They called it the Crimson House, the vampire brothel where humans sold their blood and vampires paid in gold. A brothel for blood.
Amara's hands shook around the folded contract. The parchment cut her palm as though the paper itself wanted blood. She could almost hear her father's voice, slurred, begging—just this once, Amara, just one night, and the debt will be gone.
Her stomach twisted. A night with a vampire. She hadn't even been kissed, and yet she was walking into the most forbidden house in the city, her body a coin to be spent.
Two guards flanked the entrance. Their uniforms were black trimmed with silver, their faces half-shadowed by masks, but their eyes fell to the soft skin of her throat. One smiled, the curve of his mouth revealing the hint of a fang.
"First time?" the other murmured as he opened the door for her.
Amara didn't answer. If she spoke, her voice would break. She stepped inside instead.
Inside the Crimson House, chandeliers dripped with crimson glass, scattering blood-colored light over velvet drapes and golden railings. Perfume hung thick in the air—spiced wine, roses, smoke, and beneath it all, the sharp, copper tang of blood.
Her breath caught. Humans lounged half-naked on settees, heads tilted, throats exposed, while vampires bent over them with lips sealed to their skin. Some moaned softly, others whimpered; all of them surrendered. The sight made her legs falter. God help me… I can't do this.
But she had no choice. Not when her father's debt collectors had promised to take her little brother next.
"Name?" A voice purred from the reception desk.
Amara turned. A vampire woman sat behind it, her gown slit high, lips stained scarlet, eyes glinting like knives. She looked her up and down, slowly, the way one might study a cut of meat.
"Amara Veylin," she whispered. Her voice barely carried.
The attendant's smile widened. "First blood, then. How… charming." She slid the contract from Amara's hands, scanning it. "You'll be assigned to a noble of mid-rank. They pay well for purity."
Amara's throat closed. Purity. That was how they spoke of her virgin blood.
"Sign here." The vampire laid a quill on the counter.
Her fingers trembled so hard the ink blotted, smearing her name. It felt obscene, that surrender written in black against white, binding her to this house and its monsters.
Amara forced herself to breathe. She told herself it was only one night. Just blood, nothing more.
But the moment the quill left the page, the attendant froze. Her eyes narrowed. The parchment shifted on its own, as though pulled by an invisible force.
Then she stiffened and whispered, "My Lord…"
The room stilled. The laughter, the moans, even the sigh of music seemed to hush. Every donor and vampire within earshot turned their gaze on Amara. Some looked shocked, others pitied her, a few smirked as if eager to watch a tragedy unfold.
The attendant stood abruptly, her perfect poise faltering for the first time. "He has summoned you," she said, voice low.
Amara blinked. "Who?"
The vampire leaned closer, her painted lips curving. "Lord Kaelith D'Armand."
The name hit the room like thunder.
Amara's blood went cold. Everyone knew the name. The Vampire Lord. The one who ruled the Crimson Dominion with iron fangs and cold eyes. He didn't take donors. He didn't even touch them. His appetites were too dark, too dangerous to speak aloud.
And he had summoned her.
"No," Amara whispered, stumbling back a step. "There must be a mistake—"
The attendant only smiled, as if savoring her fear. "The Lord does not make mistakes."
A hand seized her arm—another attendant, leading her across the hall. Amara tried to pull free, but the grip was unyielding. They climbed up the staircase, velvet carpet swallowing her footsteps, candlelight painting gold across the dark wood walls. Her heart hammered. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run.
But she kept walking. For her family. For her brother.
At the top, double doors loomed, black oak inlaid with silver. They slid it open.
And there he was.
Lord Kaelith stood by the window, tall, broad-shouldered, silhouetted against the moon. His hair was black as spilled ink, falling to his shoulders. His hands rested behind his back, but the power in his stillness was suffocating.
When he turned, her breath stopped.
He was beautiful and terrible at once, with his silver- tinted pale skin and eyes the color of ruby red, something dark and menacing lurking behind them. They pierced through her as if he could strip her soul bare. His gaze lingered on her neck, on the pulse fluttering frantically beneath her skin.
Yes, he was dangerous. He was glorious. Cloaked in sins and darkness.
Amara knew who he was, but she dared not think the name aloud in her thoughts. The vampire, her mind whispered, and she shushed it.
"A virgin donor," Kaelith peered into her, through her. His gaze, dark and sinful. "Did you think they would waste you on a common parasite?"
Amara shivered. His voice. Serene. Cutting.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She clutched her hands against her chest, trembling. "I—I only came to pay my debts…"
Kaelith moved, his steps brought him closer, the predator circling its prey. His presence rolled over her like a storm, cold and electric. Amara smelled leather, smoke, iron, and faintly—blood. Unease burned through her, and she was quick to shake away some of the spell his presence had cast.
When he stopped before her, he reached for the contract in her hands. She tried to hold it tighter, but he plucked it free as easily as one might take a flower from a child. He glanced at the words, then tore the parchment in two.
Amara gasped. "What are you—?"
"Your debts mean nothing now." His voice dropped to a growl. "You belong to me."
She froze. Belong. The word sank into her bones like a brand.
Kaelith lifted his hand, fingers brushing her chin, tilting her face up. His touch was cold, yet it burned. Her eyes met his, and she felt trapped, hypnotized, her body betraying her as heat flushed through her.
His thumb traced the line of her throat, circling the hammering pulse. Her knees weakened.
"Do you know what it means," Kaelith murmured, leaning close, "to be chosen by me?"
Her lips trembled. "No."
A faint smile curved his mouth. "You will."
In one motion, he pinned her against the silk-draped bedpost. Not harsh—no, his strength was too controlled. Amara could not move, could not breathe, her wrists trapped by the weight of his presence alone.
His lips grazed her throat. A shiver wracked her body. His breath was cool, fangs brushing her skin, teasing, testing. His tongue darted out, tasting her skin before pulling back.
"Please," Amara sucked in a breath, though she didn't know if she begged him to stop or continue.
And then he bit.
His fangs pierced her flesh, sharp and deep, pain blooming only to dissolve instantly into molten heat. Amara gasped, her body arching involuntarily against him. His mouth sealed to her neck, drawing slow pulls of her blood.
It was obscene. It was intimate. Her legs shook, her hands clawed helplessly at his shirt. Every pull of his lips dragged a sound from her throat, soft, shameful moans she couldn't bite back.
Her pulse quickened, and Kaelith drank deeper, his groan rumbling against her skin. His hand slid to her waist, fingers pressing possessively as if anchoring her trembling body.
Heat spread from the bite, pooling low in her belly, burning between her thighs. Amara whimpered, horrified at the way her body melted against him, at the wetness gathering where no man had ever touched her.
Finally, he pulled away. Blood glistened on his lips, his tongue flicking over them slowly. His eyes glowed red, burning brighter.
Amara sagged against the bedpost, flushed, trembling, breathless.
The wound at her throat throbbed. She touched it with shaking fingers, only to find the punctures glowing under the candlelight.
Kaelith's gaze never left Amara. He leaned close again, his lips brushing her ear. "From this moment," he whispered, dark and intimate, "you are mine. No vampire will touch you and live."
Her breath hitched. Tears blurred her vision. She came to sell her blood. One night, one contract, nothing more. But she left her freedom at the door.
I didn't sell myself, Amara thought as the room spun around her. I was sold to the devil himself.