Chapter eight: Noble's Intrigue
A knock—three soft raps—broke the silence.
Elira straightened as the door creaked open. Alaric entered, stiff as ever in his dark coat.
"Lord Thorne requests your presence in the East Salon," he said without meeting her eyes.
Elira blinked. "Now?"
"Yes," he said, then added after a pause, "He asked me to tell you to dress accordingly."
She frowned. "For what? Is it another dinner?"
Alden's jaw twitched. "The Council is convening tonight. His Lordship will be presenting you once more."
Her heart skipped. "Presenting me Again?"
The butler remained silent.
She stood slowly. "Tell him I'm not some trinket to be paraded."
"That would be unwise to say aloud, miss."
"I'll say worse if he thinks—" she stopped herself. No. Not now. Not yet.
Alden inclined his head, then slipped out.
Elira paced.
He knew she hated this. The way they all stared. Whispered. The way the nobles at the Crimson Feast had eyed her like a blood-soaked prize on display. Was this punishment? Or just politics?
She reached for the gown—deep crimson velvet, high-collared, long-sleeved. Conservative enough to shield, but dramatic enough to sting.
As she fastened the collar at her throat, she paused.
Would he approve?
The thought disgusted her. She should not care. And yet…
I could break you.
His voice echoed again.
But I won't.
A shiver ran through her as she stepped into the hall.
By the time she stepped into the Drawing Room, the sun had sunk low, casting long amber shadows through the stained glass. Thorne stood by the hearth, not seated—he never sat when she entered, she realized. He was always poised, always watching.
Tonight, he was dressed in obsidian black, his high-collared coat lined in silver thread. The contrast with her red was deliberate.
"I see you decided to follow instructions," he said without turning.
"I decided to avoid another lecture."
His lips twitched—just a flicker.
"You are learning."
Elira crossed her arms, standing in the center of the room like a soldier awaiting sentencing.
"What is this?" she asked. "Another display? Another night where I'm paraded in front of nobles like an exotic beast?"
He turned then, slowly, eyes gleaming like cut ice.
"No," he said. "This time, you will be announced."
The word chilled her more than she expected.
"Announced?" she echoed.
He stepped toward her with the grace of a blade being unsheathed. "The Crimson Council reconvenes tomorrow. You will be presented formally, not as my pet—" he said the word with faint disgust, "—but as someone under my personal protection. That distinction is... necessary."
Elira swallowed hard. "Why?"
Lucien's gaze didn't flinch. "Because rumors are growing. Because your bloodline may not be as forgotten as you believe. And because some among them would rather you vanish before truth has a chance to breathe."
She flinched at the edge in his voice.
"Don't mistake this for kindness," he added. "It is strategy."
"You always choose strategy over people," she snapped.
His eyes narrowed. "And you always choose pride over survival."
A tense silence stretched between them.
"So this is for my safety?" she asked, voice sharp.
"This is for my interests," he replied, cold and honest. "But you benefit from the shield."
Her spine stiffened. "Do I have a choice?"
His expression cooled further. "You always have a choice, Elira. But every choice has weight. And you are not strong enough yet to carry the heavier ones."
Silence stretched between them, brittle and biting.
Then he stepped past her, brushing her shoulder faintly as he reached the door.
"Be ready by dawn," he said without looking back. "And don't forget who gave you that collar, or who kept it from killing you."
Finally, he turned towards her briefly. "Wear the obsidian pendant. It marks my House."
"You mean it marks me as yours."
He glanced over his shoulder. "You've been mine since the moment you stepped into this House."
Her breath caught, but he didn't wait for a reply
The door clicked shut behind him.
Elira stood there long after he left, her fists trembling.
An hour later, she descended the grand staircase, heart pounding beneath her ribs. The obsidian pendant lay cold against her skin.
The carriage ride was silent. Lucien sat opposite her in the dark velvet cabin, his eyes closed, fingers steepled.
He didn't speak—not until they reached the towering estate of Lord Verrian, one of the Council's oldest and most influential members.
The ballroom shimmered with an otherworldly glow—gold leaf and crystal chandeliers casting spiderweb shadows along the velvet-draped walls. The music, too elegant to be welcoming, drifted like mist through the towering archways. A hush rippled through the room as Lord Lucien Thorne entered with Elira on his arm.
All eyes turned.
She felt them like needles—eyes that lingered too long, that stripped her dignity like silk from skin. Her steps faltered for only a second, but Lucien's grip tightened imperceptibly at her elbow, grounding her.
