Page 25 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

She releases my hand, waving dismissively at the crowd. “Give us a minute to get organized, and we’ll kick things off.” A sly smile tugs at her lips. “And quit fussin’. Nobody’s gettin’ staked… tonight.”

Chapter Ten

The Hissing

— Tomas —

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh. At some point, Sunday decided that all official vampire interactions must end with a credible threat. I have no intention of telling her otherwise—and I’ll be very annoyed if anyone tries to disabuse her of that notion. It’s ridiculous, sure, but the way she commits to it is an endless source of joy for the rest of us.

Another incredible speech, delivered without a hint of artifice or bluster, just effortless charm. The entire room looks shell-shocked. They expected Grayson to name the next vampire regent, but instead, it could be anyone. The future of the Western Roman Empire is in the hands of our mostly human mate.

She can’t possibly grasp the magnitude of what she’s offering. For centuries, shifters have existed in the shadows, their fates dictated by vampire whims. True autonomy… it’s a dream most wouldn’t even dare to imagine.

I shift my attention to the demon delegation—a mix of the powerful transitum, who can seamlessly blend into human society, and the ostracized Dae, forever trapped in their demonic forms. The disparity in their social standing is stark. Sunday’s words must resonate deeply with them—a promise of a world where their differences aren’t a curse but a source of strength. And for the shifters, a seat at the table, a voice in shaping their lives. It’s unheard of.

I notice vampires arguing with their Makers, and I’m pleased to see Leon giving Rurik a hard time. I bet he wants to throw his hat into the ring. Maximo may take Volga someday, but Leon needs to carve his own path.

He’d be a good choice here. As a younger vampire, he understands human sensibilities around basic liberties and freedoms. And it doesn’t hurt that Trouble can dangle “lick-gate” over his head for decades—one ill-timed slip of the tongue that she’ll never let him live down.

The shifters are just as divided as the vampires, their arguments a low hum of tension. One of the desert cats slinks toward me, her head bowed in respect. In softly accented English, she asks, “Alpha, our Luna wishes to know if we may offer more than one candidate.”

Sunday overhears and hops down from the dais, Xavier shadowing her, slipping between her and the audience. “Hi, I’m Sunday.” She extends her hand, all warmth and openness. The desert cat shies away, glancing at Sunday, then back at the floor.

It’s odd—this deference. Sunday doesn’t have shifter dominance, but something about her makes the cat nervous.

“You can offer up to three candidates from each pack,” Sunday explains gently. “You’re from the Atlas Mountains, right?”

The cat takes her hand timidly. “Yes, I am Noura. Well met.”

Sunday squints at her, like she’s trying to see into her bones. I decide to rescue them both. “She’s a caracal.”

Sunday’s face lights up. “Ooh, with the big ears? And the hissing?”

Noura laughs. “Yes, to all of that, but only while shifted.”

Sunday grins and jabs a finger at Xavier. “Shadow, this is Noura. She’s a caracal.”

Xavier gives Noura a slow, assessing look, eyes gleaming with just a hint of feline superiority. “Hmm. Cute.”

Noura’s eyes narrow, and she lets out an involuntary hiss, only to slap a hand over her mouth, mortified.

Sunday snorts, smacking Xavier’s arm. “Behave. I can have other cat friends.”

Xavier arches an elegant brow. “You can try.”

I feel it in the bond—Xavier is feeling bratty. So, I’m unsurprised when they lean in and lick Sunday’s neck, leaving a scent mark that hits me even from here.

They licked her before they even introduced themselves in the Viper Room. Clearly, staking their claim was always part of the plan and I have to respect sticking with a bit.

Sunday giggles, shoving them away. “Ignore them,” she tells Noura, wiping at her neck.

Xavier sends a questioning ping across the pack bond. I give them an affirmative. They stalk off to stand with Grayson, shoulders squared with exaggerated pride. I can almost hear them mutter, “Where I’m appreciated.”

“Sweetheart,” I say, shaking my head.

“They’ll get over it. They can’t get worked up every time I meet another cat.”

“Shifter,” I correct. “They’ll get worked up when you meet any shifter, vampire, or demon.”

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