Blackthorn.
The marble halls of Blackthorn Keep smelled of iron and night-blooming roses. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting long shadows that danced like dying men across the walls. Lord Duang lounged on his obsidian throne, one leg draped carelessly over the armrest, blood-red eyes half-lidded with boredom. He was beautiful in the way only predators could be—sharp cheekbones, ink-black hair falling past his shoulders, lips the color of fresh slaughter. Centuries had carved him into something both divine and monstrous.
At his feet knelt the boy.
Qin.
Eighteen winters old and untouched by the sun for the last two years. Pureblood. The last of a forgotten line whose veins carried the ancient nectar that made vampires gods among their kind. His wrists were bound in silver cuffs etched with runes that burned if he struggled too hard. A thin black collar circled his throat, Duang's crest—a coiled serpent devouring its own tail—pressed cold against his pulse.
Tonight, the boy was trembling.
Duang could hear it: the frantic flutter of Qin's heart, the shallow hitch in his breathing, the way his bare knees pressed harder into the cold stone to keep from collapsing. The scent of him rose like incense—warm skin, faint soap from the servants' bath, and underneath it all, that sweet, maddening purity. One drop of Qin's blood could heal a mortal wound in seconds. Ten drops could make Duang strong enough to crush an army.
He crooked a finger.
"Come."
Qin lifted his head. Large, doe-like eyes the color of storm clouds met Duang's gaze for only a heartbeat before dropping again. Obedient. Always obedient. He crawled forward on hands and knees until his forehead brushed the toe of Duang's boot.
"Master," he whispered. His voice was soft, almost musical, the kind of voice that made monsters want to break things just to hear it crack.
Duang's fangs ached.
He slid two fingers under Qin's chin and tilted the boy's face up. The collar shifted, revealing the faint silver scars from previous feedings—tiny puncture marks that never quite healed right. Duang traced one with his thumb, feeling the boy flinch.
"Are you afraid tonight?" Duang asked, voice low and velvet-rough.
Qin swallowed. "No, Master."
A lie. The pulse under Duang's thumb spiked like a rabbit in a snare.
Duang smiled, slow and cruel. "Good. Liars taste better."
He dragged Qin up by the collar until the boy was straddling his thigh, chest to chest. Qin's simple white tunic had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the smooth line of his collarbone. Duang could see the blue vein there, throbbing, begging.
He struck without warning.
Fangs sank deep into Qin's neck.
The boy gasped—sharp, broken. His hands flew up to clutch Duang's shoulders, not to push away but to hold on, the way he always did after the first shock of pain. Blood flooded Duang's mouth like liquid fire and honey. Power surged through him instantly, raw and intoxicating. Muscles that had grown sluggish from weeks without feeding tightened with new strength. The shadows in the hall seemed to bow deeper.
Qin whimpered. His body arched, hips pressing helplessly against Duang's thigh as the venom in the bite spread—pleasure laced with agony, the vampire's cruel gift. Tears slipped down his cheeks, catching the torchlight like tiny rubies.
Duang drank slowly, savoring. He could drain the boy dry in minutes if he wanted. Instead he took measured pulls, letting Qin's heartbeat thunder against his tongue. The boy's fingers tightened in his hair, a silent plea. Not for mercy. Never for mercy. Just… something. Something Duang had never bothered to name before.
When he finally pulled back, Qin was limp, head lolling against Duang's shoulder. Blood trickled from the fresh wounds, painting his pale skin in delicate streaks. Duang licked the puncture marks closed with deliberate care, tasting the salt of sweat and tears.
"You did well," he murmured against the boy's ear. The words surprised even him. Praise was rare. Qin's breath hitched again, this time softer.
Duang lifted him easily, carrying the half-conscious slave to the wide velvet chaise beside the throne. He laid Qin down, arranging the boy's limbs like a doll. For a long moment he simply stared. The way Qin's lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The faint rise and fall of his chest. The way his lips—pink and bitten—parted on a quiet sigh.
Something twisted low in Duang's gut. Not hunger. Something… softer. More dangerous.
He shook it off with a growl.
"Clean yourself and sleep," he ordered, voice colder than he intended. "I have council at dawn. You'll feed me again tomorrow."
Qin's eyes fluttered open, glassy with exhaustion and the lingering high of venom. "Yes, Master," he breathed. His voice was hoarse, wrecked. It sent a dark thrill through Duang that had nothing to do with blood.
Duang turned away before he could do something stupid—like brush the hair from Qin's forehead or stay to watch him fall asleep.
As he strode from the hall, the boy's scent clung to his tongue like a promise.
And for the first time in three hundred years, Lord Duang felt the faintest crack in the armor around his dead heart.
Outside, thunder rolled over the mountains. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howled. The night was young, and the empire of the Undying was restless.
Qin would learn soon enough that blood was only the beginning.