Darian stood by the window, one arm braced against the wall, his knuckles pale as he leaned just close enough to peer between the velvet curtains.
Outside, sleek black cars lined the driveway like a procession of hearses. One by one, doors opened, and out spilled their passengers—vampires.
They looked like they'd walked straight out of a luxury ad: gold-stitched suits, long coats trailing like shadows, jewels glinting from elegant, inhuman throats. Some laughed softly, others glided forward with that unnatural grace, their eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
They moved in packs—purebred monsters reeking of wealth and ancient blood. A few held umbrellas high above their heads—ridiculous, considering the sun-proof rings glittering faintly on their fingers.
Still, they clutched those umbrellas like royalty refusing to touch rain.
"Jesus," Darian muttered. "How fucking rich is this family?"
Each vampire who passed the mansion's threshold sent another spike of dread down his spine. Dozens now. All powerful. All dangerous.
And this—this—was the test his father had given him.
Throw the arrogant brat into a nest of apex predators and see if he could claw his way out.
"No pressure," he scoffed bitterly.
He stepped back from the window, his heart jackhammering. His wolf, quiet until now, stirred uneasily inside his chest. Even it knew this was bad. Predators didn't tolerate other predators in their den. And right now, Darian was an uninvited guest in borrowed clothes, hiding secrets in a house made of teeth.
He'd barely made it through breakfast. And tonight? Tonight, he was expected to steal the most dangerous artifact in the room without being noticed.
"Fuck," he muttered again, rubbing his face. "This isn't survival. This is suicide."
He turned back into the room, pacing now, jaw clenched.
He had to move carefully. One wrong step, one misread gaze, and someone like her—the blonde woman with terrifying calm—would smell the lie on him like blood in the air.
And as for Nikolai...
Darian's fists clenched. That little snake had been too quiet.
He just knew tonight was going to go to hell. The only question was when.
Darian didn't hear him until it was too late.
A cold breath grazed his ear, close enough to send a bolt of shivers down his spine.
"You look nervous," a soft voice whispered.
He spun on instinct, fist already flying.
His knuckles connected with Nikolai's cheekbone. The sickening crack was immediate. Nikolai dropped like a stone, landing with a grunt. One hand cupped his face, the other bracing against the polished floor as he blinked up at Darian, glassy-eyed.
"You—" Darian stepped back, breath ragged, fists still raised. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I-I was just—" Nikolai winced, lip trembling. "I was worried. You were pacing, and I thought—"
"Oh, save the act," Darian growled, shame simmering beneath irritation. "You don't get to sneak up on me like some creep and then play the wounded virgin."
Nikolai sat up, hand still to his cheek. But the expression on his face flickered—subtle, but telling. The wide-eyed innocence dimmed for a second. A smirk almost surfaced—then melted back into that boyish awkwardness.
"I didn't mean to scare you…" he murmured.
Darian narrowed his eyes.
There it was again. The mask. The practiced stumble. The softness just sharp enough to cut if you leaned too close.
He's playing a part, Darian's instincts whispered. He wants you off guard.
Still… he looked so small like that, blinking up, rubbing his flushed cheek.
Darian exhaled sharply and dragged a hand through his curls. "Whatever," he muttered. "You've got five seconds to explain why you're here before I toss your bony ass out the window."
Nikolai smiled faintly. His gaze dropped—and in that flicker of silence, Darian caught something new in his posture. Not pain. Not fear.
Satisfaction.
Nikolai lingered a moment longer on the floor before rising with grace, dusting himself off. His cheek was tinged pink—either from the punch or something more deliberate.
"My father," he began softly, toying with a loose thread on his shirt, "Lord Vercyn, hosts a banquet like this every year. It's for the wealthiest vampires in the region. All the money goes to charity, of course—something about cleansing their guilt."
He laughed under his breath. It wasn't amused.
"I'm expected to attend. I always am," he continued, glancing toward the window. The sun had begun its retreat, casting golden hues over the courtyard swarming with elegant monsters. "But I hate it. All those eyes, all those fake smiles... I don't want to be alone for it."
Darian's brow furrowed, unease prickling at the back of his neck.
"No," he said at once. "Don't drag me into your freakshow party. That's not what I'm here for."
Nikolai's fingers tightened around his shirt hem, knuckles whitening. Then, softer: "I know I said you should stay in your room," he murmured. "But I can't do this alone."
Darian opened his mouth to refuse—but Nikolai was already cutting him off.
"I'll give you something," he said quickly. "Something you want."
From his coat, Nikolai pulled a small velvet pouch. He held it like it was nothing—but Darian recognized the glint immediately.
The artifact.
Blackened silver, coiled into a serpent devouring its tail. Strange etchings shimmered faintly across its surface—the kind ancient texts warned about in buried pages.
Darian's breath caught. His body moved before his mind caught up, hand reaching to grab it—
Nikolai stepped back, tucking it into his palm with a grin.
"Ah ah," he teased. "Say yes first."
Darian's teeth clenched. He was going to kill this psychotic little shit one day.
