Page 34 of Vampire Savage

He pulls away as I head into the elevator and I, strangely, don’t feel the need to rehearse my arguments on the way up. I’m not marrying Miles; no matter what my father wants. If he wants Miles in the family so badly, he can marry him. Gay marriage is legal, after all.

Niamh once asked me if I was hurt that Oberon seemed to prefer Miles to have more control over Benoit Tech than me, but honestly it’s never been a dream of mine to take over when my father steps down.

I work for the company because of the opportunities it provides me to achieve my own goals, helping those in need of advanced technology. I’ve even interviewed at other companies but never accepted an offer because, when it came down to it, they didn’t have the same reach that Benoit Tech does. I know a part of that is because I’m the daughter of the CFO and my father’s name will open doors otherwise locked shut.

Another part has always been wanting to stay close to my father, because it has been us against the world for so long. I know my father loves me, even if he’s become distant over the years as I’ve grown older. Even if I’m new to this feeling that I don’t need him anymore, I still feel as if he needs me.

The elevator opens directly into my father’s penthouse, its access restricted without a key, and the doors open to the chords of Chopin. Oberon only listens to the Polish composer when he’s especially satisfied with whichever relic he’s recently acquired. It settles me as I stroll into the foyer and drop my bag onto the entrance table and head in search of my father.

Unlike the spartan design of his office, his penthouse is lavishly decorated. Though the color scheme is still his preferred neutral tones of whites, creams, and beiges, it doesn’t detract from the opulence he surrounds himself with. Where I prefer an overstuffed cobalt blue couch with bohemian vibes, my father prefers a cream loveseat and matching Windsor chairs. A single bolster pillow in matching fabric sits in the center of the couch, and not a single divot in any of the furniture suggests it’s actually used. I’ve wondered if he lived like this when my mother was alive, or if she insisted on something less pristine.

I bypass the living room and don’t bother looking towards the kitchen. I’ve never seen my father cook a day in my life. Instead I walk down the white-painted halls with expensive artwork in silver frames towards his relic room. Before we moved to Newgate, it would have been the largest room in our home, but ever since he decided to open Demencius Antiquities, he’s downsized. In spite of having the showroom’s workshop, Oberon prefers to receive and inspect any purchases here in his custom-designed work space.

The door is open and I pause in the doorway, taking my father in. It’s rare to see him so casually dressed, though many wouldn’t consider slacks and a polo casual. For my father, someone who never wears anything less than a three-piece suit outside of the house, it’s the equivalent of sweats and a tee. I’m wrong, in that he has a recent purchase, as the relic on his table is the one I have the oldest memories of. Its technical classification is a chalice, with its carved foot, and believed use in rituals. I’ve never seen anything like it, and my father once told me it is one of its kind and there were no others created to match. It’s a single piece of obsidian, mined from eastern Turkey, and from what my father has said, is over six hundred years old.

As a child, it was the only thing I was ever jealous of. If I had to say there was one thing my father would choose over me in this world, it would be this chalice with no name.

“Father,” I say, and clear my throat. He looks up from where he’s carefully polishing the delicate stem, his brows rising at my presence. I incline my head towards the chalice, asking a question that’s burned at the back of my mind for months now. “Do you plan to display that at the opening of the gallery?”

“No.” His tone is as abrupt as a cliff’s edge and it takes me aback. He drops the polishing rag on the worktable and lays the chalice in its custom-made protective case, taking the time to close and latch it, then secure it with the biometric lock before looking up at me again. “Why are you here, Wren? Is there a problem at the office?”

Nerves creep out from behind my steel spine now that I’m in his direct gaze. I don’t doubt I’m doing the right thing by refusing to marry Miles, but I know Oberon will be incredibly disappointed with me. I can’t recall the last time I directly disobeyed my father like this.

“I’m not going to marry Miles,” I say, standing firm.

He picks up the case with the chalice and carries it to the safe set in the wall, the door halfway open. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you are marrying him.”

