Chapter 7
VALENTIN
The mark flares beneath my skin, a low, insistent heat that refuses to be ignored.
I stand shirtless in my bedroom, one hand braced on the marble vanity, studying the rune etched over my heart.
No longer subtle, what once looked like a dormant brand now pulses with intent, lines sharpening and spreading, colour deepening from dull crimson to something brighter.
More alive.
The countdown is in its final phase.
My blood knows it, even if my mind resists the implication.
I exhale slowly and as it has every night this past week, my mind returns to Eira Cross.
Not to her competence or defiance. Those I understand. Her job is dangerous, and while she has never met a monster like me, her habits are honed for survival.
And what is trained in can be trained out.
No, what troubles me is her scent.
Or rather, the lack of it.
She was in my presence long enough for me to smell her sweat, clean and sharp from movement rather than fear.
Long enough to catch the faint, unmistakable trace of arousal she tried to suppress when I had her pinned against the door, thighs tight, jaw clenched, eyes fixed straight ahead as if daring herself not to react.
The memory alone makes heat lance through my body, my cock hardening before I register the response.
But beneath that, something was muted.
Missing.
No unique signature anchoring her presence in my mind. Everything about her scent reached me through fog, present yet not fully there.
I frown, fingers flexing against the stone as I drag my attention back to the mark deepening over my heart.
According to the Sacred Five Bloods Scroll, the mark distorts perception among its many infernal gifts. It sharpens hunger, heightens obsession, makes ghosts out of old memories and convinces the mind it has found significance where there is none.
That could be all this is. A side effect of the rune waking after centuries of dormancy.
And yet Morrighan’s curse was clear as night: the price of ending her was ending ourselves.
Unless the impossible occurred.
I force away old memories of blood. Carnage. Morrighan’s shriek as the Five Blood bound her and damned ourselves with the same act. Rub at the mark, though I know the gesture is useless, then huff with anger when my thoughts return to Eira.
Standing too far from me, calculating every step and breath. Tense and fearless.
And aroused.
That part had been unmistakable. Which makes this reaction all the more absurd.
These days, satisfaction comes only from blood, and only from enemies. I do not take women casually; do not fuck for distraction. Haven’t for years.
Every woman smells wrong to me now, their blood dull, their bodies empty of whatever my instincts crave.
Ever since that night.
The night I smelled Lyra Hannigan.
Regret surges sharp and bitter.
Lyra, pure and virginal, cowering in her bedroom, fear bright and honest in her eyes.
And her scent.
Sweet hellfires of Netheris.
First blood and midnight breath. Innocence on the edge of surrender. Crushed jasmine steeped in warm sugar and salt. A decadent sweetness threaded with hunger, the kind that clings to the senses and makes eternity feel unbearable without it.
A scent that promised ruin and home in the same aching inhale.
I should have claimed her then. Bound her completely before her terror had the chance to take root. Instead, I mistook restraint for control. Told myself time would make the taking sweeter.
Arrogance.
I lent freedom to a house that should have been sealed. Believed Declan Hannigan sufficiently terrorised. By the time I learned the fool had returned to his vices, throwing my name around to buy favours he hadn’t earned, the gambling idiot had gotten himself killed.
And Lyra was long gone.
The mark flares hotter in response to the spike of emotion.
Straightening, I cross to the Heartshard Glass dominating one wall. The surface shimmers at my approach.
I expand my chest fully and turn, watching the rune’s edges creep outward, thin filaments stretching towards my ribs. Soon it will reach my back. Then no part of me will be untouched by it.
And then you will be no more.
I grit my teeth as her shrill voice reverberates deep in my mind.
The Crimson Mother.
Morrighan.
The Gods-spawned vampire who created me and my blood brothers; whose origins are shrouded in secrecy and blood.
‘I will find her,’ I murmur, the words a lethal vow. ‘If only so I can ensure you continue to burn in the Hell pits of Netheris.’
The mirror pulses once in response. Then stills.
My phone rings.
I stiffen, irritation spiking and battling dread when I see the name on the screen.
Lord Dorian Vale.
We have not spoken in five years, and coincidence is the last refuge of fools.
I answer without greeting. ‘You have unimpeachable timing.’
A subtle hint to fuck off, if ever there was one.
‘Good day to you too, Valentin.’
‘What do you want, Dorian?’ I snap. ‘And let us not insult each other with vacuous pleasantries.’
‘Very well. A little bird tells me you’ve misplaced an ornament,’ Dorian drawls, his English aristocrat voice pebble-smooth with amusement. ‘How careless of you.’
