Rosalinda's POV

"Alexander is returning. He has been abroad and will be in the country before your birthday."

Why does this feel like there is more?

"But he agreed to wait until I am twenty-one, right?"

I can see Father's face pale.

"Not exactly. There was no initial response. But in his last message, he said he has waited this long to give you time, but he can no longer wait."

My stomach drops. From fear or excitement, I do not know which.

"So that is it," I say. "He decides to appear now, and suddenly the waiting is over?"

"He has waited long enough," Father replies. "His family has waited long enough."

"I have a say indeed." The words slip out before I can stop them. "But I am not ready Father."

"We cannot afford to offend them. When he arrives, he will claim you," Father says, voice firm. Final. "The ceremony will take place shortly after your birthday. We cannot put it off further."

Claim.

The word lands wrong. Heavy. Possessive. Like I am an object that has been misplaced and finally retrieved.

I stand. My legs feel oddly steady for someone whose world just tilted.

I should be happy that I get to meet him finally. Though there is a part of me that wishes he never comes at all. But I doubt that would release me or give me freedom to do as I will.

"So I do not get a choice," I say.

"You get dignity," he answers "You get protection. You get to honor your obligation with grace, and become the Matriarch to a powerful dynasty."

I nod, because arguing feels useless now.

"May I be excused?" I ask.

Father hesitates then nods once.

I leave the study with my spine straight, hands calm at my sides. It is how I have been trained. Always to maintain poise. To fit into the Matesson world, whoever they are.

Betty is waiting in front of my room. She follows me in and closes the door.

I pace.

Once. Twice. Again.

"Miss," Betty says, worry lacing her voice. "Is everything okay?"

I pause at the foot of my bed. I start hyperventilating. Alexander will be here next month. Alexander is coming to claim me.

The walls feel too close. The bed too neatly made. My eyes shift to my dresser. Alexander is a very generous man. And obviously very wealthy. I get gifts from him every year on my birthdays, special holidays, gifts for no reason. Clothes. Bags. Shoes. Jewelry. Everything a girl could dream of.

Everything of the highest quality and obviously the latest trends. Items I never use or wear because I never go anywhere. But I have the best etiquette and finishing teachers, who come in to teach me how to conduct myself in polite society.

I am so polished, you would think I have lived in a different era.

I need to get out. I need air. I need to breathe.

"Betty," I say suddenly. "I am going clubbing. Help me get ready."

"What!"

"I said I am going..."

"I heard you, Miss, but I cannot help you. It is too risky. A club is no place for someone like you. You are too pure. There are bad things out there."

I burst into laughter. "Betty... what do you mean, bad things? Oh God, you sound like Father." My shoulders shake with mirth.

"No, Miss," she goes on, trying to dissuade me. "There really are horrible things and people out there. It's nothing like what you se online."

I am already searching through my wardrobe for something appropriate, telling her to check online for the nearest club. Something classy.

I pull out a short black, body-hugging A-line dress. I look at the daring deep V-neckline and ask myself how I even have such an outfit. Everything I own comes from Alexander, and from what I know, I doubt he would have approved of something like this. But hey-good thing I have something to wear to the club.

I change without thinking anymore about it. I turn so Betty can help me with the zipper.

"Miss, please don't go out," Betty says as she zips me up. "I have a bad feeling about this."

I grab a pair of gold heels and sit on the edge of my bed.

Betty kneels in front of me to buckle the straps.

"You worry too much. I need to clear my head... away from all this. Maybe a little fun before I move from one cag to another. Alex is coming next month. I do not have time."

I can see worry and fear etched on her face. Though she is four years older Betty is the closest thing I have to a friend and a sister.

I pull my strawberry-blond hair loose allowing it fall t my shoulders in waves. Its unusual color and the shimmer of my gown set a sharp contrast against my pale skin.

I turn to Betty, stretching out my hand for her phone. She hands it over, and I check the coordinates of the club she has picked ou?¡The Zone.

Hmm.

