Chapter 11
EIRA
I know something’s heinously wrong before I even step fully into the chamber.
My first mistake was thinking access to the Umbra database would involve, you know, a database.
Instead, one of the Black Twelve leads me through the tower before sunrise to a pair of soaring black double doors, and the vibe on the other side is thick enough to choke on.
Not anticipation.
Something worse.
Given a choice, I’d be hightailing it to the nearest coffee shop, ordering a gallon of black coffee, then finding a deep dark cave to examine the weird as fuck, borderline erotic-as-Netheris dream I had about Valentin Moretti last night.
The dream that, thanks to Selphine and her velvet-voiced doom lectures, I can’t dismiss as harmless subconscious garbage, because in her world a cracked mirror means some ancient power just RSVP’d to your funeral.
So the dream means something.
Something I’m absolutely not touching before caffeine.
I shove my composure into first gear and step into the Lower Vaults.
Thankfully, there are no chains hammered into damp stone or blood slicking the floor.
The space is theatrically vast, carved into the tower’s foundation and lit in low amber that deepens every shadow.
Despite the matte black walls, it feels less like a dungeon and more like a private gallery curated for very particular tastes.
Way too ‘look at me, see how important I am’, for my pre-caffeinated senses.
And worse, because I’m learning there’s always a worse with hot-as-Netheris Moretti, four women stand in the centre of the room.
All young.
All dark haired and pale skinned.
All of them – pluck out my eyes with Widow’s Fang – bearing an eerie resemblance to a version of me I once was.
My breath catches as my gaze cuts to the broad-shouldered invader of my dreams hosting this unlovely gathering.
Valentin prowls before them like a collector assessing rare acquisitions, immaculate in customary black, because apparently no other colour exists in his world.
Hands clasped behind his back, he circles the first woman, lifts her chin, tilts her head left and studies her profile like she’s an artefact rather than a person.
I feel the Twelve before I see them. They line the perimeter, dark silhouettes with their attention fixed on me.
Especially the one standing slightly forward.
Sharp eyes. Coiled posture. The black vein beneath his wrist pulsing faintly.
Later, I’ll learn his name.
Now, I know only that he dislikes me without a word exchanged, and because I’m simply not in the fucking mood, I lift one eyebrow in open challenge.
His mouth flattens.
Score one to me.
My attention snaps back to Valentin as he stops in front of the third woman.
He knows I’m here but he’s ignoring me.
Then he reaches out and circles her throat with long, deadly fingers. Just like he did with me last night.
My stomach flips, shocking the hell out of me, because there’s no threat in the gesture. Just a casual, intimate possession as he leans in and inhales along her neck.
And what’s not casual?
The violent tightening in my chest.
Last night’s dream flashes through me.
His chest. That strange pulse. His hand linked with mine as we fell.
The thread snaps when he bares his teeth.
I catch the flash of vicious, curved fangs and step forward before I can stop myself. ‘Don’t—’
My voice snuffs out as my body freezes.
Valentin’s command doesn’t echo aloud. It doesn’t need to. The psychic wave presses inward, settling into my nervous system like a weight placed deliberately on every joint.
I try to move.
Can’t.
This isn’t physical paralysis. It’s deeper than that. A suspension imposed by will rather than force, the very permission to act temporarily revoked.
I’ve heard about this ability. Every hunter has. The older the vampire, the broader the radius of control when they feed. They immobilise not just the victim but the environment around them, creating stillness for uninterrupted access to blood and memory alike.
Training made it sound clinical.
This feels like being pinned beneath an ocean that has decided I’m no longer entitled to surface.
His power floods the room, ancient and absolute, reminding every living thing present exactly where it stands in the hierarchy.
He’s holding the entire room in thrall, and I’m forced to acknowledge, with unwilling awe, that I’ve never before stood this close to such unfiltered dominance and remained upright.
My lungs still work, my thoughts still move but my limbs refuse.
I strain against the invisible constraint, searching for a seam in the pressure.
The sharp-eyed man smiles faintly. ‘Struggle if you like,’ he murmurs, pitched only for me. ‘It changes nothing.’
I drag my attention back to Valentin just as his fangs sink into the woman’s throat.
There’s no gore. No frenzied tearing. Only a steady, measured intake.
Almost mesmeric.
The woman doesn’t fight. Her body softens instantly, tension melting into bliss as the venom floods her system and rapture replaces fear.
Controlled feeding. Compliant prey. Disturbingly intimate.
He drinks briefly, then lifts his head and brushes his thumb across the wound to seal it. She sways, dazed but intact.
Without acknowledging me, he moves to the next.
Fuck this.
