
His bags unpacked. Clothes folded. Books arranged neatly on the side table. Even the toiletries he never touched were aligned with obsessive precision. It looked like a maid had done it.
Except there was no maid.
And then he saw it.
Sitting in the center of the bed like an accusation.
The leather strap.
Not hidden under the pillow. Not shoved inside a pocket. No. It was laid out flat, exposed, the buckle shining like a smirk under the low lamplight.
Next to it… a note, written in neat, almost dainty cursive.
"I'll never tell."
No name.
But Darian knew. Of course, he knew.
"That psychotic freak," he muttered, voice tight.
His cheeks flared with heat — not just from embarrassment, but from rage and shame, all boiling in his chest like acid.
"Fuck," he whispered, gripping the paper and crumpling it in his fist. "Fucking fanged little snake."
He ripped the strap off the bed, shoving it deep into a drawer and slamming it shut hard enough to rattle the furniture.
He hated this. Hated the way Nikolai moved through the walls of the mansion like a ghost, hated how he was always watching, always smiling, hated those too-bright red eyes and the way they saw everything.
And worse, hated how Nikolai made him feel like he was the one with something to hide.
"Fuck your fangs," he growled under his breath.