Chapter 10 Erik
Erik
From my concealed vantage point, I observe the scene with deliberate restraint, my jaw clenching at Lilith's imperious command. "Don't keep us waiting, Silas. We don't have all night."
The assembled garbage—society's elite vampires draped in designer wear and manufactured superiority—mill about like vultures circling their prey.
Their collective greed and depravity fill the air as thick as the scent of aged blood.
My infiltration among them proves almost insultingly simple; wealth breeds complacency, and complacency breeds weakness.
Dani, forcibly restrained while that worthless piece of shit follows Lilith's depraved orders. My fingers itch for Grave Warden's familiar weight—one clean stroke would demonstrate precisely why my blade earned its reputation. Yet strategic necessity dictates patience.
My intelligence network revealed Lilith's masquerade ball and its true nature—an auction where these entitled bastards intend to bid on Dani like some rare artifact.
The mansion blueprints, acquired through my more.
.. sophisticated methods, revealed several promising infiltration points.
The wealthy's predictable obsession with secret passages proves consistently useful.
I located a worthless excuse for a vampire lurking on the mansion's periphery.
Eliminating him and appropriating his formal attire proved efficient—his mask and invitation providing the perfect cover.
While I harbor no moral reservations about dispatching our own kind when necessary, I maintain certain principles regarding humans.
Call it nobility or weakness, but centuries of existence have taught me the value of maintaining some ethical boundaries, even in our darker nature.
Rhyland's rage pulses through our bond like a gathering storm.
His primal need to protect his mate threatens to shatter what little remains of his reasoning.
My attempts to moderate his fury prove about as effective as reasoning with a goddamn hurricane.
We must execute our extraction plan before his arrival inevitably transforms this operation into what Lucian would term a "supernatural shit show. "
Lucian and Emily maintain their positions outside—a decision made upon our arrival. My brother, for once displaying sound judgment, convinced Seraphina to remain at the house with Sable. Having a pure angel in this den of predators would be like igniting dynamite in a powder keg.
My gaze catches the owl perched atop the crystal chandelier—another of Lilith's surveillance tools. Her obsession with the species makes this one's purpose obvious. No doubt it serves as her newest familiar, watching our every move.
The scene before me makes me sick. This worthless excuse for a vampire gorges himself on Dani's blood, her tears cutting deeper than any blade.
The violation transcends mere physical trauma—forced feeding while bonded to Rhyland represents a particularly cruel torture.
Her body cries out for her mate while this pathetic piece of shit forces his attention upon her.
"That's quite enough, Silas darling," Lilith demands. The evil bitch hasn't changed at all.
Yet this scumbag appears to have developed a death wish. Rather than heeding his hierarchy command, Silas tightens his grip, drawing more deeply from Dani's veins. I watch her strength falter, knees beginning to give way.
"For fuck's sake, can we move this along?" I project my irritation across the room. "Some of us have other engagements this evening."
The assembled parasites murmur their assent, their own impatience feeding into my fabricated persona. Yet this worthless bastard continues to defy her, each passing second fueling my growing rage. My fingers flex instinctively. One clean stroke would—
"You absolute imbecile!" Lilith's hand shoots out, yanking Silas away with such force that Dani collapses into the chair. Her green eyes flash with rage. "When I give an order, I expect it to be followed immediately."
Silas cowers, Dani's blood staining his unworthy mouth. "Forgive me, Mistress. Her taste... it's beyond anything—"
The words die in his throat—literally. Lilith moves with lethal grace, her fingers tearing through muscle and bone like tissue paper.
Silas's head separates with a wet crack, his final expression frozen in eternal surprise as his body crumples.
Dark blood paints the marble floors while his head rolls to a stop at Dani's feet.
Dani's sharp intake of breath draws my attention. Her eyes wide with terror, skin pale beneath her tan complexion as she presses herself further into the chair. The scent of her fear permeates the air, mixing with copper and death.
Lilith delicately wipes her hands, not a hair out of place.
Her casual display of brutality serves as a stark reminder of why it took both Rhyland and myself, plus ancient Hawthorne magic, to merely imprison her.
Her power radiates through the room like a physical force, millennia of accumulated strength making the air heavy with malevolent energy.
"Now then," her voice maintains its cultured refinement. "Let's be perfectly clear about the rules of engagement. This exquisite creature is merely on loan. Damage my property, defy my wishes, and well..." She nudges Silas's head with her Louboutin heel. "I trust I've made myself clear?"