"Elira," he said low, his voice precise, "you will walk. With your chin high."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Her spine straightened. The collar around her throat pulsed once, a cold warning against disobedience. She raised her chin and met the sea of vampire nobility with hollow, defiant eyes.
She was not a guest here.
She was the spectacle.
Gasps and murmurs followed them, veiled behind fans and wine glasses. Somewhere near the center, a tall man in a navy coat embroidered with silver broke from a small circle of nobles and strode toward them with a leisurely, smug gait.
Lord Alric Vaen.
Elira recognized the type even before he spoke—the smile too polished, the gaze too casual. The kind of man who didn't ask before touching.
"Well now," Alric drawled, bowing with exaggerated flair. "Lord Thorne never fails to surprise. And who is this stunning creature on your arm?"
Elira didn't respond. She could feel Lucien's energy shift beside her, a chill curling in the air.
"She is mine," Lucien said, the words crisp as ice.
Alric smiled wider. "Yours? Oh, forgive me. I thought you'd brought a portrait to life. Such exquisite coloring." His eyes dropped to her collar. "Ah, and marked too. You always did prefer your pets rare and disobedient."
His hand moved—reaching, slow and theatrical, as if to touch a lock of her hair.
Elira flinched before she could stop herself.
She didn't need to.
Lucien moved like shadow cutting through flame. His hand snapped up, catching Alric's wrist mid-air.
The room went still.
Alric chuckled, trying to turn it into a joke. "Temper, Thorne."
Lucien's voice was a whisper of steel. "Touch her again, and I'll remove your fingers one by one."
Alric's smile cracked. For a heartbeat, there was silence, taut and ringing.
Then a velvet voice sliced through it.
"Must we threaten dismemberment so early in the evening?"
A figure drifted toward them, her gown a river of black lace and blood-red silk. Lady Seraphine Duskmoor. She moved like she'd choreographed the hush itself, every step deliberate, every glance measured.
She placed a gloved hand lightly on Alric's arm.
"Run along, darling," she said, not looking at him. "Before Lord Thorne makes good on that promise. I do so hate the smell of cauterized flesh."
Alric huffed, straightened his coat, and with a tight-lipped nod to Elira, turned and walked away—though not without one last lingering look.
Seraphine turned then, eyes like garnets catching firelight. She studied Elira.
"Well," she murmured, "aren't you a storm wrapped in silk."
Elira said nothing, unsure if it was a compliment or a threat.
Seraphine's gaze dropped briefly to the collar, then lifted again to meet Lucien's.
"You've taken on quite the project, Lord Thorne. What is she?"
Lucien's expression didn't change. "None of your concern."
Seraphine's lips curved, slow and knowing. "Then I shall make it mine."
She turned toward the crowd and lifted her hand in a beckoning gesture. "Cairos,
come meet the newest creature in Lucien's menagerie."
A figure detached from the shadows beyond the chandelier light.
Lord Cairos Vanthe. Tall, broad-shouldered, with hair like coal dust and eyes like polished onyx. He moved with a deliberate elegance, dressed in ink-black robes embroidered with dark vines.
He stopped beside Seraphine and stared at Elira.
Too long.
"Charming," he said at last. "Where did you find her?"
"She wasn't found," Lucien said coldly. "She was chosen."
Elira fought the urge to step back. Cairos's gaze felt invasive, as though peeling her apart to examine the marrow. His tongue touched the inside of his cheek, thoughtful.
"She smells… familiar."
Lucien shifted slightly, barely noticeable, but the message was clear.
Back off.
Cairos ignored it.
"Human, and yet… not quite." His eyes narrowed. "There's something in the blood. An echo."
"Enough," Lucien said.
Cairos smirked, amused by the tension. "As you wish."
Seraphine's hand brushed Cairos's sleeve, a signal. He stepped back, but Seraphine lingered.
"Elira," she said softly, as though testing the weight of the name on her tongue. "I hope we'll speak again before the night is over."
Elira held her gaze, despite the tremor in her hands.
"I'm sure we will," she replied, voice quiet but steady.
That earned her a real smile.
Seraphine turned and glided back into the crowd, Cairos following like a hound at her heel.
Lucien didn't speak until they were halfway across the ballroom again.
"You held your own," he said, low.
She looked at him. "Was I supposed to?"
He didn't answer. But his hand at the small of her back remained—for once, not possessive, but… grounding.
The music swelled. Laughter. A clink of glasses.
But all Elira could think about were Seraphine's words.
What is she?
And Cairos's eyes—black and bottomless, like he'd seen something inside her even she didn't know was there.