Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
People are dressed to impress. The men are all wearing sleek suits or tuxedos, and the women are in formal gowns. Masks cover the men’s faces, but the women’s are on full display.
Predator and unknowing prey is clearly the vibe here.
Pretentious, evil fucks.
The entire scene bleeds arrogance that only comes with generational money and a complete lack of fear. Every man in this room holds power, and clearly, believes he’s untouchable. But that’s because the world has always bent the knee for every single bastard standing in this room.
Even if most humans don’t know that vampires exist, the vampire elite have always been something to fear.
Though, I can’t deny the masks are tasteful. They don’t showcase feathers or sequins or gawdy bullshit. They’re just sleek black lacquer over bone-white and shaped to each male face with perfection. Cal and I managed to snag two off a table when we snuck in through a back-door entrance, blending in despite the fact that we’d never have been invited, even if we hadn’t killed some of their friends.
My brothers and I are not elite vampires by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, the elite believe we’re beneath them, lower-class scum under their shiny shoes. Blue-collar-ant-worker bitches who do all the dirty work that keeps society moving.
To them, I’m a scrub. A lowly twenty-seven-year-old vampire who works a blue-collar job as a repo man. They see my brothers—Rook is a garbage man, and Cal is a mechanic and does demolition work—as the same.
Frankly, it’s a tale as old as time. Our genetics might be otherworldly like theirs, but our lineage doesn’t stem from the “right” bloodlines.
I read the room. An outsider to this situation—someone who isn’t aware of vampire elites and how they secretly rule and hold power in a human world—wouldn’t know the truth about why this event is happening. They’d probably think it’s a fancy masquerade ball for billionaires or some shit, but they’d be missing a huge piece of the depraved puzzle.
Because while the bottomless pit of behaviors of men seeking power is the same for vampires as it is for humans, my kind takes it to another level. Women are merchandise to be bought, sold, and used. And the human corporations involved are just another pawn.
In my periphery, I see Holland Thorne drift toward the staircase. He’s in a black tuxedo with a mask like mine, and his posture is smooth and confident. He’s not one of the elites—he’s a gofer for them, a fucking errand man—but he moves like someone who desperately wants to be part of their club.
He’s the one Cal and I followed here. We’ve known him for years, mostly from playing hockey against each other in a rec league in Concordia, and he’s been a real piece of shit the whole time. But it’s only lately that he upped his dickheadedness exponentially.
Kylie Moon was his assignment—a human woman with the highly coveted blood of the three—and my brother Rook’s fated mate. Holland was supposed to lure her into this world without her even knowing what she signed up for, subsequently stealing her right out from under a Slater brother’s nose and leaving us to deal with Rook’s broken ass.
If it weren’t for our extreme measures, she’d be here tonight. Holland Thorne would no doubt be parading her around the room so the elites could decide how much she’s worth. But instead, she’s with Rook in an undisclosed location in Worcester.
My brother knew Kylie was his the instant he turned the magic number twenty-eight—an important year in all male vampires’ lives. It’s the year the aging process slows down to about a fifth of a normal human. But more importantly, it’s the year you lock in on your beloved and are capable of feeling the bond. It’s when destiny helps you find her.
But the elites’ bullshit games have destroyed most fated mate bonds from ever occurring. They’ve spent the last century using their mighty influence to keep all the human women with the blood of the three to themselves—because it gives them all the power and control—and sending the rest of the balance all out of whack.
It used to be the blood of four, but one bloodline has already perished because of what the elites do.
Holland Thorne stinks up the room with his fake smiles and try-hard laughs as I look on from the shadows, and my impatience rears its ugly head. I swear, he’s such a slimy fucking prick. I reach my hand into the pocket of my dress slacks and grip the handle of my knife.
If I didn’t know I would be writing my own death sentence, I’d kill Holland myself, right here, right now.
I sigh and let go of the knife.
Surface-level, this event probably seems harmless, but that’s because it’s merely a preview for the real event. Soon, there will be an actual auction in New York where most of the women in this room will be sold off to the highest bidder.