Blood Triad: Vampire Lesbian Romance

Chapter 1

The club had a soft blue glow, illuminating splatters of blood like a UV light. This effect, however, was exclusive to the VIP section for vampires—an elite class within an already high society.

A tray holding five glasses of human blood, mixed with aged dry wine, was a delicacy compared to the usual blood offerings. Before humans and vampires forged an alliance, vampires would have eagerly leeched from any available source.

Ironically, Bloodlust, the club, was run by a human—Mr. Cloney.

In the past, he sought out healthy girls, but now he recruited any girl who caught his eye, offering us good money.

Our roles varied: dancing on the pole, serving drinks, or staying in the back to have our blood drained.

The method of extraction involved a fine, tube-like needle, so large it felt as though it matched the size of my twig-like arms. It paid at least a hundred dollars an hour.

When I heard the pay, I almost agreed to it. I envisioned a life of luxury: flashy apartments, designer clothes, and living comfortably. But it wasn't just about a needle, a tube, and the sensation of blood being pulled from your heart—it was like having your soul ripped from you.

Girls complained, saying, "Getting drained for more than six hours wasn't as glamorous as we thought."

Girls died. Girls cried. Girls got high on quick money. But the constant cycle of it all? It eventually broke every one of them. That's why I stuck to working the pole and weaving my way through crowds of pale faces.

The glasses on the white plastic trays were tall and slender, as thin as wire.

Each was filled to the brim with blood wine, and the white tray was there to catch any drop that might escape from those fragile stems. I'd gotten good at serving blood wine and liquor—it was second nature after three years.

I wouldn't say I hadn't had a few nights where my body couldn't keep up with the vampires, but those days were long behind me.

Ahead of me loomed the long, spiraling staircase—steely and rusted by day, but black as the night under the club's permanent blue glow.

I held the tray flat on my left hand. It gave me better control.

My right hand was my utility—gripping my long, tight skirt that skimmed smoothly over my skin, leaving nothing to the imagination.

That was our uniform—every girl who served wore it. A black, strapless bra to push up our breasts, our stomachs kept flat, our waists always appearing as thin and flexible as welding wire.

The skirt was always lime green, standing out like fresh blood under the blue light.

Our underwear? Always black or red, matching the blood wine—always drawing eyes exactly where they wanted them to go.

I was expected to keep smiling—did I ever, really?

Our hair had to be braided, pulled tight and flat against the back of our necks, completing the look.

I reached the top. The bouncer, big and built like a wall, pulled the rope aside without a word, letting me through.

The pounding music below faded, replaced by an eerie quiet.

The VIP section was always silent, broken only by soft whispers and the occasional gagging sound.

Some girls offered "extra" services for "extra" cash.

The bloodsuckers—pale faces, the ones who fed off humans—always had the money. Name your price, and you'd be kneeling in no time, because they had a way of doubling it—always wanting more.

I approached one of the booths, filled with pale faces.

These weren't the slim vampires you usually saw; no, these were fat, bloated by something other than blood.

A vampire's diet was simple: blood, blood wine, or blood liquor.

Humans, though, had a taste for excess. I got why we ended up fat, but vampires? That was rare.

"Good evening," I murmured, trying to keep a smile plastered on my lips—ones that naturally curved up like a punch landing hard under my nose.

They all nodded in unison, barely making a sound.

These were the ones who didn't talk much.

Married to their pretty vampire wives, they just needed a drink and a little time with the boys before heading back home.

Their eyes didn't linger on my body, and if they did, it was brief and almost..

. respectful. I never felt uneasy around them.

Hands stayed in place, just like their eyes.

"Anything else, boys?" I asked, setting down the last glass of blood wine.

They shook their heads, the group of white-haired vampires—aging but only barely, knowing they had centuries left ahead of them.

I bowed respectfully before turning to leave, gripping the fabric of my ankle-length skirt.

Tonight was slow—just another quiet Monday.

The VIP section was practically dead. The real energy?

It was pulsing downstairs, where the young vampires partied like they had a lifetime of fifty thousand years ahead of them, wasting no time making fools of themselves.

I stood by the railing, feeling the rough rust under my fingertips. The smell of decaying steel clung to my skin when I lifted my fingers to scratch the bridge of my nose. You'd think with all the money Mr. Cloney had, he'd invest in the club. But no.

It still had that tacky eighties vibe—the neon blue sign barely holding on, marking the entrance with the word "Club" in faded letters. The DJ's booth hadn't seen an upgrade in years, and the once-bright tiles were so worn that no amount of scrubbing could make them look clean anymore.

"Human girl," a voice as smooth as blood wine called out.

They must drink too much of it because they sounded just like it now.

I knew I was human, but the way he said it—like I was something less—was typical for a VIP vampire.

They were older, seasoned, and probably had a thing for draining girls like me dry.

Annoyance twisted my face into a deep scowl, and I couldn't be bothered to force a smile as I turned toward the man speaking.

"What?" My eyes narrowed, trying to make out the figure lounging by the railing near the rusty stairwell.

"My wine is bland," he said. He was sitting with another man, both of them towering over a small, round table. I couldn't quite make out their faces, the blue glow making everything hazy.

"What can I do about that?"

"Make it taste better." He shot a smirk at his friend, who stayed silent.

"How?"

"Come and find out, Snow Bunny," he purred, his voice dipping darker on the nickname.

No surprise—he knew my club name. Snow Bunny, Snowflake, Snow Angel.

They always called me something to match my pale skin, the "fairest" of them all, like I'd stepped out of some twisted version of Snow White.

I rolled my eyes, about to walk away when he said, "How much? Name your price."

