Chapter 3

I always thought being devoured would come with more warning.

When it’s werewolves, they growl first. Vampires? Well...

The lights sear down on me, too hot, too bright. I squint through the glare, but it’s hard to tell where the stage ends and the crowd begins. Shapes, shadows, the glint of fangs catching artificial light.

I stand there, frozen. Like prey that hasn’t realized it’s already been caught.

The announcer paces the stage beside me, his voice oily and theatrical, booming through hidden speakers. “Yes. Ironthorn lineage,” he repeats himself.

A murmur rises from the crowd. I recognize nothing, no one. Just the unmistakable sound of wealth and bloodlust pressing in on all sides.

I hear a girl muttering low and desperate behind me. “We should run. All of us. While they’re distracted.”

Another girl snorts—terrified and bitter. “To where? We’re surrounded. We run, we die faster.”

It’s the first time I realize I’m not alone up here. Not really. Not that it makes anything better.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance back.

There are two of them behind me. One has purple hair in a high twist, frizz puffing at the edges like she gave up fighting it halfway through. She glares at the brunette beside her like it’s her fault we’re up here. Her jaw tightens with the kind of rage that comes right before a collapse. The brunette shrinks under the look, shaking her head, shoulders curved inward like she’s trying to disappear into her own bones.

They remember me a few girls in my pack, the she-wolves who would’ve sneered at me if I look at them for too long a week ago. But not now. Now we all stand on the same stage, the same panic.

I shift forward again.

That’s when I notice him. Shifting slowly, one of the shadows peels itself away from the edge of the crowd. He accepts a glass from a servant in black, long fingers ringed in silver. Even from this distance, I can tell he’s the kind who doesn’t walk—he prowls.

The stem of the glass vanishes in his palm. I can’t see what it is in it, but I’d bet everything I’ve got it’s not water. He doesn’t look toward the stage. Not right away. He drinks like this whole thing bores him. Like he’s seen it all before, and none of it matters.

But I don’t buy the act.

His boredom is a mask. A bored man doesn’t wear a suit that crisp or rings that sharp. A bored man doesn’t toy with a drink like it’s foreplay. He’s watching us. Just not with his eyes.

My stomach tightens.

I keep my gaze moving.

The crowd shifts and murmurs like an ocean tide. Some vampires lean forward with predatory grins, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Others look bored—insulted, even. Like they expected a better show.

I spot a pair in the front row playing some silent power game, trading glances like blades. One flicks his fingers, the other responds with a curl of his mouth, and just like that, someone in the back flinches. Chess pieces. Pawns and kings. I bite my tongue, trying to look unfazed.

I meet the gaze of a vampire woman near the front. Her eyes are violet and lined in something glittering black. She tilts her head, tongue running slow over her lips.

I don’t flinch, but the tension ratchets up anyway.

I want to convince myself she’s just trying to get a reaction out of me. That it’s performance. But there’s a flicker in her gaze that makes my skin prickle. Like she’s not pretending.

Like she’s starving.

Somewhere in the sea of bodies, I hear someone laugh a soft, decadent sound. Another clap. Some look at me like they’ve already decided I’m their favorite and the rest of the night is just formalities. A tall man in red raises his glass in my direction, winks. It’s the kind of toast you make to a dying star. Freaking bastard.

I resist the urge to look for the blue-eyed vampire.

If I start scanning the crowd for him, I won’t stop.

I square my shoulders instead. Shame and fear cling to me like extra accessories because, apparently, my microscopic outfit left plenty of room for that. But if they want a show, they’ll get one. Just not the kind they’re expecting.

Behind me, the girl with purple hair breathes out something jagged. It almost sounds like a prayer. Or a countdown.

And suddenly, I wish I had a pack around me again. Even with the worst part that could come with it. But then I recall the cold way my father handed me over like a contract fulfilled.

A small sound brings me back—glass clinking. The man in the shadows lifts his drink again, watching now.

Watching me.

Not bored anymore.

I swallow, keep my chin high. I won’t give them fear.

I glance toward the announcer, my voice is low but steady. “Shouldn’t I already know where I’m going?”

He turns to me, microphone still held casually in one hand. He says, smiling too wide. “Wait. Did you think you’d already been placed in a House?”

I don’t answer.

He leans closer, drops his voice so it doesn’t carry to the crowd. “Oh, poor pup. You thought it’d be easy like that, didn’t you? Oh, no, no. See? First, you’ll be auctioned—then sorted.”

I stop breathing, hearing the pounding sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

His smile turns cruel. “Do you think you’re special or will receive special treatment?” He pulls the mic aside. His next words are quieter, directed at me—and the two girls standing just a little behind. “You’re not. You’re just blood bags.”

Growling, the girl with purple hair behind me lunges forward, a flash of defiance in her eyes, but she’s instantly restrained—arms yanked behind her, mouth silenced by a gloved hand. A vampire I haven’t even noticed before. I don’t move. I already counted on this. If someone snapped, they’d tighten the leash on all of us.

So I stay still. Calm. Sharp.

I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. Don’t react. That’s what he wants.

He turns back to the crowd and clicks his tongue. “Every now and then,” he says theatrically as he glances at the purple haired girl, “a product surprises us.”

Then, I feel the shift before I understand it.

The announcer steps closer. Too close. I flinch back instinctively, but he grabs my wrist and raises it. “Now let’s find out what she really is, shall we?”

The room shifts. Suddenly, I’m not a person—I’m a specimen.

Before I can jerk away, he slices the inside of my arm with a small, silver blade. Quick, practiced, impersonal. The cut isn’t deep, but it bleeds fast.

I gasp as my pulse kicks harder. The cold air hits the wound, and the pain lances through me, sharp and humiliating. I freeze.

The blood drips into a glass vial. A hush falls.

Then the scent hits the room.

Even I can feel it—something electric in the air. Tension snaps tight like a bowstring.

And then chaos.

The blue-eyed vampire stands abruptly from his seat. His chair topples behind him. In a flash, he’s halfway to the stage before the other two vampires intercept him.

They grab his arms, hold him back.

The announcer doesn’t notice. He’s watching the blood.

His eyes widen. A gleam of delight spreads across his face like he’s just found buried treasure.

He turns back to the crowd, lifts the vial, and proclaims with a reverent grin, “AB Negative.”

Gasps ripple across the room.

They’re still holding the blue-eyed vampire back. But he’s stopped fighting now—just watching me with that same sharp focus, like the whole room’s noise has gone silent for him.

There’s no hunger in his expression. No thrill. Just something quieter, tighter. Fury, maybe. Or something worse.

He doesn’t blink. And neither do I.

The announcer smiles wider. “The rarest blood type. A true delicacy.” A deliberate pause, his gaze smoldering. “Reserved for the elite.”

The crowd goes feral.