I fight the paralysis harder, not even sure why I hate that he’s doing this in front of me.
Then I hate myself twice as hard, because beneath the alarm is something worse.
Jealousy.
Sharp. Ugly. Irrational. Real.
I tell myself I’m reacting to the violation, the spectacle, the sheer arrogance of it. But watching his mouth on another woman’s throat sends heat low and immediate through my body, and I despise myself for it.
The second woman sighs softly as he drinks.
The third tilts her head eagerly.
The fourth trembles but doesn’t pull away.
He moves through them with clinical precision, each bite brief, over in seconds. I’ve seen vampires feed more times than I care to, some with finesse, most without.
This isn’t sustenance. Or pleasure.
He’s… searching. In his own efficient, brutal, elegant way.
The paralysis releases the moment he straightens and inhales sharply.
I don’t have time to flex my frozen limbs before he turns.
His eyes are black as tar. And he is not happy.
As one, the Black Twelve step away from the wall. Two of them guide the women out with quiet efficiency, and the room empties within seconds.
Only one hesitates.
Valentin’s gaze flicks to him, silver hardening. ‘Leave, Malachi.’
Malachi takes another step back but doesn’t retreat entirely. ‘Sire, the man you requested found is here,’ he says evenly.
Valentin’s jaw tightens, but his gaze stays on my face. ‘Bring him to me.’
As Malachi disappears, I finally find my voice. ‘What the hell is this?’ I demand, anger overriding caution.
He doesn’t look defensive. He looks bored. Or tries to. The fury beneath that mask grows clearer by the second.
‘I invite women of a certain age and profile into Umbra’s private mentorship circle,’ he replies calmly. ‘They are offered elite patronage that can alter the trajectory of a life in a single visit.’
‘A fancy description for a casting call for your missing obsession? Or do you always feed like that in front of an audience?’
His gaze drifts over me slowly. ‘I conduct searches. Efficient ones. They are aware that an interview will take place.’
‘And the bite is, what, complimentary?’
‘It’s… expedient.’
I shake my head, hating how slowly the alarm and other emotions are leaving my system. ‘So the Black Twelve manage the invitations?’
‘They filter candidates and ensure compliance. Anyone who declines is flagged for quiet review because declining proximity to power often indicates concealment. If they agree, they become both interview and meal.’
My stomach tightens. ‘You’re turning your food source into a search engine.’
‘I am conserving effort.’
I fold my arms. ‘And why exactly did I need to be here to witness that?’
His gaze shifts to me. There’s something colder beneath it this morning. ‘You needed to understand the scale of my investment.’
‘In blood? Or theatre?’
‘In inevitability.’
The answer is as savage as the unapologetic look in his eyes.
‘You could have handled this without me. Sent me the Cliff Notes.’
‘Indeed.’ No apology.
Of course.
‘Then why didn’t you?’ I ask coolly. ‘Did you wake up on the wrong side of the coffin? Did you even sleep? I’ve heard some of your kind don’t.’
‘Did you?’ he returns smoothly but something flickers in his eyes.
The question is light. The intent behind it is not.
A thought slices through me. The dream. The psychic brush against my mind. The possibility he left something behind and felt the thread tighten while I slept.
My voice stays level, even as my pulse stumbles once, traitorous and loud. ‘Yup. I slept just fine.’
His gaze narrows. ‘And was it a good sleep, little hunter?’
He’s studying me. Waiting. For what, I can’t tell. I shift the conversation before he digs deeper. ‘How many women have you sampled?’ I ask flatly.
‘Enough to confirm absence,’ he replies.
‘Clearly. Are you sure you’re doing it right?’
The corner of his mouth tics. ‘You misunderstand. I am no longer searching for presence. I am searching for concealment.’
Gods. He’s hunting shared spaces. Shared contacts. Hidden memories of Lyra. One act serving multiple purposes.
Feed. Scan. Winnow. Discard.
Cold settles into my bones. If this is what he does publicly, methodically, efficiently, I don’t want to imagine what he does privately.
‘I require blood to survive, little hunter,’ he continues. ‘If I may access memories simultaneously, it would be wasteful not to.’
‘Wasteful,’ I repeat. ‘You’re inviting women who look like her into your tower and treating them like searchable archives.’
His mouth curves faintly. ‘They leave compensated and uninjured.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘It is precisely the point.’
I step closer, furious at his composure. ‘You’re using them.’
‘And you would prefer I starve?’ he asks softly. ‘While scouring the city one human at a time without discretion?’
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Because the logic is infuriatingly sound, which makes me want to stab something tasteful and expensive.
‘You’re disgusted,’ he observes, something shifting in his eyes, halfway between mockery and ruthless curiosity.
