Page 17 of Vampire Savage

It makes me want her even more.

Fortunately, I want her father dead more than her.

“As we discussed over emails, I’m looking to expand into different industries. A passion of mine, shared by my late wife, is collecting relics from ancient civilizations. I have an impressive collection already, and I’m nearly ready to open the studio. If you, as you claim, can provide information on where the Dark Helm is, and facilitate the sale, it will be the centerpiece of my collection when the doors open.”

The Dark Helm, the helm which allowed Hades to become invisible to even the Titans. I know exactly where it is, just as I know demons within the motorcycle club will never part with it. They have named themselves the Knights of Hades, after all. If a man like Oberon found himself in possession of such a powerful item, he’d never sell it. He knows how much magic is in the real world, unlike many human billionaires with too much money to spend and a penchant for old things. No, he’d be about as willing to sell the Dark Helm as he would the obsidian chalice that’s kept him alive these last four centuries.

“I have a contact with a verified account of its location,” I answer smoothly. “As well as interested buyers for what may be in your current collection. As we are speaking plainly, I must insist on viewing your collection to validate the authenticity. I cannot risk doing business with someone who has potential replicas, I’m sure you understand. Even one replica could destroy my reputation as a negotiator.”

Oberon studies me, a hard look in his dark eyes as he realizes I am not someone who will bow to his name and wealth.

“Trust, but verify,” Miles speaks up, drawing the gazes of the table. He’s looking at me with mild approval, like his opinion matters.

Wren is sipping her water and as she places it back on the table, he reaches for her hand. She isn’t quick enough to hide the miniscule flinch as he wraps his hand around her fingers. She doesn’t pull away, letting him grope her hand and the bulbous ring on her finger. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, and she drops them, pink coloring her cheeks under her freckles.

I want to rip his hand from his arm and shove it down his throat.

Ignoring the impulse to protect Wren, I force my attention to the puppet.

“Exactly,” I confirm politely. Turning back to Oberon, I have to hide a smirk as inspiration comes. “I’ve no doubt you’re a busy man. No doubt your daughter is familiar with your collection. Maybe if she can find the time between all the wedding planning, she can show me around?”

Wren’s eyes go wide before she quickly masters her expression. Oberon smiles, as if he’d been the one to suggest it.

“What a brilliant idea,” he practically booms, drawing attention from other tables. I hold back from rolling my eyes at his need for attention. He looks at Wren, true affection in his eyes. It’s bitter, being reminded that a man I loathe with my entire being is human. It’s a cruel joke that the man can feel love for another when he is the reason I cannot.

“Tuesday, late morning, will be an opportune time, Wren,” he tells her.

Her brows lower a fraction, and her eyes dart to me and then back to her father.

“Tuesday is when we expect the hydro–”

“No matter,” Oberon interrupts her, waving away her protest. “This takes precedence, child. You know how much I appreciate it.”

I clench my jaw as her shoulders wilt, despite the pleasant smile on her face. I remind myself that it only makes my goals more attainable if she’s broken.

Except I want to be the only one to break her.

“Of course, Father,” Wren says, her voice supplicating and the insincere tone I heard her use after her cello performance. She pulls her hand away from Miles, and this time he lets her go, and she opens her clutch. Seeing her pull out a business card, I retrieve my own wallet. Knowing she has a card already only makes it more satisfying when I offer her another one across the table.

“My number,” I say, holding her gaze, letting the smallest smirk twist my lips when her brows drop with disapproval. “I’ll take yours as well, in case you forget…between all the wedding planning, of course.”

Her smile is tight as she takes the card, a twin to the one she already possesses, and offers me one of hers in turn. I take it, letting my fingers brush hers in spite of her holding it by the tip of the far corner.

Like her, her card is crisp and professional when I glance at it. Printed on the expensive white stock is her name, title with Benoit Tech, and her contact information. I tuck it into my wallet, amused that her business card matches her perfectly. It reveals only what is expected, a mask I’m growing more determined to remove.

“I’ll be sure to call you when the arrangements are made,” she answers primly before hiding behind another sip of water. To my amusement, she’s hardly touched her glass of wine Oberon ordered for her.

“Well, gentlemen, lady,” I say, rising. “With that concluded, I’m afraid I must depart early. More business, you understand.” Oberon and Miles nod, and Wren avoids looking at me entirely. “Please, enjoy dessert. I’ve already seen to the meal.”

With a nod to Oberon, I stalk away from the table. My neck prickles, and its heat means it can only be Wren watching me leave. I slide my hand into my front pocket, gripping the soft lace of her thong.

I’m grinning as I stride from the restaurant and to the waiting black town car. Opening the passenger door, I slide in, and Ashe is pulling away the moment the door closes.

“So?” the vampire asks, his eyes on the road ahead of us.

Ashe is the Nightshade’s runner, our transporter, so to speak. Even when he was human, he was appreciated for his ability to deliver messages or packages, no matter the obstacles he faced. Be it war, extreme weather, or terrain thought impossible, Ashe was able to overcome. Becoming a vampire has only increased his skill and he’s made it a point to master the modern transportations of each century he’s lived through.

I pull out my phone, pulling up my contact for Wren. I already have her phone number and personal email, not that she’s aware of that. Creating a new text message, I send her:

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