“You said you wanted someone real. What about all the servants you just sent out? None of them fit the bill?” Cassia asks as she drifts toward my paintings, studying them the way she did the night before.
“No,” I answer honestly. “They have their uses, but all of them know better than to cross me. Even if that means lying through their teeth to keep me satisfied.” Though my men know better than to lie to me. To work for me. To handle the things they do, honesty is a given. A must from them.
As for the others, they don’t matter. I’ve ruled empires built on lies, fear, and devotion masquerading as loyalty. I’ve surrounded myself with creatures who’d say anything if it meant earning favor or mercy. Real has never been a requirement.
It was my birthright. As the son of the God of the Underworld, I’ve been deemed the Vampire King, and that’s the way it will stay. It keeps order where there would be chaos otherwise.
Yet, hearing her say what she says feels like a challenge I didn’t know I was craving.
“You keep saying you need this job,” I say, leaning back against my desk, watching her trace the frames without really seeing them. “Badly enough to swallow your pride. Badly enoughto stand your ground with me instead of walking out the first time I pushed. Why?”
She stills.
Just for a fraction of a second. Most people wouldn’t notice. I do.
“That doesn’t concern you,” she says, not looking at me.
“It does if it explains why you’re here,” I reply. “People don’t take abuse for no reason. They endure it because the alternative scares them more.”
Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t turn.
“I said I need the job,” she replies. “I didn’t say you get to dissect my life.”
Interesting.
I step closer, careful not to crowd her. “You don’t strike me as desperate,” I say quietly. “Cautious, yes. Guarded. Angry in a way that’s been buried deep. But not weak.”
Her fingers curl around the edge of a frame.
“That’s because I learned the hard way not to look it. If you look weak, people will prey upon you.”
There it is.
Not a confession. Not a story. Just enough truth to confirm my instincts.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
She turns, eyes sharp. “No.”
Flat. Immediate.
I lift my hands, not in surrender but acknowledgment. “Fair.”
She studies me like she’s deciding whether to trust that answer. Then she exhales and turns away again.
“People always think they’re entitled to explanations,” she says. “Especially when they’ve got power.”
“Power doesn’t make me curious,” I counter. “It just means I don’t have to pretend I’m not.”
That earns a quiet huff of laughter.
She moves to the window, palms pressed to the glass, staring down at the city like it might offer answers she’s not ready to voice.
“You don’t want to know,” she says. “Everyone thinks they do until they realize it’s not a story with a clean ending.”
I let the silence sit.
Then she surprises me.
