Chapter 2
Blair
Tonight, I’m meant to be seen.
The mansion is enormous, and that’s saying something coming from a girl like me, because my parents’ estate in Boston is the kind of place people drool over. This place is so big and extravagant it somehow makes the fifteen-thousand-square-foot house I grew up in look like a starter home.
I’ve been to fancy parties—I’ve even attended red-carpet events—but I’ve never in my life been to something like this.
Marble floors gleam beneath the light of the chandeliers that drip with crystals the size of grapes, and glass display cases that would normally hold priceless sculptures now hold rows of champagne flutes instead.
A string quartet provides the ambiance, while masked men move easily through the room in perfectly tailored suits.
And wow. Masks or not, it’s obvious these men didn’t get powerful by skipping the gym. Most of them are tall with broad shoulders and confident in that quiet way men get when they have a lot of money and power.
One of these men might choose me.
I catch my reflection in a darkened window and smooth a hand down the fabric of my dress. It’s cream and silk and took my mother and me hours to find during a shopping trip—for this very event—in New York.
I can’t believe it’s finally happening.
My hair and makeup are still intact, and just the right amount of cleavage peeks out from the neckline of my dress. Though, across the room, another girl in a red dress is making a much more aggressive cleavage presentation choice.
I swear, if she leans forward by just an inch, we’re all going to get a nipple shot.
Beautiful and sexy but not obscene, my mom would say.
I straighten my shoulders and look back toward the masked men moving through the room.
These men hold all the power and money and wealth in the world. And soon, one of them will hold all my dreams and my future.
One of them will choose me to be his.
My pulse thrums in excitement. I feel like I’ve been waiting all twenty-three years of my life for this moment. Hell, I’ve been preparing for it since before I knew how to tie my own shoes.
From a young age, I’ve known the truth about vampires.
Not the cartoon or movie versions, but the real ones.
The royal elites. The ones who aren’t showcased in the headlines but are so powerful behind the scenes they shape entire cities.
My father says they control economies and foreign trade and industries across the globe.
My bloodline was confirmed when I was a baby.
“Rare,” my mom used to say while brushing my hair before school. “And special. That’s you.”
I am one of the lucky ones—one of the blood of the three.
It’s Windsor blood, from my daddy’s side, and both my little sister Bonnie and I have it.
But out of us Windsor girls, I am the next generation to be chosen.
The last Windsor woman who was chosen by an elite vampire was my father’s great-aunt Estelle.
This isn’t white-picket fences and minivans. This is royalty. This is fairy tales. And I’m the next lucky Windsor woman who is destined to be inside this world and live a life that’s bigger than most girls could ever dream.
At this event, there are a lot of women, but not all of them carry the same bloodline as me. I have one of only three bloodlines in the world that can marry and have children with a vampire.
It wasn’t always easy growing up in a human-focused world where you never spoke about this world or the existence of vampires and bloodlines. This isn’t something I could talk about at school or with girlfriends or college dorm roommates.
Only those in the inner circle are allowed to know.
And tonight, everyone in this room knows.
It’s a relief, but it’s also a competition. There are formidable women here—some almost as beautiful as me—and my purpose is to catch the eye of my future vampire husband.
“Would you like a drink?” A masked man with chocolate-brown hair offers me a flute of champagne.
His voice showcases this deep vibrato that I feel inside my chest. His eyes are a dark navy that almost looks onyx beneath the soft glow of the room, and they linger on me for a fraction longer than most would consider polite, but I understand. Anticipation is high for both of us.
“Yes.” I smile, but not too wide or excited. Just…confident. “Thank you.” I lift the glass to my lips, never letting my gaze stray from his. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times my mother made me practice exact scenarios like this in our kitchen.
In order to get the best, you need to be the best, my mom would say.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Blair Windsor.” I purposefully lick a drop of champagne off my top lip. I don’t ask him his name. I know the rules. They’ll tell you if they want to tell you. That’s how it works.
“You’re beautiful, Blair,” he says, reaching out to gently brush a few strands of hair off my shoulders, just barely missing my skin. They aren’t supposed to touch me until they claim me—it’s one of the highest rules of order for the whole selection process.
“Thank you.”
“I’m Damien. Damien Snow.”
The little girl inside me is squealing that he just told me his full name, but I keep her on the down-low and respond confidently. “It’s a pleasure, Damien.”
His lips press into each other, and I imagine him pressing his lips to my skin. “It certainly is a pleasure, Blair. A very exciting pleasure.”
I smile again. And I take another drink from my glass of champagne.
The bubbles pop and fizz in my throat, and I play the role of being interested but not too interested.
Men like Damien can smell desperation from a hundred miles away.
My mother taught me that. She told me they can sense insecurity and doubt, and they know when a woman isn’t confident.
They don’t want to choose a girl with poor self-esteem, she’d say. They want beauty and elegance and poise.
I let the silence linger between Damien and me. Occasionally making eyes at him over my glass of champagne. I relish the moments when he rakes his eyes over me, taking in my hair and my face and the curve of my breasts.
And I give him the space to do it, sometimes letting my eyes move over the room as I take sips from my champagne.
Some of the girls here I don’t recognize at all, but some I’ve known since childhood, and we grew up in the same inner circles.
I’m surprised that a few of the girls look outwardly nervous. Amateurs. You never let them smell nerves. Did their moms not tell them confidence is currency like mine did?
I honestly don’t know, but I only see it as an advantage. Sure, I can’t deny I feel tiny swarms of butterflies flitting about my belly, but I will not let anyone see it.
Damien doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t try to engage me in small talk or ask me a lot of questions about myself. But so far, I’m finding that none of the men really do. That probably comes later, you know?
Eventually, when he excuses himself with a promise of seeing each other again, I move toward the base of the staircase, silently reminding myself to keep my chin lifted and my shoulders relaxed.
Be calm. Be confident. Be worth the attention.
Someone laughs abruptly near my shoulder, damn near startling me off my game, but I quickly pull myself together.
But when I let myself observe the room, my attention is straight up held hostage by a man wearing a black tuxedo.
His green eyes sit beneath a black mask like the others, his hair is a gorgeous shade of blond, and his jaw is as sharp as chiseled stone.
He’s not older, like the silver-haired elites.
He’s younger, maybe a few years older than me, and incredibly tall, with muscular, broad shoulders and long, strong legs.
He’s Adonis-level handsome.
And he’s looking directly at me.
Instantly, the air feels heavy between us, and the room narrows as the strangest sensation washes over my body.
My stomach tightens, and I get the sense that I should know him. I feel like I’ve seen him or met him before, but at the same time, I can’t find a single memory in my brain to match.
But then, for one irrational flicker of time, I feel nine years old again, sitting cross-legged on my bed, holding a blond-haired vampire doll in my hands, tilting it toward the window so his eyes looked almost violet in the light.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass, and the green-eyed stranger keeps staring at me.
Who is he? And why does he feel so…familiar?
I’m tempted to walk over to him. I’m tempted to go introduce myself and ask him who he is, but that’s not how it goes. The women do not seek out the men; it doesn’t work like that.
If he wants to talk to me, he has to come to me.
I take a quick swig of champagne and work to regain my composure.
And when Damien returns, asking me if I’d like to meet some of his friends, I follow.
I glide. I flutter my lashes and smile. But I can’t stop myself from glancing over my shoulder once more.
Green eyes are still on me.
And I really don’t want him to look away.