Chapter Eleven — The Vampire Prince's Claim
POV: Damien Florez
Third-Person Limited
Damien Florez had been slapped before.
Once by an enraged coven elder. Once by a witch queen with terrible aim. Once—memorable only because it had broken a marble pillar—by his sister.
None of them had felt like this. One, because they all paid for it, and two, it didn't feel good.
The impact had driven him into the stone wall hard enough to crack it, the echo still ringing through the corridor as he straightened slowly, blood singing beneath his skin.
He lifted his head.
And then he breathed her in.
Dark cherries. Stormfire. Shadow and heat braided together in a way that made his undead heart stutter—and then slam back to life with violent insistence.
His fangs ached.
His vision sharpened until the world narrowed to a single point: her.
Not the slap. Not the audacity. Not the murmuring crowd frozen in disbelief.
Her.
The demon girl with eyes like a challenge and shadows that moved like they belonged to her pulse.
Mate.
The word wasn't his. It didn't come from reason or pride or instinct sharpened by centuries of survival.
It came from the thing inside him that never lied.
His vampire, Dylan, stirred—ancient and cruel and absolutely delighted.
Mine.
Damien pushed the urge down with ruthless control, schooling his face into something cool and unimpressed even as the pull tightened like a chain around his ribs.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
He watched her retreat, denial rolling off her in waves sharp enough to taste. He could practically hear the way fate screamed when she tried to reject it.
He smiled then—not kindly.
This was not a mistake.
––––––
The Headmistress's office was warded.
Damien dismantled the wards in three breaths.
The doors burst open without warning, slamming into the walls with a crack of displaced magic that rattled the shelves. Eiranna looked him up and down and gave him a stern glare. He smiled and nodded. Word had it that she wasn't to be messed with.
She sighed and dropped the book she had been reading, took off her glasses, and rubbed her eyes.
She then looked up slowly from her desk.
"Prince Florez," she said calmly. "To what do I owe this disruption?"
Damien didn't bother sitting.
"I want a transfer."
Her brow arched. "You're already enrolled in the upper court track."
"I want Umbra House."
Silence.
Then—a very careful breath.
"Umbra House is restricted," she said evenly. "It houses demons, hellborns, and volatile cross-bloods. Vampires of your standing—"
"—don't ask," Damien finished coldly. "They take."
Her eyes sharpened. "You forget where you are, child."
"No," he replied softly. "I remember exactly."
The room darkened slightly, reacting to his presence. Shadows pressed closer to the walls. The air cooled.
"You will grant the transfer," he continued, voice smooth and lethal, "or I will withdraw the Valerius protection from this Academy. No blood treaties. No neutral ground. No vampire restraint. I want to room in Seraphine's and Alaric's room."
That made her pause.
"You would destabilize centuries of peace over a house assignment?" she asked.
Damien leaned forward, palms resting on her desk. "Over a bond. Over my mate, whom I've been waiting for for centuries."
The Headmistress studied him for a long moment. Then, "You felt it."
"Yes."
Her gaze flickered—calculating now. "The demon girl. Seraphine?"
"Yes."
"And she rejected it."
"Yes."
A faint, dangerous smile curved his lips. "Temporarily."
"You know claiming her openly could trigger celestial backlash," she warned. "Angels are already circling her. She has a mate already."
His eyes darkened. "Then they should learn to keep their distance."
Another pause.
Finally, she exhaled. "Umbra House," she said. "Conditional. Any violence, any coercion—"
"I don't need force," Damien interrupted. "She'll come to me on her own."
The Headmistress stood. "Then welcome to Umbra House, Prince Florez."
Damien straightened, already turning away.
"Oh," she added quietly, "be careful. She is not prey."
He glanced back, smirk slow and sharp. "Neither am I."
––––––
Umbra House smelled like smoke, iron, and old magic.
Perfect.
Damien crossed the threshold with measured steps, ignoring the way conversations died around him. Demons stared openly. Hellborns bristled. Shadows twitched in irritation at his presence.
Good.
His senses flared instantly, dragging his attention toward the familiar burn in his chest—stronger now, closer.
Down the corridor.
She was here.
He followed the pull without hesitation, boots silent against stone. He stopped just outside a common chamber, listening.
Her voice drifted through the door—sharp, irritated, unmistakably alive.
"She doesn't even care," she was saying. "That's the problem. Fate keeps trying to decide things for me and I'm not letting it. I don't need a mate, talk less of two."
His lips curved.
Denial again.
Charming.
He pushed the door open.
The room went still.
She turned.
Their eyes locked.
There it was again—that violent snap of connection, the way his vampire surged forward like it had been waiting centuries for this exact second.
Her shadows flared defensively.
Damien lifted his hands slightly, mock-innocent. "Relax. I'm not here to bite you."
Her glare sharpened. "You transferred."
"Yes."
"To this room?"
"Yes."
She scoffed. "You don't even know me."
"I know you hit a prince without blinking," he said calmly. "That alone makes you fascinating."
"I don't want this," she snapped.
He stepped closer, stopping just outside her reach. "Want has nothing to do with it."
"That's your problem," she shot back. "You think fate equals ownership."
"No," he corrected softly. "I think fate equals responsibility."
Her brow furrowed despite herself. "Responsibility to what?"
"To not turn away," he said. "To not pretend you don't feel it."
Her chest rose sharply.
He inhaled again—slow, deliberate.
Stormfire.
His fangs pressed against his gums, aching now. His vampire, Dylan, purred.
Mate.
He smiled, eyes glowing faintly red. "You can run. You can deny it. You can even hate me."
She clenched her fists. "I don't hate you."
"Good," he murmured. "That would complicate things."
"This doesn't change anything," she insisted.
Damien leaned down slightly, voice low enough that only she could hear. "It changes everything."
Her shadows hissed.
He straightened, already turning away. "I'll see you around, amor."
At the door, he paused.
"Oh—and next time you try to avoid me," he added lightly, "try not to fail at it. I'd hate to think you're losing your edge."
He left, winking and smirking before she could respond.
Behind him, his heart thundered, alive and relentless.
His vampire, Dylan, whispered again, satisfied.
Claim her.
Damien smiled to himself.
Soon.