I glanced over at him, smirking. "Just to talk with me?"

"To offer something else." His voice had a crisp clarity to it, even though it was rough and deep—like the glass of wine he was holding out. He'd either just taken a sip and dismissed it as bland, or maybe he was the type of elite who got off on pushing my buttons.

They all did. None of them could resist getting under my skin. I couldn't say I enjoyed being of service to any of them, even though the money was hard to turn down. And who doesn't love a nice, fat tip?

He reached into his jacket's upper pocket and pulled out some cash.

That's what a healthy tip looked like. The bills were crisp under the blue light, spotless like they'd just been pressed and delivered straight from the bank.

I found myself walking over, the empty tray now ready to take the drink—and cater to whatever else he wanted.

But as I got closer, I realized—it wasn't a man.

Two women. Their beauty gave them away.

Despite their intimidating suits, their lean, athletic builds, and the rings that wrapped around their fingers, it was obvious they didn't get their strength from weights.

It was the power of being a vampire that shaped them like that.

Elites didn't need to lift—they were already carved into perfection by the life they led.

"May I get your glasses?" I stretched the tray out, hoping she'd drop the tip on it too. The night had been slow, and she'd be my first big tip of the night. When I say slow, I mean tip slow.

"I don't need an exchange, because it's going to be the same wine, no?" Her words cut sharp, but it was her eyes that did the real talking, lingering on me with intent. "You should really pull up your skirt, it's hanging too low."

"Ma'am, this is the uniform for the club."

"I wouldn't know. But that's not what I asked. I asked you to pull it up."

Pull it up. Pull it down. Twist it all around—it wouldn't make any difference. The skirt was just a prop.

"How can I make your drink more pleasant, ma'am?" I asked, keeping my voice polite but flat, with barely a flicker of interest.

She dropped the money onto the tray, the weight of it felt heavier than any blood wine I'd ever served. Blood wine had a thickness, a heaviness to it—pure blood with only the barest hint of wine. But this money? It felt just as heavy. I couldn't help but smirk as I eyed the cash.

"Call me Jager."

"Jager," I repeated, my tongue deliberately testing out her name, letting it linger just a little too long. "How can I be of service, Jager?" I rolled her name off my tongue with a sensual twist, leaning into the allure. If there was more where that came from, I'd play the part.

"Fix my drink," she demanded, her voice slithering closer like a serpent.

She was asking for something impossible.

I couldn't add more wine—it'd water down the taste of the blood.

And if I added more blood, it'd overwhelm the balance.

What she was asking for was something only a miracle worker like Jesus could pull off.

Jesus knew his way around wine. Her tone, though—authoritative.

Which meant trouble. I had to figure out a way to please her, somehow.

"How?" The word almost escaped as a scoff. I rolled my eyes, tempted to take the money and shove it right back in her pale face. Her crimson eyes stayed glued to my chest, like she didn't even hear me.

"A woman's body produces discharge," she whispered, her voice low, as if she was about to turn into some twisted biology teacher.

I couldn't tell if she was going scientific or just plain perverted.

I was used to perverts—hell, I dealt with them every day.

But coming from a woman? That threw me off.

"You've got about a tablespoon of it in those panties right now. I can smell you, and you..."

She kept edging closer, my personal space disappearing inch by inch. I doubt she even knew what personal space meant—not for a human like me. "You smell damn good, Bunny. That's the scent I want in my drink, right now."

"I'm sorry, Jager, but you'll need to request something else." I tried to keep my tone steady, though my patience was wearing thin, grounding itself beneath the expensive soles of her designer shoes.

"It's VIP, no?" Her voice was smoother than the wine she clutched in her hand.

"Yes."

"Then the boundaries are open. And please, Snow Bunny, don't keep me waiting. The night's thinning out, and I need a proper drink."

"I can't—"

She reached into her pocket again, tossing more money onto the tray with a casual flick of her wrist. The tray swayed under the weight of the cash, and just like that—money talked. Dignity? It slipped out of the equation when numbers like that were thrown in.

My heart slowed, money had that effect. It quieted everything else—the doubt, the hesitation. Knowing I was one step closer to taking care of myself did things to my heart. Or maybe it was the way her eyes burned, like a summer sunset. The kind that scorches everything in its path.

I set the tray down, scanning the room. The VIP section was nearly empty. I could do this. Slowly, I began to lift my skirt, but she stopped me with a sharp motion.

"No, not like that," she said, tapping her glass with her long, black-painted nails. They were sharp enough to cuff my wrists if she wanted to. "I want you to dispense."

Her voice was cold, commanding. I stared at her, frozen, unsure if I was about to make the worst decision of my life.

"Dispense?" I whispered, the word catching in my throat. I knew what it meant, but I couldn't quite grasp what she wanted from me. I didn't recall being liquefied or broken down in any form. "How?"

Her laugh came out raspy, like a dark river under the cover of night.

Her jet-black hair shook with the movement, a few loose strands framing her face.

My eyes flicked over her features—there was something about her that spoke louder than words.

The friend next to her, equally quiet, sipped her wine with a steady gaze locked on me. As if I were food. Maybe I was.

Jager gestured for me to come closer, her fingers curling toward her, beckoning. I leaned in, my chest pressing against the edge of the small round table. The weight of my breasts pushed down hard, almost tipping the table meant for two glasses of blood wine, not this much pressure.

"I want you..." Her voice was a slow, convincing rasp, drawing out the anticipation, playing on my curiosity.

The words were sharp, cutting through the tension, and the weight of her request hit me like a wave crashing against jagged rocks.