‘Yes.’ The word sticks in my throat for reasons I refuse to examine.
‘And yet…’ His eyes lower briefly to my throat. ‘You are not untouched.’
Heat floods my face. ‘I’m reacting to the questionable spectacle of it all. Not to you.’
His smile deepens. ‘Of course.’
Before I can refute his mocking, Malachi returns.
My stomach clenches as my gaze lands on the man in tow.
Shit.
The Port Authority guy is older now, thinner-haired and radiating nervous energy. I wouldn’t have recognised him without the footage.
His gaze lands on me.
Lingers.
Something dangerously close to recognition flickers there, the tease of a memory he can’t quite trust.
My pulse stumbles.
Valentin moves so quickly the air cracks.
He’s in front of the man before the poor bastard fully processes it, one hand locked around his throat, lifting him just enough to assert dominance.
The jealousy rolling off him is unmistakable.
‘You’re not invited to stare at anyone but me,’ Valentin says softly, with such deadly intent the room seems to drop a dozen degrees.
‘Yes, sir,’ the man wheezes, eyes wide.
‘Six years ago, you met a girl. At the bus terminal, here in New York.’
The man’s eyes bulge. ‘Y-yes. I – I remember a girl. Pretty girl. Sh-she asked me to buy her a ticket. I helped her. But I didn’t do anything else, I swear!’
His face turns puce, limbs trembling uncontrollably. He’s moments from pissing himself.
Without warning, Valentin lowers his mouth to the man’s neck.
This feeding is shorter. Sharper. No seduction. No rapture. Just fear and purpose as Valentin dives into memory.
When he pulls back, his expression is blank.
Then he shoves the man away. ‘Release him. He knows nothing.’
Malachi collars the trembling human.
‘You will receive a private equity placement through Umbra’s venture fund,’ Valentin says dismissively. ‘Discretion is expected.’
The man nods so fast I’m amazed his neck survives it.
When he reaches the door, Valentin adds softly, ‘And next time, I caution you not to look at a woman who belongs to another. You might not survive it.’
I know he means the Port Authority incident.
Not me.
Definitely not me.
Still, something raw slams into my chest, and I shift subtly towards the nearest weapon, ready to carve the feeling out if it persists.
‘Y-yes, Don Moretti,’ the man stammers. ‘I-I’m sorry. I did not know.’
One of the Twelve appears to remove him, and he leaves overflowing with gratitude at not being drained, disembowelled or turned into a cautionary anecdote.
I roll my eyes the second he’s gone, masking the sharp relief twisting in my stomach.
Valentin turns to me. ‘You have something to say?’
I cross my arms. ‘If the spectacle is over, perhaps we could proceed to the database. We might actually get somewhere with that.’
Silence thickens.
Malachi’s head snaps towards me in open outrage. Clearly, no one speaks to his sire that way.
Valentin’s gaze remains locked on mine. For one long moment, I can’t tell whether he’ll punish me or laugh.
Instead, he turns to Malachi. ‘Show her.’
Malachi steps forward, close enough that I feel the shift of air as his hand closes around my arm. Hard enough that I know I’ll bruise.
I look him directly in the eyes. ‘You’re going to have to go harder than that to get my attention, my dude,’ I murmur.
His ink-dark gaze goes darker still.
Then the air shatters.
Valentin is between us in an instant, ripping Malachi’s hand away with enough force to send a shockwave through the chamber.
His eyes blaze. ‘You forget yourself,’ he says softly. ‘You do not touch her. Ever.’
‘Wha—?’ I swallow the rest of the question as Valentin’s hand settles exactly where Malachi’s had been.
Heat pulses into me like a brand. Cold, then blazing hot, then cold again, until a deliberate warmth sinks beneath fabric and bone.
Rewriting the contact.
Erasing Malachi’s touch with his own.
The place on my arm tingles like my skin has been persuaded to forget anyone else was ever there.
I’m still reeling when Valentin turns sharply to his guard.
Malachi visibly braces.
Valentin steps into his space and snatches his wrist in a slow, unhurried grip. Malachi hisses, then pales, eyes lowering as the air shifts and the trace of me dissolves beneath the colder, darker dominance of his sire’s bloodline.
The whole spectacle lasts less than half a minute. It is vicious. Territorial. Ancient. And when Valentin releases him, Malachi drops to one knee immediately.
‘Apologies, my lord.’
Valentin does not respond. He stares at me instead. And in that chilling, turbulent silence, last night’s thoughts harden into concrete.
This vampire isn’t merely searching for Lyra Hannigan.
Something is happening to Valentin Moretti.
Something that is making him unravel.
And whatever it is, it’s slipping out of his control fast.