I grab a coat to cover up with. We then slip quietly through the service corridors. A side door near the kitchens opens out onto the lower gardens.

Outside, the night is crisp and sharp, cold and I welcome it.

We follow the narrow path that leads to the delivery gate at the edge of the property. Betty says it is never locked, and as expected, it isn't.

Beyond it lies the tarred road leading from our estate. We walk until the house is gone. Just around the corner is the cab Betty booked; she quickly checks to make sure.

Whenever I am done, she is to meet me here with the trench coat. She has a small phone she got a while back, which we use to communicate.

I take off the coat and hand it over to her. With a quick hug, she whispers in my ear, "Please be safe, Miss."

With that, I slip into the cab.

"Somewhere loud," I tell the driver when he asks.

He laughs, like he understands exactly what that means.

Max's POV

The Council chamber is designed to remind you of your place.

I always feel it pressing in the moment I enter. Its stone walls are veined with old sigils, their persistent magic vibrating low under the skin

An ancient stone table occupies the center of the room, surrounded by blackwood chairs carved during the Blood Accords. Polished smooth by centuries of bodies that believed power lived in posture. Here, the ceiling arches too high, forcing the neck to tilt, the spine to bow. An attempt, I suspect, to make even kings feel small.

I smirk. The thought always amuses me.

There is also that signature smell. Subtle. Incense and iron. A ceremonial blend meant to evoke reverence and obedience.

Has never worked on me.

I look at those in attendance.

Five of them. All half-bloods or hybrids, as they refer to themselves now. Each one distinct. Each one trying very hard to sound steady. Their human hearts playing a staccato tune in my ears. Each Sanguinari house is represented.

"The line cannot remain vulnerable indefinitely," Lord Virel speaks, without raising his voice.

One of the original Sanguinari offspring. An Aldercrest. He has survived long enough to know volume is a liability. He was old when my grandfather ruled. Old enough to remember when silence carried more authority than speech.

Over eight centuries but looks more like an aristocrat at sixty five.

"You are not vulnerable," I say. "Nor is the House of Aldercrest."

"That is not what I meant," he replies, thin lips curving. "You know precisely what I meant."

I do.

They all do.

The issue of succession sits between us, unspoken but heavy. Dead weight.

"You are both blood regent and Crimson heir. Have been for almost a century now." Lady Carrow says. Her fingers are steepled, knuckles pale with the effort of stillness. She avoids my eyes at first. "The last untainted line. You understand what is at stake. Your father's restraint was... admirable. Yours, less so."

I lift my gaze slowly.

When our eyes meet, her breath hitches. She drops her gaze almost immediately. I can sense her fear even with the power she wields. Her need not to offend in any way.

"Meaning?" I ask, brows arched.

Her gaze slips sideways, betraying her intent. To the empty seat beside mine. A space that has never been filled.

"A consort would ease much of this concern," she says.

"An heir would silence all of it."

Ah, there it is.

An heir.

The word lands with the dull thud of something dropped carelessly onto stone. Too simple. Too easy.

"You have been presented with candidates," Virel continues. "Sanctioned pairings. Proven bloodlines. Hybrid women conditioned for compatibility".

Bred.

The word tightens something low in my chest. I do not react outwardly, but the room does. The air thickens, subtle and immediate. One heartbeat "And yet," he adds carefully, "you have rejected them all."

"I did not reject them," I say. "I simply declined the arrangement."

A distinction they understand perfectly. And resent deeply.

"You cannot afford sentiment," Lady Carrow snaps.

I lean back in my chair, one ankle carelessly resting on the other knee.

"You speak of sentiments and yet there was not a single Olderman or Aldercrest amongst those presented."

I watch her face pale. Lord Virel shifts in his seat and there is a general stir in the room.

"They were carefully selected. Each one understands the implication of birthing a royal. They are willing to make the sacrifice. Besides, Purebloods do not mate on impulse."

"No, we don't," I say quietly. The sound carries anyway. "We mate on instinct. Which is why such an arrangement will not work."

