Chapter 28 Marcus
MARCUS
Istretch, my muscles stiff from dozing off in the chair, joints protesting as I force myself upright.
Fatigue clings to me, but I drag my focus back to the room.
Esmerelda is curled on the couch, her head tipped into her hand, lips parted slightly in sleep.
Stray strands of dark hair have slipped free, softening her usually sharp edges.
She looks so peaceful that it disarms me, easing the tension that’s been housed in my chest since we arrived.
For a moment, I almost regret the impatience gnawing at me, the restless urge to get this meeting with the coven leaders over with.
Watching Esmerelda like this makes me want to hold on to the quiet.
Part of me wishes I could call it off, just let her sleep, let her have this one rare moment of peace.
But this meeting is too important. We can’t afford to walk away. Not now.
Even in slumber, she looks immaculate. The suit clings to her like it was conjured from a spell, every line sharp, every seam in place. But I know it isn’t magic, just Belvedere’s sharp eye. I have to give the man credit; he knows how to shop, how to choose pieces that project control and power.
Still, Esmerelda doesn’t need any of it. She could walk in here wearing rags and she’d still draw every eye. There’s something about the way she carries herself, even now, asleep, that makes it impossible not to notice her.
The door finally clicks open, and we all stir to attention.
And even though Esmerelda has just woken up, she looks ready for anything.
My attention reluctantly travels to the man at the door.
Compared to him, we might as well be dressed in thrift-store rejects.
His black pinstripe suit is flawlessly tailored.
The cuffs peek from beneath a jacket cut to perfection, and his pointed shoes gleam as though they’d been through a twenty-four-hour buffing machine.
Gold chains hang around his neck, rings glitter on manicured fingers, and the air around him carries the subtle arrogance of someone who spends more time in front of a mirror than anywhere else.
“Please accept my apology for the delay,” he says, his voice nasally and drawn-out.
I look at the Rolex knockoff Belvedere scrounged up from a “friend” of his. “It’s nearly dawn.”
I swear I can see the disdain etched into his features, even though not a single muscle in his face shifts.
It’s in the stillness, in the deliberate calm.
It’s the same way a parent acts when their child is testing their patience.
His words are smooth, but they carry an edge meant to remind us we’re on his turf.
“Being so far underground does allow some leeway,” he says, his voice clipped as though he’s bored just explaining it. “Our coven tends to retire much later than most, often preferring to inter themselves a few hours after dawn.”
It’s a statement of superiority, a quiet flex that their way of life is better than most, that their power is such that they even have the luxury of choosing when they sleep.
I flick a glance at Leonard, sharing a look that speaks volumes. No wonder this coven is one of the most powerful—they clearly have advantages that they use to the fullest.
In silence, we follow him down a long, narrow passage, our footsteps against the stone mimicking our heartbeats.
The air grows cooler the deeper we go, heavy with the faint scent of earth and something I can’t quite identify that clings to my tongue.
At the second-to-last door on the right, he stops.
That’s when it hits me, I never caught his name.
The oversight needles at me, but asking now would only spotlight my mistake, and I can’t afford to look careless in a place like this.
He pushes open a massive door carved with the likeness of an ancient battle.
Figures locked in combat, fangs, blades, and claws etched so precisely that it seems the artist was trapped in the violent memories.
My gut tightens. Judging by the turn of the corridor and the stillness pressing in, we’ve reached the heart of the underground compound.
Exactly where they want us.
The room beyond the doors is vast, much larger than I’d expected.
My gaze is immediately drawn upward to the vaulted ceilings.
Dim light spills from the wrought-iron candelabra.
Black marble walls gleam, veined with red rivulets that could easily be blood.
The long table at the center is carved from obsidian, surrounded by six high-backed chairs.
Two thrones, grotesque and commanding, sit on a raised dais crafted to resemble human skulls, making the hair on the back of my neck rise.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they were real.
Curious vampires sit on benches lining the walls, their pale, haunted faces are unnerving but not as unnerving as the tapestries behind them.
Each depicts vampires feeding on humans in scenes more erotic than horrific.