But not before he got what he needed.
"Fine," he ground out.
Nikolai lit up like a child granted their favorite toy.
"Good!" he chirped, grabbing Darian's hand with startling strength. "Let's get ready then!"
Darian stiffened at the touch but didn't pull away as he was dragged down the corridor. The mansion's halls were a blur of dark wood, soft carpets, and dripping candlelight until they reached a room more decadent than necessary.
"This is my room," Nikolai said, motioning for him to enter. "We'll need to change. I have something that should fit—though you might stretch the sleeves."
Darian stepped in with a grunt. "Fine. Just hurry."
He began to tug at his shirt but paused. Nikolai had stopped in front of the closet—only, his eyes weren't on the clothes.
They were on Darian.
"I'll call Milo," Nikolai said abruptly, as if shaken from a trance. He moved to the door, and within seconds, Milo appeared.
Darian's gaze sharpened. Milo looked worse than before. Eyes dulled. Movements sluggish. His neck still wrapped in stark white cloth. The scent of old blood clung to him.
"Milo—" Darian started, voice low, concerned. But then—eyes. Watching.
Nikolai.
Darian swallowed the rest of his words and looked away.
Nikolai clapped softly. "Help him pick something out, please," he said to Milo, then turned back to Darian. "Now... strip."
Darian raised a brow but didn't argue. He wasn't shy.
Shirt off. Skin tanned and stretched over muscle. A cocky, chiseled kind of beauty that screamed alpha. He dropped his pants, then hooked his thumbs under his boxers—
"Stop!" Nikolai yelped, voice pitching sharp.
Darian paused, slowly raising his eyes. Nikolai had turned away, scarlet from ear to ear, hand flung up like a shield.
"I— That's— That's enough! Gods, you wolves have no shame!"
Darian smirked. "What? Thought you wanted a show, little freak?"
Nikolai muttered something under his breath and shot Milo a helpless glance.
Milo stared at the floor, face unreadable.
Darian didn't miss the silence. The control. And behind it all—the act.
The little freak was anything but innocent.
He narrowed his eyes at Nikolai, tension simmering beneath the surface like static before lightning.
"Did you hurt Milo?" he asked, voice quiet and cold. No hesitation.
Nikolai blinked at Darian's question, then exhaled softly, as if the weight of it barely registered. He walked slowly back into the room, the candlelight dancing across his pale features.
"I was hungry," he said simply.
Darian stared at him. "What?"
Nikolai glanced toward Milo. "All the servants signed a contract. Voluntarily. They're compensated more than generously. Lavishly, even. It's their choice, Darian."
"That doesn't give you the right," Darian snapped, his voice rising, trembling with barely restrained anger. "It doesn't matter what they signed. You don't get to treat people like cattle."
Nikolai stilled, something shifting in his posture.
Then he turned, slowly, eyes locking on Milo like a beam of moonlight cutting through fog. "Milo," he said softly, his tone featherlight, "do you have a problem with it?"
Milo flinched, just barely.
"If you do," Nikolai continued, stepping closer until he stood just behind him, his hands delicately brushing Milo's shoulders, "you're free to leave. You know that, don't you?"
Darian's jaw clenched.
Milo gave a short, almost robotic shake of his head. "No, sir."
"And the wound?" Nikolai asked.
Milo turned slightly, eyes darting to Darian. His expression, once hollow, now worked itself into something almost reassuring. "I asked for it," he said softly. "It's… it's really not that bad."
Darian looked at him like he'd grown a second head.
"You asked—?" His voice cut off. He took a step back, disgust curdling in his gut. "You're protecting him?"
Milo gave a small, tight-lipped nod.
And then Nikolai—gods, the little freak—smiled. Nervously. Like he didn't quite know if this was going to end in a fight or a kiss. Like he was testing the room.
Darian's disbelief was raw, crackling in the space between them. "This place," he said slowly, bitterly, "is a fucking madhouse."
Nikolai's smile twitched, almost faltering.
But he didn't stop watching him.
Milo returned a few minutes later, silent as ever, his arms draped with layers of fabric—deep, regal blues and dark silvers, stitched with patterns that shimmered subtly in the low light. He held them out to Darian with a small bow, his eyes downcast, before turning to Nikolai and bowing again—lower this time, more reverent. Without a word, he slipped out of the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Nikolai watched him go, the corner of his mouth twitching—not quite a smirk, but close. Then his gaze slid to Darian.
Darian fumbled with the clothes, ungraceful fingers tugging at ties and buttons he didn't understand, trying to piece together how something so beautiful could feel so damn complicated. The tunic bunched awkwardly at the shoulder, the sash tangled around his wrist, one of the sleeves somehow inside out.
"You look like a very confused prince," Nikolai said, voice low, amused.
Darian shot him a glare. "Then maybe the prince needs instructions."
Nikolai stood slowly, his movements unhurried and feline. "Lucky for you," he murmured, stepping closer, "I've dressed a few confused princes in my time."
Darian didn't respond. His hands dropped from the fabric as Nikolai approached—too close, brushing into his space like it belonged to him.
