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Gina

Gina moved through the night like smoke, her dark waves swaying with each purposeful step. She had spent the last several nights tracking rumors and faint trails, and tonight her patience had finally borne fruit. A fledgling camp of rogue vampires—barely more than a loose knot of strays—had taken root on the outskirts of town. She could pick out at least four distinct sire scents among them, each one reckless and undisciplined. These were not careful predators. They fed without restraint, leaving glassy-eyed humans and half-formed ferals in their wake. No larger plan. No structure. Just every vampire for themselves. This, she judged, was a distinct danger to Mathias’ entire camp.

One scent in particular pulled at her: the sire who had imprinted on at least a half dozen ferals. She followed it like a thread of silk through the darkness, deeper into the old cemetery on the edge of town. The trail led her to a weathered mausoleum, its stone door slightly ajar.

She slipped inside.

The scent struck her like a physical blow. It was rich, dark, and enthralling, wrapping around her senses with an almost violent allure. It tugged at her almost as powerfully as the sun’s jealous whisper. Her pulse, long unused, gave a single sluggish thud. Before she could do more than glimpse a tall figure with sharp features and burning eyes in the shadows, he exploded into motion.

He raced past her in a shadow of blinding speed, gone before she could even turn her head.

Gina stood frozen for a long moment, stunned. She had been surprised before—but never well, and not for a very long time. This sire, this creator of feral feeders, had caught her completely off guard. A slow, dangerous smile curved her full lips.

She wanted to know more.

Sifting through the temporary nest he had left behind, she was surprised again. The small space was littered with books—worn leather volumes of classics stacked haphazardly against the stone wall. Shakespeare. Dante. Austen. Nietzsche. A scholar’s hoard hidden in a tomb.

Almost as an afterthought, Gina knelt and began stacking the books with careful, deliberate movements, ordering them by size and subject until the pile stood neat and respectful. She brushed dust from her hands, cast one last lingering look at the space, and slipped back out into the night.

The Sun’s Call was quieter for a moment, replaced by a new, sharper curiosity.

This rogue sire was no ordinary threat.

And Gina intended to find out exactly what he was.

Chapter Eleven

Carson

Carson stood at the edge of the warehouse’s transformed interior, the air thick with the mingled scents of blood, arousal, sweat, and something sharper—sour disappointment rolling off several of the camp members like a tangible fog.

The illusions were subtler tonight, featuring flickering candlelight that wasn’t real, soft murmurs of music that wrapped around the senses like invisible silk, the faint scent of perfume and desire masking the underlying chill of undeath. Mathias’ hand rested possessively at the small of his back, a grounding weight amid the sea of ancient, wary eyes now fixed on him.

“Stay close,” Mathias murmured, roughness threading his velvet tone. “They sense the bond. Some acknowledge the strength to be found in it. Others will see the bond itself as weakness. A distraction. A liability.”

Before Carson could respond, a commotion erupted near the far shadows. Rolf—white-blond hair disheveled, blue eyes wild with unchecked hunger—had Joe pinned against a crumbling pillar. His friend’s face was slack, glassy-eyed in the way Carson had come to dread, a thrall’s empty, blissful stare that spoke of too many forbidden feeds. Joe’s body twitched with helpless pleasure even as Rolf fed deeply, the wet sounds of sucking and soft moans obscene in the relative quiet.

“Rolf!” Mathias’ command cracked through the space like a whip. He moved forwards, tearing the younger vampire away with brutal efficiency. Joe slumped to the floor, breathing shallow, a thin trail of blood trickling from twin punctures at his throat. “This ends now. Your obsession endangers the entire camp.”

Rolf snarled, fangs bared, but Mathias’ clasp on his throat was iron. “He calls to me the way yours does to you. I can’t stop—”

“You will.” Mathias’ voice dropped into that hypnotic satin, laced with undeniable sire authority. “I exile you from this camp. Thirty nights. Hunt the edges of rival territories if you must, but do not return until you master yourself. Ferals are born from such loss of control—failed turns that twist into mindless beasts. I will not allow you to create your first...or your second.”

Murmurs and sour disappointment thickened the air as Rolf was dragged towards the doors. Several whelps watched with resentment burning in their too-bright eyes, clearly viewing the interruption as another sign that Carson’s presence weakened them all. Gina lingered near the center, her intent gaze flicking between Mathias and Carson with thinly veiled jealousy and calculation.

Mathias returned, pulling Carson firmly into the circle of the full camp. “I’m only going to remind everyone of this one time. This man is Carson. He is my soul mate. You should all remember that he stands under my protection. Any who touch him will answer to me.”

The murmurs rippled louder. A few whelps—unstable fledglings with jittery movements—shifted restlessly, one hissing low, “He scents of daylight and ruin. The Sun’s Call will grow louder for us all because of this damned weakness.”

An elder glared openly, lips pulled back to show discolored and chipped fangs. “Soul mates are legends for a reason. They fracture camps. We all know that rival camps press our territories.”

A swell of hunger that Carson could feel filled the air, and Mathias shook his head. “To be discussed at a later date. Right now, we continue the reaping.”

Carson felt the threats like phantom claws scraping down his spine, but the ritual was beginning around them, its pull drowning out the hostility. The camp settled into their careful feeding dance—a sensual, nonsexual communion designed for survival. Humans, lured by layered illusions of music, warmth, and desire, moved among them in dreamy surrender. Vampires fed sparingly, hands stroking reverently, bodies swaying in intimate but tightly controlled embraces.

The air grew heavy with the sounds of soft gasps, wet feeding, and the rustle of clothing. Glassy-eyed thralls sighed in shared bliss, their bodies arching and writhing slowly against cool vampire forms, their hips rolling, hands clutching, and skin flushed with artificial ecstasy. The scent of blood and arousal thickened, metallic and sweet, while sour disappointment still lingered from those who envied or feared Carson’s place at Mathias’ side.