I guess that’s for show. Stained glass windows in deep reds and purples dot the chamber, though I can’t fathom why underground vampires need stained glass, and I won’t be asking.
Seated upon the central throne is Alaric Faustus, head of the Mephistus coven.
He is draped in black velvet robes, heavy gold chains spilling down his chest, enormous rings glittering on his fingers.
To his right sits his eldest daughter, Victoria, regal in a long red gown, her black hair glossy under the dim light.
Beside her lounges his third son, Dorian, eyes sharp, his presence restless.
On Alaric’s left is Augustus, the retired patriarch, his withered frame still imposing beneath matching black velvet.
And lastly, at the edge of the dais, the chief advisor, Cassian, watches silently.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the escort intones, voice echoing across the chamber, “may I present…” and he starts prattling off our names like we’re the gladiators waiting to be sacrificed to the lions.
The spectators clap, and I’m waiting for a bunch of trumpet players to skulk out in knickerbockers and feathered caps. Mercifully, that doesn’t happen.
All eyes shift to the dais. Alaric sits ramrod straight. His spine looks like it doesn’t bend, his black velvet robes pool around him, the weight of his presence filling every inch of the room. When he raises his hand, the movement is small, but it carries the command of centuries.
For a beat, none of us move. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable, until Belvedere steps forward. He bows low as he walks the few steps to the dais, takes the vampire’s hand, and presses his lips to the massive ring. The gesture is smooth and practiced, as if he knew this was coming.
The rest of us fall in line. My stomach twists as I step forward.
Every instinct in me wants to kick against bowing to anyone.
I’m the alpha, I don’t bend the knee. But there’s no avoiding it.
I bow, take Alaric’s cold hand, and kiss the ring.
The metal tastes of iron, but it’s the skin beneath that gets me—clammy, lifeless, colder than ice.
The chill seeps into me, crawling up my arm, and it takes everything I have not to flinch or pull back.
By the time I rejoin the others, the shiver is lodged deep in my bones.
Once the ritual is complete, Alaric reclines in his throne, studying us with eyes as cold as icicles. The silence after the display is worse than the act itself, like he’s giving us the chance to squirm before he speaks.
Finally, his voice cuts through the tension. “What can we do for you today?”
Esmerelda straightens, her spine taut as a bowstring, chin lifting just enough to meet the weight of every eye in the chamber. She draws in a steady breath, though I can see the flicker of nerves in the rise and fall of her chest. When she speaks, her voice carries, calm but edged with authority.
“We have come to warn you. There is to be an attack on the Mephistus coven.”
The words drop into the silence like stones into a well.
Alaric doesn’t flinch, but his fingers tighten on the arms of his throne, the slow curl of knuckles against velvet and gold. The faint scrape of his rings against the carved wood echoes louder than it should in the quiet. His gaze sweeps over us with the patience of a predator.
“Oh?” His tone is measured, almost mild, though the undertone is anything but. “And who, may I ask, will be responsible for this?”
The air is heavy with expectation. I feel the eyes of everyone drilling into us, waiting, like cobras ready to strike. Esmerelda doesn’t look away. Now is not the time to be thinking this, but she’s so fucking sexy.
“We have reason to believe it is your son. Maximillian.”
The name hangs in the air like a curse.
At once, the stillness fractures. A low ripple of sound moves across the dais, robes shifting, sharp intakes of breath, an incredulous murmur rising from the gathered vampires.
Dorian leans forward in his chair, eyes flashing.
Victoria stiffens, her hands curling into fists on her lap.
Even the advisor’s mask of calm tightens by a fraction.
Alaric’s gaze remains locked on us, his face unreadable. The tension winds tighter, stretching the moment thin, daring us to breathe.
“That is a very risky accusation to make,” Alaric growls.
“It isn’t an accusation,” Esmerelda counters, stepping forward. “It is the truth. The threats came from your son’s mouth.”
Victoria’s voice slices through the chamber.
“You dare accuse my brother? Maximillian is loyal. He has never sought the throne. He has always supported me as heir.” Her words ring with conviction, but I catch the tremor beneath them, the crack she quickly covers with growing anger. She leans forward, eyes blazing.