Chapter 5 Danica
Danica
Wait. Rewind. Did she just say she's Rhyland's Maker?
Well, isn't that just fucking peachy. My Viking vampire beefcake somehow forgot to mention this particular skeleton in his closet.
Sure, he gave me the Cliff Notes version of his turning, but skipped the chapter about the psycho ex-maker with abandonment issues.
And wait—if she made Rhyland, that means... oh, fantastic. She's Vampire Mommy Dearest to all my guys. Erik, Lucian—they're all her immortal offspring. Though clearly, the "how to not be a complete psycho" gene skipped a generation.
I eye Miss Thing standing before me, taking in the waves of jealousy and obsession rolling off her like cheap perfume. The way she's looking at me, you'd think I'd stolen her favorite Gucci bag instead of her centuries-old boy toy.
That's some grade-A obsessive ex-girlfriend energy right there.
Well, if this delusional vampire bitch thinks she can waltz in here with her "I made him" bullshit and stake a claim on my man, she's got another thing coming. Time to channel my inner bad bitch and show her exactly who she's dealing with.
I plaster my best 'bless your heart' smile and decide to go for the jugular.
"Listen here, sweetheart," I drawl. "I don't give two shits about who you claim to be or what ancient history you're trying to dig up.
But let me paint you a picture—while you've been off doing whatever it is bitter ex-makers do, Rhyland's been pretty busy.
And by busy, I mean buried so deep inside me that he can't even remember his own name, let alone yours. "
I lean forward as much as I can in this position. "Face it, honey. You're not even a footnote in his story anymore. You're just a bad memory he didn't even bother to mention. So why don't we cut the territorial vampire queen act and call this what it really is—pathetic."
The look on her face? Priceless. Sometimes the truth hurts, especially when it's served with a side of sass and a garnish of 'go fuck yourself.' Though something tells me, this particular truth bomb might come back to bite me in the ass. Literally.
She's in my face faster than I can blink, fangs out, gleaming and sharp. "Watch that pretty little mouth of yours," she hisses. "You're playing with forces far beyond your pathetic mortal comprehension."
Oh, so that's how we're doing this? I may be chained up, but my attitude is still locked and loaded. I strain against the restraints, getting right back in her face. Because if this bougie bloodsucking bitch thinks I'm going to cower like some helpless damsel, she's got another thing coming.
"Or what?" I spit back, channeling every ounce of defiance I can muster. "You'll do your worst? I've faced scarier things than a desperate ex with daddy issues. So go ahead, show me what you've got. But know this—Rhyland is mine, and no amount of vampire mean girl bullshit is going to change that."
Her eyes flash dangerously, like emerald lightning. "You insignificant little harlot," she seethes, her perfectly manicured hands curling into claws. "How dare you speak to me that way. I am his Maker. I own him!"
"News flash, bitch," I sneer, even as my heart pounds against my ribs. "This isn't the dark ages anymore. You can't just stamp 'property of psycho vampire' on someone and call it a day. So why don't you take your entitled ass back to whatever crypt you crawled out of and leave my man alone?"
She reels back as if I slapped her. Good.
I might be scared shitless on the inside, but I'll be damned if I let this immortal Regina George see it. Rhyland is worth fighting for, and if that means going toe-to-toe with his Maker? Well, bring it on, bitch.
One second, I'm running my mouth; the next, this psychotic snatch has her fangs buried in my throat.
The pain is excruciating, nothing like Rhyland's gentle bites.
I scream as she violates me, stealing what isn't hers to take, her grip tightening like a vice as she gulps down my blood with perverted pleasure.
I thrash against her, but it's like fighting a steel beam—utterly useless.
The door crashes open, the sound barely registering over my screams and thundering heartbeat. "LILITH!" A commanding voice cuts through the chaos. "Enough! You can't kill her. Yet. Control yourself, for fuck's sake!"
Lilith detaches herself from my neck with an obscene pop, making a show of delicately wiping my blood from her lips like it's fine wine.
"Morgan, darling, so nice of you to join our little party," she purrs, all fake refinement and smug satisfaction.
"I was merely sampling the merchandise. And my, my.
.. she really does taste divine. Like nothing of this world.
" Her eyes gleam with predatory hunger. "I think I've found my new favorite snack. "
I glare at her through the pain and terror, trembling with equal parts fear and rage. If looks could kill, this bloodsucking bitch would be a pile of designer ashes right now.
