Damon
I tasted her.
And now I want her.
Not just her body—not just the way she lted against like she’d been waiting for it her whole life. I want all of her. Her loyalty. Her submission. Her soul.
But not if she gives it to soone else.
Not if she thinks I’m him.
That na. That damn na she moaned in the middle of kissing . Kane.
I nearly lost control. Almost forgot who I was when I had her pinned against that wall, dress bunched around her thighs, breath trembling against my mouth. For one dangerous mont, I believed she saw . Damon. The whole monster she keeps pretending doesn’t exist.
But no.
She thought it was him. That soft, broken, pathetic part of I tore apart to beco what I am now.
Kane.
Stupid. Weak.
She moaned his na.
I don’t even rember leaving the house. I don’t rember the door. Or the halls. I rember rage. Thick and black and boiling in my veins like acid. My feet moved fast, and I let them. Let the storm inside carry as far away from her as I could get.
I’m miles from the estate now. Deep in the forest. My body humming with leftover heat from her skin and the violent need to forget.
She doesn’t want .
She wants a ghost. A shadow of who I used to be. The part I killed to beco this.
So fine.
Let her want Kane. Let her mourn him. Let her rot in that illusion while I build sothing that matters.
I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving. Not a soul. Not my guards. Not the council. Not even her. Because if they knew, they’d plot. Use my absence to spark rebellion. They’ve been waiting for a crack.
But I won’t give them one.
I don’t need rest. I don’t need to carry anything. I can survive on blood. Thrive on it.
My vampire instincts keep sharp. My wolf can hunt for himself. The two halves of —the ones I finally fused—don’t argue anymore. They crave the sa thing now.
Destruction.
Power.
Chaos.
The vampire kingdom is too quiet. Too content. Their royalty sits on silken thrones, bloated with comfort and arrogance, thinking their ancient bloodlines make them untouchable.
Let’s see how untouchable they feel when the bodies start piling up.
I’ll start small. Silent. One royal at a ti. No traces. No patterns. No scent. I’ll tear them apart and leave clues pointing to their own kind.
Make it look like an inside job.
Let the paranoia spread like infection. Let them doubt each other. Turn on each other. I’ll be the whisper in the dark, the shadow at the edge of the room. I’ll watch them burn their own court down before I ever step into the light.
And when there’s only one of them left—bleeding, broken, desperate—I’ll walk into the ashes and take the throne they thought was safe.
I’ll carve my na into the stone with their blood.
Damon.
Not Kane. Not Dean. Not so tragic half of a broken beast. .
The hybrid.
The Alpha King.
The beginning of the end.
And Elena?
She can keep chasing ghosts. Keep dreaming that Kane’s coming back.
But when she wakes up—when she finally sees for who I am—I want her to rember exactly what it felt like to scream my na with her legs wrapped around and realize...
That was never Kane.
It was always .
The vampire kingdom lies ahead—tucked beneath ancient stone and hollowed catacombs, wrapped in illusion spells and arrogance. They think their wards can keep monsters out.
They’ve never t .
The guards at the outer gates never saw coming. One blink, and their heads were separated from their bodies. I didn’t waste ti draining them. I didn’t need to. Their blood wasn’t worthy.
I stepped over the corpses like cracked branches. My boots didn’t even scuff.
Every inch deeper into their sanctuary, the air thickened with pride and tradition. Velvet-lined halls, carved archways dripping with chandeliers. Gold. Crystal. Decadence.
I prefer stone and blood.
There were five royals in this bloodline. Five pureblood nobles who traced their lineage back to the original turning. Untouchable. Ancient. Revered.
I took my ti with them.
The first one—Lord Marcen—was asleep when I slit his throat and peeled the skin from his jaw. I left him in his bed, posed like he was praying, his tongue nailed to the headboard with a silver fork.
The second, Lady Virelle, was bathing. Warm water. Rose petals. Soft music playing. I dragged her under, let her lungs fill with the sa water she soaked in like a spoiled doll. Her nails scratched at my arms, but I didn’t flinch. When the life drained from her eyes, I kissed her forehead and whispered, "You should’ve scread louder."
I made sure the blood pooled out of the tub and spelled a different royal’s na on the floor. After of course yanking out their hearts, we don’t want them coming back to life after all that why vampires were called the undead.
Paranoia. That’s the ga.
The third one tried to run. A young lord, barely a century old. He thought his speed could save him. I hunted him through the halls like a wolf in a henhouse. He slipped. I tore his Achilles tendon out with my teeth. Dragged him back screaming. His death was slow—deliberate.
I let him see .
"You’re not a wolf," he whimpered, blood foaming from his lips.
"No," I smiled. "I’m worse."
I painted the walls with his blood. Left his heart tucked neatly into a wine goblet and propped it on the royal dining table.
The last two were lovers—siblings, but that never mattered to old blood. They shared a chamber, a bond, a belief that no one could ever breach the sanctity of their bloodline.
I let them watch each other die.
I pinned the sister to the wall with iron stakes. She scread his na. He ran to her like so tragic knight—and I ripped his spine out through his chest before he got halfway.
The sister spat at . Told I’d burn. Told the ancestors would curse .
I smiled and carved a spiral into her stomach with my claws, deep enough to show bone. "Let them try," I growled.
Then I crushed her skull against the wall until it split like an overripe fruit.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Sacred.
The vampire kingdom was without its royal bloodline for the first ti in nearly eight hundred years.
I stood in the carnage—soaked, grinning, unbothered. I didn’t leave a single footprint. Not a speck of scent. I wiped the silver from my fingers and walked back into the shadows.
Let the servants scream when they wake. Let the lesser houses point fingers and draw swords.
Let the blood war begin.
All while I watch.
No one saw .
No one even knows I was here.
But they’ll feel .
In every scream. Every suspicion. Every corpse.
They’ll feel the shadow of sothing ancient and wrong moving through their kingdom.
And when the dust settles, and they’re down on their knees begging for peace—
I’ll be the only one left to answer.
Damon.
The predator.
The King.
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