The assembled crowd shifts nervously, their earlier bloodlust tempered by healthy fear. Even these shit stains recognize an apex predator when they see one.
"Consider yourselves privileged," Lilith continues. "Her blood is simply divine—something none of you pathetic peasants will ever experience again. Now, shall we proceed with our little auction?"
The assembled elite stir with renewed interest, their earlier fear of Lilith's display quickly overshadowed by base desire. Their muttered speculations and thinly veiled hunger fill the air like decay. My jaw clenches hard enough to crack marble as I catalog every exit and potential threat.
"Morgan, dear," Lilith beckons the witch forward. "Do be a love and attend to our merchandise. We can't have damaged goods at auction, now can we?"
The witch's familiar features nag at my memory as she weaves her healing incantation over Dani's wounds.
Where do I know her?
The bleeding from Silas's feeding begins to slow, though the damage—both physical and psychological—has already been done.
Rhyland's fury pulses stronger now—he's getting closer. Time becomes a critical factor.
"Let's begin." She gestures to Dani, displayed like a macabre artwork in that blood-stained white gown—an intended visual designed to entice these assholes' basest instincts.
"Five million dollars seems a reasonable starting point for such a... unique specimen."
The room erupts in a flurry of raised bidding cards. These vultures, so eager to part with their fortunes for a taste of power they don't deserve. Pathetic.
"Oh my," Lilith's laugh rings with false delight, though I detect the underlying cruelty. "Such enthusiasm. Perhaps we're being too modest. Let's start at twenty million, shall we?"
Several cards lower—apparently, some of these worthless assholes have limits to their depravity. I maintain my position, raising my card with indifference, playing the role of wealthy collector.
The numbers climb higher: thirty million, forty, fifty—each bid accompanied by Lilith's performative excitement, like some demented auction house hostess.
I counter each offer, watching these fools deplete their fortunes in pursuit of power they'll never possess—assuming they live long enough to regret their choices.
The bidding has devolved into a two-person war—myself and some arrogant bastard across the room.
We assess each other through our respective masks, this theatrical facade of anonymity serving both our purposes.
Based on his posture and tailoring, his bearing suggests old money, probably European.
Irrelevant details, but years of observation, become a habit.
Dani's labored breathing draws my attention momentarily. Her chest rises and falls, her golden eyes wide with panic as they treat her like a prized thoroughbred.
This arrogant bastard across the room won't claim her—not while I draw breath.
Though I maintain my dispassionate expression, my fingers tighten imperceptibly on the bidding card.
Rhyland would tear through these walls like an enraged berserker, but this situation requires patience, not brute force.
Hold on, Little Huntress. I think, watching her struggle to maintain composure.
Your mate's more controlled brother has this situation well in hand.
My enhanced senses register the threat a fraction of a second too late—an inexcusable tactical error. Powerful arms, cold with death, lock around my head and neck.
I drive my elbow back, aiming for solar plexus—careful, controlled, nothing to draw attention from the auction.
The bastard absorbs the blow like concrete.
My fingers claw at his arms, trying to break his death grip, but his arms might as well be steel bands crushing my neck.
This isn't some fledgling enforcer; this is an executioner, one old enough to match my strength.
The wealthy never play fair.
We struggle in near silence, a deadly dance disguised as a casual embrace to any observing eyes.
My boots slide across marble as he forces me back, each movement precise to avoid disrupting Lilith's little show.
I attempt to shift my weight to gain any fucking leverage, but his grip only tightens—professional, methodical.
The pressure increases with surgical precision.
No rushed amateur move. I feel my vertebrae protest under the growing force—C1 and C2 screaming in warning.
Even for a vampire of my considerable age, a cervical fracture of this magnitude would incapacitate long enough for them to win Dani and claim her as their prize.
One final, desperate attempt to break free—my fingers finding his face, digging for eyes—but it's too late.
The sharp, wet crack of vertebrae shattering echoes through my skull like a gunshot, though I know only supernatural hearing could detect it over the auction's din.
White-hot agony explodes from my neck, racing down my spine like molten steel.
My body betrays me instantly, limbs becoming useless weights as neural pathways sever.
As my face meets marble, my last coherent thought is of the inevitable chaos. Rhyland will come crashing through these walls like an enraged Viking god, probably getting Dani—every fucking one of us—killed in his rage.
Then blessed darkness claims me, and I know nothing more.