Irritation bubbles up within me and I take a step into the room, crossing my arms. “Why? Because you say so?” I shake my head, hating how he continues his task as if this is a trivial discussion. “I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked, Father. But I cannot, will not, do this. You can’t make me.”

I watch him, waiting for any reaction, heart in my throat. But he keeps his back to me as he locks up the safe where his precious relic lives and only when he’s satisfied it’s once again secure, does he turn back to face me. My heart plummets to my feet, my resolve cracking. He’s wearing an expression I’m all too familiar with. The expression that means he will not be argued with, that he will not accept anything less than what he demands.

He strides up to me, and I stiffen while he cradles me to his chest. Once, I loved to be held by him like this. He’s so much larger than the world that when he hugged me like this, I felt like nothing could ever hurt me. Now it’s as if he’s the one hurting me. My eyes fall closed, tears lining them, before he even begins to speak.

“You will be marrying Miles, my daughter. Even if I have to drag you down the aisle myself.”

Chapter Fifteen

LAN

A restlessness has consumed me since leaving Wren’s side two nights ago. I’ve forced myself to maintain the distance I’ve kept since I first began observing her, confining myself to the clan house in the Barrows. Unfortunately, that means subjecting myself to the presence of others. With Ambrose and Kasar mated, both males tend to dine more frequently at the formal table with their mates, which delights my mother, Joséphine. With their increased attendance, though, comes my mother’s increased insistence the rest of us—specifically me—participate as well.

My mother has run Ambrose’s household since she was a human, and despite his insistence that he can hire others for the position, she refuses to step down. It used to anger me, how she bowed to him as a servant. Over the centuries, I’ve come to accept that while Ambrose is a king outside of these walls, my mother is the queen within who even he must obey. It’s rather satisfying to see that the all-powerful Ambrose d’Vil, vampire king of the Barrows, leader of the Nightshades, get his fingers slapped with a wooden spoon by my mother.

Joséphine is an elegant woman, not having been turned until her late fifties, and despite the difficulties of her mortal life, she’d been rather healthy up until the end. As she strides into the dining room, a plate in each hand, the only warm affection I’ve felt for centuries takes hold of my heart. Her golden eyes meet mine, genuine care in them, and I will never not miss the warm walnut browns from my childhood.

“You’re late,” Ambrose informs me from the head of the table. He isn’t even looking at me, instead focusing on the tablet to his left. It’s a rare day when my mother allows any of us to work while we eat, our sire included. I roll my eyes, but say nothing, choosing to sit halfway down the table next to Malachi.

The entire inner circle is here. Kasar sits to Ambrose’s left, while Eloise sits to his right, on the other side of Malachi. Deidre, Kasar’s human-but-altered mate sits beside the enforcer, watching me with a frank assessment and slight smirk. Ashe is beside her, directly across from her. My mother sits next to me on my right, setting one of the two plates in front of me.

“Thank you, Matka,” I tell her, pressing a kiss to her cheek before directing my attention to my sire. “Apologies. I didn’t want to be here.”

Ambrose’s eyes look up at me through his lashes, his displeasure plain. Deidre and Eloise both fail to cover their snorts, and even Malachi shifts next to me.

“Regardless,” Ambrose says, looking away from the tablet and giving the table his complete attention, ignoring the plate of food in front of him. “Now that you’re here, I can get to business.”

In direct contrast to Ambrose’s ignoring of the food my mother either prepared herself or ordered prepared, I make a point of eating it with enjoyment. Joséphine has spent her centuries on this earth mastering multiple styles of cuisines and we’ve reaped the benefits. Simply because we are vampires does not mean we do not need to eat as mortals do.

Only true Children of the Night are able to sustain themselves on blood alone. As for the rest of us, those who were once mortal, we still need to eat food along with blood. In fact, there are those like my mother who feed on human blood only as much as is required to avoid falling into a sort of coma. When a vampire must be punished and death is thought too good, they are bound in chains and entombed, starved of blood and left to linger in a state of half-life.

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