Cold steel bit into Damian’s fingertips as he pressed his palm against the biometric scanner.
Deep beneath the bedrock of the Obsidian Hotel, the air smelled of old ozone and ancient stone. Red laser grids swept across his tailored gray suit, recognizing the master of the house before humming into silence.
Heavy pneumatic seals hissed open with a metallic sigh.
Step by step, he descended into the private vault where the true, bloody history of his lineage lay buried. This subterranean room held no gold bullion or paper currency.
Shelves of polished obsidian held relics of blood and betrayal instead.
Damian walked past cases of antique daggers, jars of preserved elder blood, and centuries of blackmail material. He stopped before a small velvet-lined tray at the center of the room.
Inside rested a single crimson signet ring, its surface scratched and dull.
Pain, sharp and familiar, flared behind his ribs.
Julian’s ring.
Images flashed through his mind, unbidden and brutal. His younger brother’s throat beneath his hands. The desperate, wet gasp as the silver-tipped blade cut through flesh.
"Forgive me," Julian had whispered, blood bubbling on his lips.
Julian had tried to sell their family secrets to the human syndicates, an act of reckless rebellion that would have brought the entire council down upon their heads. Damian had been given a choice: execute his own blood, or watch their entire empire burn.
He had chosen the empire.
Since that night, a heavy frost had settled over his soul. Trust was a luxury for the dead. Passion was a disease that made people weak, reckless, and foolish.
Yet, Elspeth’s face from the night before kept flickering in his thoughts.
Her wide, terrified eyes. The way she had clutched that crumpled Juilliard flyer as if it were a lifeline. She was so much like Julian—naive, dreaming of a world outside the gilded cage.
An alarm beeped softly, breaking the silence of the vault.
His phone vibrated in his breast pocket. The caller ID showed a single, sharp emblem.
Alistair.
Slipping the signet ring into his pocket, Damian closed the vault. He couldn’t let another young dreamer bleed out because of this world's cruelty.
He had to play the game.
---
Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse suite.
Alistair stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind his spine. He wore a heavy wool coat that smelled of old earth and expensive tobacco.
"You took your time," Alistair said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.
Damian adjusted his cuffs as he stepped into the room. "A hotel of this size requires constant maintenance, Lord Alistair. I do not neglect my duties."
"Good." Alistair turned around, his pale eyes glinting in the dim light. "Because I have a duty of extreme importance for you."
A cold knot tightened in Damian’s stomach. He kept his expression perfectly flat, a mask of polished stone.
"Name it," Damian replied.
"My daughter, Elspeth," Alistair said, walking toward the wet bar. "She is soft. Foolish. She spends her nights staring out the windows, dreaming of things that do not belong to her."
"She is young," Damian said, keeping his voice neutral. "Youth is prone to idle thoughts."
"Youth is prone to infection," Alistair snapped, pouring a dark, thick liquid into a crystal tumbler. "She has been looking at those human institutions again. Art. Music. Garbage."
Alistair took a slow sip, his gaze locked on Damian.
"I cannot have her embarrassing our house," the elder vampire continued. "Not when the merger between our dynasties is so close. I want you to watch her."
"Watch her?" Damian raised an eyebrow. "I am a CEO, Alistair, not a babysitter."
"You will watch her under the guise of an arranged courtship," Alistair said, a cruel smile stretching his lips. "The media will love it. A pureblood alliance, the cold billionaire and the delicate heiress. It keeps our enemies quiet and puts you in her immediate orbit."
Panic, cold and sharp, flared in Damian's chest.
Protecting her meant keeping her close, but it also meant policing her every move. If he failed, if she slipped away and chased her human dreams, Alistair would destroy her.
Just like Damian had destroyed Julian.
He could still feel the weight of his brother's dying body in his arms. The memory choked him, filling his throat with the taste of copper and regret.
"An arranged courtship is a public spectacle," Damian said, calculating every word. "It will draw unnecessary eyes."
"Exactly," Alistair countered. "Eyes that will see her by your side, where she belongs. You will manage her schedule. You will approve her guests. You will ensure she does not set foot outside this hotel without your express permission."
Damian clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking beneath his pale skin. He hated Alistair's arrogance. He hated the way the old man spoke of his own daughter as if she were a piece of livestock to be branded.
But he had to accept.
If he refused, Alistair would hire someone else—someone who wouldn't hesitate to tear Elspeth's dreams apart with iron fists. At least under his watch, he could shield her.
"Very well," Damian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "I will agree to the arrangement. But she is to be treated with the respect of a future matriarch."
"Respect is earned through obedience," Alistair muttered.
He walked over to the mahogany desk in the corner of the room, pulling a heavy leather portfolio from his briefcase.
"She has a habit of sneaking out," Alistair said, his voice turning ice-cold. "She thinks she is clever. She thinks I do not know about her little violin."
Damian’s heart skipped a beat. He remembered the faint frequency vibrating from her trunk the night before.
"I am a patient man, Damian," Alistair said, leaning over the table. "But my patience with my daughter's human fantasies has reached its absolute limit."
Rain rattled harder against the glass, a frantic tapping that mirrored the racing of Damian's pulse.
"If she fails to fall in line," Alistair said, his eyes darkening to a predatory crimson. "If she attempts to audition for that pathetic human school..."
Alistair smiles, sliding a silver-bound contract across the glass table: 'If she strays from the penthouse, Damian, you have my permission to break her hands.'