Silence settles. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

My bloodline traces back to the first originals. Strong. Powerful. Dangerous. Apex predators not just by strength alone. Our bodies know before thought interferes. Instinct tells us what can sustain our blood. What will fracture under it.

Instinct that has kept my bloodline pure and undiluted.

"You speak of instinct as if it is infallible," Virel says. "Yet your instincts have led you nowhere."

I lean forward, slow and deliberate. Forearms rest on the table. Palms flat. Open.

If I wanted, I could make him kneel. Compel muscle to betray mind. Will lungs to forget how to draw breath.

The knowledge hums beneath the surface of the room. Sharp. Restrained.

"Perhaps a demonstration would set the record straight. A reminder of who you address so carelessly." I let my gaze settle on their faces one by one.

A ripple moves through the chamber. Someone swallows too hard.

"My instincts," I say, "have kept our line intact while others diluted themselves into irrelevance."

"Your father produced an heir," Lady Carrow presses.

What she does not say is that my mother was human. Yes, human but an abomination. Unfortunately, for them, I turned out a pureblood, not hybrid. And with my powers magnified making me the strongest pureblood in history.

"My father bound himself to a human woman who survived pregnancy only because she was altered," I reply. "And paid for it in ways you prefer not to remember."

Forbidden alchemy. Blood rituals that bent law until it screamed.

Eyes lower. Spines stiffen.

"We are not asking you to repeat his mistakes," Virel says. "Only to fulfill your duty."

A quiet, humourless laugh escapes me.

"By using a woman chosen by committee? A woman chosen to die for the sake of an heir?"

Silence filled the chamber. They knew that being a hybrid did not guarantee success. My father's experience was lesson enough.

Pureblood pregnancies were rare. Brutal. The female body had to be reinforced. Altered. Prepared.

Every hybrid female who carried a royal child died shortly after giving birth, the child as well.

They know this.

"You would only need to succeed once. Perhaps if they drank from you..."

Something in me stills.

I rise to my feet. The chair scrapes softly against stone. The sound is small. The effect is not. Several heartbeats jump despite their owners' discipline.

"You misunderstand," I say. "If I take a woman, it will not be once. It will not be calculated. It will not be something I can turn off."

I stop to gaze into every one of their eyes before I continue.

"And I, will be the one, doing the drinking."

The room falls quiet, the weight of my words settling like dust. They watch me now without pretending otherwise.

"You fear losing control," Lady Carrow says.

"No," I reply. "I do not wish to bind myself to the wrong blood. Instinct will tell who can sustain my seed."

No one dares an opinion after that.

The meeting ends shortly after. It always does when the conversation reaches this point. No formal close. No victory claimed. They have learned to retreat when they realize they cannot force me without risking war within their own ranks.

I leave the chamber immediately. Irritated. Pressure coiling tight behind my ribs.

Damon is waiting as usual. My bloodbond. A human. But Damon is almost as old as I am. Three hundred and forty-five years. Does not look a day above thirty.

He is my aide, butler, personal assistant, chief of staff, friend, brother. Chosen by instinct. Bound by ritual blood. My blood. He lives as long as I live. When I die, he dies.

He is always close. My trusted companion.

He looks at my face once, and nods. "That bad, huh!" He says.

"Worse" I respond, as we make our way out of the building. "Now they want them drinking from me."

"Bloody hell!"

He glances sideways his dark eyes reading me like an open book. "Let me guess, Carrow is leading the charge again?"

"Always. She is convinced a blood bond will 'secure the realm.'"

"Secure it for her, more like. Bet she's got a niece or cousin lined up, blood 'compatible' by her standards. You know how they play these games, alliances disguised as destiny."

"It's not just games anymore, Damon. My father and I are the last purebloods. So unless either of us produces an heir, succession may eventually go to a half-blood."

There are those with their eyes on the throne. The only reason they haven't shown themselves is because I am the one sitting on it.

No one would openly challenge me. To do so would mean certain death. And all without me raising a finger. But it appears they are getting clever. Short of performing a blood ritual, now they want to drink my blood.

