Chapter 4 - Glass and Thread

Ezekial

18:30 | Solarium Private Club – Lounge Bar, East Wing

She entered quietly.

Didn’t announce herself. Didn’t sweep. Just moved. Like water down stone — smooth, intentional, silent. He caught the scent of her before he even turned fully — warm skin, sharp blood, the ghost of something floral. And beneath it, barely-there, the copper tang of a recent feed.

His jaw tensed.

She’d been fed on earlier. Not unusual. Still — he didn’t like it.

Ezekial glanced toward the system display embedded in his ring. A subtle shift of his fingers brought the interface to life, projected faintly against the matte finish of the booth’s table.

Her VeinCare profile slid open like a scroll.

Jaquelyn Wells.

Age: 28. Status: Human. Classification: Blood Doll (Elite).

Feeding Aptitude: High-Resilience | Cross-Species Compatible.

Blood Yield Limit: 3/day. Recovery Lag: <2 hrs.

Specialty: First Feed Transitions.

Notes: Psychological Stability – Above Standard. Athletic Marker – Flagged. Combat Trained. Prior trauma events recorded but non-disqualifying. Displays high composure under stress testing. Limited emotional reactivity during feed events. Deviation from typical elite doll behavioral markers: avoids personal rapport-building, resists client emotional imprinting. Surpasses expected recovery benchmarks following aggression-flagged sessions.

Disposition: Professional. Not submissive. Not available for bonds.

A rare one, then.

He frowned slightly. Dolls like her didn’t circulate long. That kind of aptitude usually got swept into private retainers or long-term estate contracts. The kind that involved silk-lined feeding salons and perfumed wrists on polished chaise lounges.

Not this.

And not him.

He reread that last line.

Not available for bonds.

Odd. That wasn’t common at her level. Dolls who reached elite classification usually made themselves available for house alignment. Prestige. Protection. Sometimes affection. Occasionally love. But not her. She was off-book. Untethered.

Why?

He considered flagging her and requesting a replacement. Just in case. He didn’t want complications tonight. The neophyte— Topher— was unstable. The turning had taken just enough. Not more. Not quite less. But the margin was thin. He wasn’t interested in adding unpredictability to the equation.

And then— ping.

A faint pulse at the corner of his vision. The suite monitor’s motion alert. Just a twitch. A shift. The childer was beginning to stir. Not dramatic. But sooner than he liked.

Ezekial dismissed the profile and turned his eyes back to the bar.

She was scanning the room, brown eyes already settling on him. Not hesitant. Not demanding. Just… aware. She had presence. Not in the way that demanded attention— but in the way that made you feel foolish for not giving it. She wore professionalism like armor, her composure polished but not hollow.

He didn’t stand. Just lifted two fingers slightly, enough to signal her over.

She approached.

Spine straight, hands at her sides, nothing decorative about her. No coquetry. No pretense. She moved like a soldier reporting to a superior—controlled, exact, but unbowed.

“Mr. Duvarra,” she said by way of greeting.

“Ms. Wells,” he replied, eyes assessing but neutral. “You’ll be going up shortly. He’s begun transition.”

She nodded once— professional, unfazed. There was a pause. A breath that could’ve meant anything.

“I’ve read the briefing,” she said. “He’s flagged as unstable.”

“Yes.”

“But high enough pedigree to meet your quota.”

He said nothing.

She nodded again, faint approval passing through her expression like a shadow. “Understood.”

Then she turned away, movements smooth and grounded. But not before his gaze caught the sway of her braid, the exposed curve of her neck, the calm precision in her stride.

Not flirtation. Not even allure. Just… presence.

And it lingered. He watched her walk. Not with hunger.

With doubt.

He should’ve stopped this hours ago. Should’ve filed an exemption. Should’ve fought harder for a delay.

But now…

Now he had a childer.

And a witness walking toward his mistake.

A witness with precision, nerve, and the kind of confidence that couldn’t be faked. She was composed under pressure — but that wasn’t what troubled him most. What troubled him was how calm he felt watching her go. Like part of him already believed she could handle it. That wasn’t a feeling he welcomed.

His ring vibrated once— silent, specific. He tapped it without looking.

A registrar’s sigil pulsed to life in the air beside him. The voice that followed was calm, clipped, and unmistakably Council. “Lord Duvarra. Initial scan confirms Suite 409 contains a neophyte with a complete genetic imprint from your line. Please confirm your childer’s designation and intent of legitimacy for recordkeeping.”

His lips pressed into a line.

The official voice didn’t change. It never did. He could’ve told them the fledgling had already devoured half a blood doll and they would’ve logged it without inflection.

He closed his eyes for a second longer than necessary, then answered: “Designation: Topher Vale. Confirmed.” He may have to create a childer but he did not have to just hand over his name, that would have to be earned. Somehow he was pretty sure that was not a task that Topher would easily complete.

"Intent of legitimacy remains under review," he added, his voice colder now. "Classification is provisional pending further evaluation."

There was a beat — half a second, maybe less — but it registered. Even the Council's voice paused for breath.

“Confirmed,” the voice replied at last. “Note appended. Status: Conditional. The record is sealed.”.

The sigil blinked out.

He remained still for a moment longer, letting the silence settle around him like ash. Topher Vale. The Council's solution, pressed into his bloodline like a tax. A name on a roster. A burden dressed as obligation.

He turned the thought over again and again, but it wouldn’t settle. It wasn’t that he feared failure. It was that he feared waste — wasting time, energy, effort, blood. And Topher, right now, felt like all four.

When he opened his eyes again, the lounge had gone quieter. Distant music drifted down from the main floor, the air touched faintly with citrus and old stone.

He looked toward the far corridor.

Jaquelyn was waiting at the base of the stairs, posture straight, expression unreadable.

She wasn’t nervous.

Just ready.

She was already part of this.

She just didn’t know it yet.

One mistake recorded.

And another walking straight toward his door.