Chapter 6: When Blood Calls
Alaric
The council chambers are filled with the murmur of voices—lords and ladies speaking in turns, voicing concerns of mortal encroachment, of whispers among the villages, of human hunters growing bold in the dark. I hear their words but do not truly listen. Their voices blur together, a meaningless droning that I have long since mastered the art of enduring. My mind is elsewhere.
Annora.
The name lingers at the forefront of my thoughts, as intoxicating as her scent, as consuming as the moment I first laid eyes upon her. She is dangerous. Not because she wields a sword or threatens our kind with rebellion—no, she is dangerous because she has made me question everything. And questioning is a treacherous path.
“And what of the old laws, Your Majesty?” Lord Tristan’s voice cuts through the haze of my distraction. I lift my gaze to him, expression unreadable. “Some believe they must be upheld with greater vigilance. That the secrecy of our existence depends upon it.”
Before I can respond, a chuckle sounds from the other side of the table.
“Old laws,” Edric scoffs, leaning back in his chair, booted feet resting against the polished wood of the table. “Remind me again why we are shackled to them? Do tell, Lord Tristan, should we be so concerned with preserving rules that belong to the dust of centuries past?”
Tristan exhales sharply, his patience worn thin by my brother’s irreverence. “The secrecy of our kind is what has allowed us to survive for generations. To rule from the shadows, unseen by mortals. Would you rather we be hunted like beasts?”
Edric smirks. “Would we not be the hunters instead? We are the superior race, are we not?”
A few nobles murmur in agreement, while others cast him wary glances. I say nothing. I watch.
“And this law of yours,” he continues, his tone turning mockingly pensive. “No feeding on the innocent? A noble sentiment, I suppose. But tell me, dear council, what if the innocent one is someone we desire? What if, against all sense and reason, we fall in love with a human?”
The chamber falls into a heavy silence. Eyes flick to me, searching for a reaction. But I give them none.
I remain still, though every muscle in my body coils like a predator poised to strike.
Annora.
Edric watches me, his smirk deepening as he catches the subtle stiffening of my shoulders, the slight shift in my jaw. He knows exactly what he’s done.
“Curious, is it not?” He muses, as if he has not just set the room ablaze with an unspoken challenge. “That we are allowed to kill, to drink, to conquer—but to love? That is the crime, is it not?”
Tristan clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “It is a matter of self-preservation. A human lover is a liability.”
“A liability?” Edric laughs, shaking his head. “Or a threat to your control?"
My grip tightens on the armrest of my throne. My silence is costing me. I should put an end to this discussion. But for the first time in a long while, I find myself unwilling to speak a lie.
The truth is, I do not know if Edric is wrong.
Later, when the council has dispersed, I call for her.
Annora enters the chamber with silent grace, the soft rustle of her cream-colored gown brushing against the marble floors. The fabric clings to her frame in a way that is both modest and enticing, her golden-brown skin illuminated by the flickering candlelight. Her soft curls are gathered high upon her head, a few wisps escaping to frame her delicate face.
My breath stills.
She is breathtaking. And she does not even realize it.
I school my features, suppressing the way my body reacts in her presence. She is here to help me with the tedious task of sorting through decrees and royal correspondences—an excuse, if nothing more, to keep her near me for a little while longer.
She curtsies before stepping forward, awaiting my command.
“Come,” I murmur, motioning to the table before me. “Help me with these.”
Annora nods and moves beside me, her scent filling my lungs—a mixture of lavender and something entirely her own. She begins to sift through the papers, delicate fingers running over wax seals and parchment, oblivious to the effect she has on me.
I should send her away. I should not want this.
But I do.
A sharp intake of breath startles me.
I turn just as Annora winces, pulling her hand back. A thin line of crimson wells at the tip of her finger where she has caught it on the edge of a broken seal.
The scent of her blood hits me like a thunderclap.
My vision narrows, and every inch of my body tenses, the beast within me surging forward, clawing for control. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced before. The air grows thick, charged, as if the very room itself holds its breath.
Annora, unaware of the danger she is in, brings her finger to her lips.
A low growl rumbles deep within my chest.
She startles, eyes wide as they meet mine.
Something in my gaze must terrify her, because she takes a step back, her bloodstained finger frozen near her lips.
“Your Majesty?” she whispers.
I grip the table, my fingers digging into the wood as I force myself to stay seated. My fangs ache, my throat burns. I am losing control.
The moment hangs between us, a dangerous precipice. One wrong move, and I will fall.
And if I fall—I do not think I will stop.