Ornament.
He wants me to react. I do not. ‘You’re mistaken. There is nothing misplaced.’
‘Of course. And yet New York whispers. When New York whispers, Chicago listens. London listens. Ireland sharpens its ears and Sicily breaks out the limoncello.’
My jaw tightens infinitesimally. ‘Your concern is touching. But unnecessary.’
‘Is it?’ he muses. ‘One does hate to see instability. Particularly in such lucrative territory.’
There it is. Threat and greed, polished into civility.
If I fall, New York fractures. Its veins reroute to the remaining Five Blood Thrones, its influence redistributed among those who remain.
‘Your opportunism is showing.’
He laughs. ‘You wound me. I merely wish to ensure my brother is well.’
Brother.
He has not used that term in over a century.
‘I am perfectly well.’
‘Excellent. Then perhaps I shall pay a surprise visit. We are long overdue a family reunion.’
Territorial law is ancient and absolute. None of the Five enters another’s dominion without notice. Without blood-stamped invitation. To do so would be a declaration of war.
‘That would be unwise, brother. You know the protocols.’
‘Protocols bend,’ Dorian murmurs. ‘Especially when one senses… things.’
‘And what exactly do you believe you sense?’
Silence stretches. He tests its edges, searching for fracture.
‘You’re stirring waters best left calm,’ he says at last. ‘If what I hear is true, you’re racing something you cannot outrun. You should consider letting order take its course. Natural or otherwise.’
My mark flares, heat slicing through muscle.
I don’t have a choice. As you well know, you fucking bastard.
After five centuries, I’m staring mortality in the throat.
‘Perhaps you would do well sensing things within yourself. If you know me as well as you seem to believe, then you’ll know I do not race. Whatever I wish for comes to me. Eventually.’
My gaze drifts to the obsidian pedestal across the room where the Sovereign Ledger rests. The original financial charter that formalised supernatural commerce in the modern world. The document Dorian spent two decades courting, believing it would secure London’s dominance for another century.
The document I acquired in a single night.
‘You remember Geneva?’ I ask softly. ‘You believed you had secured every vote. And you had… until I arrived.’
His exhale is faint. Measured. But I hear the steel beneath it. ‘That was business.’
‘It was inevitability.’
The Ledger shifted more than markets. It shifted allegiance, prestige and power. It placed New York above London in every circle that mattered.
Dorian has never forgiven me. He never will.
‘You should listen when caution is advised, Valentin,’ he says. ‘What you seek may not wish to be found. And if you falter…’ He lets the sentence trail off.
‘For all our sakes, some things are better left buried.’
Ah. So he has heard something. Perhaps about the graves. Maybe about the bounty hunter.
But not the mark. I have trusted no one with that.
‘I will manage my affairs as I always have.’
‘And if you do not?’ he asks lightly, the aristocrat mask sliding back into place. ‘Do be careful. It would be… unfortunate if history failed to repeat itself.’
I allow a thin smile he cannot see.
‘History, when it repeats itself, will be in my favour. And if I fail, then I suppose you will discover the hard way whether New York suits you.’
A long pause.
‘Take care, brother,’ he says finally.
I end the call. And for a full minute, I still my breath and lock my senses down to iron discipline.
Mind shuttered. Wards drawn tight. The brothers of the Five Blood Thrones can read thoughts across oceans, and while permission can be requested for a mind-to-mind conversation, not all of them are courteous enough to wait.
Dorian Vale is the worst offender.
I feel for intrusion.
Nothing. But brother lingers. He is measuring me. Weighing probability. Calculating inheritance.
The quiet that follows is brittle enough to fracture bone.
With a feral snarl, I rip a painting from the wall and hurl it across the room. Canvas tears. The frame splinters against stone.
The destruction is brief and total. Contained to that single act. And control reasserted, I breathe once.
Twice.
Calm settles back into place. If they are circling, I will not show blood. If they are watching, I will not blink.
I retrieve a fresh shirt, button it with precise movements, and straighten my cuffs.
The Heartshard Glass reflects a man composed, sovereign, unassailable. Entirely in control.
The mark burns beneath the fabric as I step out of the bedroom, and a strange urgency curls in my chest.
Time pressing close, which is an absurd thought for an immortal. And yet… seven days have passed.
If Dorian is bold enough to test borders, others will follow.
I will not give them cause.
It is time to see Eira Cross again.
And Gods help anyone who attempts to stand between me and what is mine.