Long fingers grazed Darian's shoulder, straightening the fabric with a featherlight touch. He moved with deliberate slowness, his breath brushing the side of Darian's jaw as he leaned in to fix the collar.
And then Darian realized it—he had to tilt his head up to look Nikolai in the eye.
Not by much.
But enough.
Enough to notice how tall he was. How his posture shifted only slightly when he was this close. How his lips parted slightly when he concentrated.
Darian swallowed.
Nikolai smiled as he reached for the sash. "Relax," he said, voice dipping, "or I'll have to tie this tighter than necessary."
Darian let out a breath, half frustration, half something else. "Do you always do this? Invade someone's space like it's your right?"
"Only when I want to be close," Nikolai replied.
Their eyes met—Darian's flickering with uncertainty, defiance, curiosity. Nikolai's gaze was unreadable, deep and dark and maddeningly patient.
"I don't bite," he whispered.
"You did," Darian said sharply, though his voice was quieter now.
Nikolai chuckled under his breath. "You're right. I lied."
The air between them tightened, like the room had shrunk to just the space between their mouths.
Nikolai's fingers lingered on the final tie at Darian's waist. He didn't finish it. Didn't move away.
Just stood there, lips dangerously close to Darian's ear.
"…You wear it well," he said.
And then, just like that, he stepped back.
Too far.
Too fast.
Leaving Darian standing in the middle of the room, dressed like royalty and feeling completely undone.
The sun sank faster than Darian expected, painting the skies in hues of indigo and blood-red. The estate transformed with the setting light—lanterns flickering to life along the marble halls, casting long shadows that danced like specters on the walls. Music swelled from somewhere deep within, sultry and strange, echoing with a pulse that didn't feel entirely human.
Nikolai led him to the threshold of an arched corridor, lit by tall candles and lined with velvet drapes. He paused, turning to Darian, eyes unusually somber.
"For your safety," he murmured, "you need to wear this."
From behind his back, Nikolai pulled out a velvet box and opened it. Nestled inside was a mask—deep sapphire with silver filigree—and a collar of the same blue, elegant yet unmistakably suggestive, with a small, gleaming clasp at the throat.
Darian's face twisted. "Are you kidding me?"
He slapped Nikolai's hands, sending the box tumbling to the floor. The mask slid one way, the collar the other.
"I'm not some pet to be dressed up for your kind's amusement," Darian snapped, his voice laced with revulsion.
Nikolai's hand flinched, the collar trembling slightly in his grasp. His usual elegance cracked. "You don't understand," he whispered, almost breathless. "You have to wear it. If you don't…"
He trailed off, licking his lips before continuing, voice rougher, darker. "Someone might think you're unclaimed."
Darian narrowed his eyes. "So?"
Nikolai's gaze dropped—slow, crawling—trailing over every inch of Darian's body. The fitted fabric over his chest, the line of his hips, the bare stretch of his neck. His pupils dilated. His voice was barely human when he spoke again.
"To them, you would be the most desirable body in the room. A sweet, trembling mortal wrapped in silk and defiance. Do you know what they'd do if they thought no one owned you?"
His fingers twitched. The collar slid against his palm like a leash waiting to be used.
"They'd bend you over the nearest table," he said, his voice low and trembling with something obscene, "rip those fancy clothes from your body and take turns. Right there. In front of everyone. Inside you—feeding while they fuck you raw."
Darian's breath caught. He wanted to recoil—but his body betrayed him.
Nikolai stepped closer, almost chest to chest now, voice growing ragged.
"They'd ruin you, Darian. Tear into your neck while their cocks split you apart. They'd moan about how warm you are, how soft. You'd be drooling, bleeding, begging for it to stop—or worse, begging for more."
His voice cracked like a whip at the end, and his eyes—God, his eyes—they gleamed fever-bright, deranged, hungry. He wasn't imagining the scene like a warning. He was savoring it.
Darian's face flushed, but not with anger. His body responded in spite of him—tightening, burning, aching. The shame was hot in his throat. He hated the way he imagined it too vividly: hands gripping him, mouths feeding, fangs dragging down his spine.
Nikolai inhaled deeply, as if he could smell the shift in him.
"You don't want that, do you?" he whispered, cruelly soft now. "Or… do you?"
Darian trembled. His jaw clenched.
"…Fine," he muttered hoarsely. "But this better be worth it."
Nikolai's smile was trembling and strange—like a man on the edge of madness. Slowly, reverently, he stepped forward and fastened the collar around Darian's throat. His hands shook. He took his time, brushing too long over his skin, breathing through parted lips.
Darian didn't look down this time.
But he felt it.
The heat. The hardness pressed against him, subtle but undeniable. The thrill of danger coiled in his gut.
When Nikolai was done, his hand lingered at Darian's throat, thumb grazing his pulse. "Now," he murmured to himself so low that Darian didn't hear, "you're mine."
And the doors opened, revealing the banquet—beautiful, decadent, and soaked in the promise of sin.
"Welcome," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "to the night."