Morgan shoves past Lilith like she's swatting aside an annoying fly, settling beside me on the bed.
She's young, with rich mahogany skin gleaming in the dim light.
Her straight dark hair falls just past her shoulders in a sleek curtain, the ends perfectly trimmed and not a strand out of place despite the drama unfolding.
Her hands, elegant and sure, reach for my ravaged neck, and I flinch away instinctively.
"Girl, stop being difficult," Morgan says, her no-nonsense tone. "Unless you're eager to bleed out and die right here?" She glares at me sternly, her light brown eyes assessing me. "Let me stop the bleeding. Trust me, you don't want to check out just yet—the show's barely started."
Great. Just what I need—another cryptic warning from a bitchy mean girl. But damn it, as much as it grates on me, she's right. I can't meet my end here, not like this. Rhyland needs me. My brother and my family all need me.
Please, let Lucian, Erik, Emily, and Seraphina be okay. Let them find Damon and help him through this nightmare.
So, I grit my teeth and let Morgan work her magic, all the while plotting exactly how I'm going to make Lilith pay for this little vampiric violation.
Morgan's hands hover over my ravaged throat, her eyes drifting closed as she murmurs incantations under her breath.
The language is foreign, ancient-sounding, and practically drips with power.
Well, that answers one question—we've got ourselves a witch.
Fantastic. Because this situation wasn't complicated enough already.
I feel the magic working, a warm tingle spreading across my skin as the bleeding finally slows. Morgan reaches into what looks like Mary Poppins' bag of magical remedies and pulls out fresh bandages.
"Interesting," she muses, applying the dressing with clinical precision. "Seems like that fancy rock of yours isn't too fond of vampire bites. Some serious limitations on that healing power you've got there."
My blood turns to ice. They know about my crown and its stones. Wonderful. What else do these psychos know about me?
"Yeah, well," I manage to croak out, shooting Lilith my best 'eat shit' glare, "the stones are pretty discriminating. They know trash when they see it."
And like a light bulb flickering to life, it hits me. No wonder I couldn't save Damon. This damn rock clearly has a personal vendetta against vampires and their bites.
Like when Lucian bit me, his bite only healed because he gave me his blood.
Lilith's perfectly shaped eyebrows arch in amusement, but I catch the dangerous flash in her emerald eyes. Good. Let her be pissed. At least that makes two of us.
Morgan's hands still against my neck, her touch a silent warning to behave. But honestly? When have I ever done what I'm told? Especially when I'm being held captive by Vampire Barbie and her witchy sidekick.
"There. All patched up," Morgan announces, packing away her magical first-aid kit. "Time for your medicine. Be right back." She heads for the door before spinning around like some hall monitor. "And Lilith? Keep your fangs to yourself."
Lilith responds with a dramatic eye roll that probably strains something. She waves Morgan off like a queen, dismissing a peasant.
Medicine? That can't be good. "What medicine?" I call after Morgan, alarm bells ringing in my head.
"Just a special little cocktail to keep those savior powers of yours in check," Morgan throws over her shoulder with a wink that's anything but reassuring. The door clicks shut behind her with an ominous finality.
I'm not taking anything they give me. They can fuck right off.
Lilith glides over to her feathered spy, offering it a treat with all the smug satisfaction of a Bond villain petting their cat. The owl accepts its reward while those black eyes continue their creepy surveillance routine.
Then Little Miss Vampire Princess sashays over to a corner table, pouring herself a generous glass of Grey Goose vodka like she's starring in some twisted Real Housewives of the Seven Realms episode.
She settles into the chair with all the practiced grace of someone who's spent lifetimes perfecting their "I'm better than you" pose, crossing her endless pale legs.
Now that I'm not actively being used as a snack, I finally get a good look at my captor.
She's tall and model-thin, with fire-red hair cascading dramatically to her waist like some gothic Rapunzel.
Those gravity-defying breasts? Definitely aftermarket additions.
And that skin-tight red dress? Pure vampire hooker chic.
Honestly, she looks like she raided the "Desperate Immortal Seeking Attention" section at Vampires R Us. But hey, when you've had hundreds of years to perfect your look, and you still end up looking like a blood-sucking streetwalker, that's on you, honey.