Probably in hopes that whatever powers I possess could be transfered. They think a queen would placate the factions, but instinct has never lied to me. It has to be the right blood.

"You mean, unless you. I doubt your father is interested in going down that route again. Besides, your instincts have saved us countless times. I'd trust it before any planned strategy. Trust it now. They'll back off eventually. Or you'll make them."

His confidence bolsters mine, a reminder of why I chose him all those years ago. Not just loyalty, but that unflinching honesty. "And if instinct points elsewhere? Beyond their precious lineages?"

Damon raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Then we follow it. King or not, you're still Max, the one who broke the old covenants. What's one more rule bent?"

We don't speak after that. He knows what my mood calls for.

The car waits outside. Black. Idling.

The city slides past in blurred streaks of light. Time stretches. My body feels keyed too high, instincts scraping against restraint.

We head for Club Nocturne. Owned by Eric Olderman. Lady Carrow's cousin.

When we get there, Eric appears almost immediately, materializing from the crowd like mist. Tall, lean, with the sharp features of his mixed heritage, vampire speed tempered by human warmth.

He bows slightly, modern etiquette blending with old respect. "Your Majesty," he greets, voice smooth over the music. "An honor, as always. The booth is prepared. Anything else? A vintage from the reserves?"

I wave it off with a faint smile. "Just space, Eric. The night calls for observation, not indulgence."

He nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Of course, Sire. Signal if that changes." With that, he melts back into the throng, efficient as ever. Owning a neutral ground like this demands diplomacy, he knows not to hover.

We step inside and I take my usual booth. Damon understands my need to be alone. He stays back. Far enough to give space. Close enough to still matter.

Shadow breaks the light here. From this angle, I can see everything without being part of it.

The club pulses with noise and life. The sound thick enough to drown thought.

I let the noise press in, hoping it will dull the edge. The bass vibrates through my chest, syncing with my undead heart's faint echo.

My restlessness sits low and insistent. Not hunger. Not lust. Something else. I scan the crowd again, searching without knowing for what.

Then something shifts.

The air tightens. Sound dulls. My senses snap into brutal focus honing in on a single point.

Her.

Magnifica. Stunning.

Her dress leaves very little to the imagination. Short and clinging to every curve. The skirt riding high on smooth, pale thighs.

She turns and my attention is drawn to the plunging neckline of her dress. To the soft rise of her breasts. Her pulse beating slow and steady beneath skin that looks impossibly soft.

My fingers twitch with the need to run them through her hair. The colour of fire dulled by gold, tumbling around her face in soft waves.

Bellissima.

I can sense her hesitation. Her eyes darting as if weighing her choice to stay or leave. Then she straightens and steps forward with quiet grace.

She side steps to let someone pass and unconsciously flips her hair. Her scent reaches me and my control slips a fraction.

Warm. Clean. Alive.

It cuts through the room and hits deep. Sharp enough to make my jaw tighten. My fangs press against my gums. My cock strains against my trousers.

No. She is human. I tell myself even as I inhale to get another whiff of her. Humans do not smell like this. Not this intoxicating, layered with hints of wildflowers and something ancient, forbidden.

I track her. The rest of the room losing clarity, edges softening until there is only her movement. Restrained. Measured. Like control drilled into her bones.

She moves in and sits at the bar ordering a mezcal mojito. She takes a tentative sip. Her fingers trace the glass rim, a small ritual of composure amid the frenzy.

Something answers inside me.

Heat coils low and sharp. Territorial. Certain. A sensation I have not felt since my coming of age. And never for a human. It's as if my blood recognizes her, awakening urges long dormant.

My fingers dig into the leather beneath them.

This is wrong. Humans are fragile, off-limits for anything beyond fleeting amusement. Yet this pull defies reason, demanding more.

She lifts her head.

Our eyes meet.

Everything locks.

Her breath stutters. I feel it like it happens inside my own chest.

I don't look away. I can't.

Because in that instant one truth lands with terrifying clarity.

Whoever she is, human or not, I must have her.

Tonight