Tall, draped in velvet darker than the night, his presence seemed to drink the very light from the clearing.
His gaze swept over his men, then lifted, sharp and dangerous, into the forest's depths.
†‡†‡†‡
He inhaled once, and stilled.
The scent had struck him—rich, impossible, his blood surging with recognition. Mate.
His eyes narrowed, gleaming like a predator's in the dark. He raised one hand, voice low and commanding:
"Freeze."
Every rider stiffened. Not a hoof moved, not a breath dared stir.
The forest itself seemed to hold its breath.
He listened, head tilted, until he caught it: frantic hoofbeats, breaking away, fleeing deeper into the trees.
A sound like a heartbeat trying to escape his grasp.
A smile curved his mouth.
"Mm." The single note of hunger hummed from his throat. Then, softly, to his men:
"Proceed."
Without another word, he mounted a horse in one lithe motion, black hair catching the moonlight.
Reins in hand, he rode off alone, cutting into the shadows with one purpose—hunting the scent that had just undone centuries of his restraint.
†‡†‡†‡
Back at the house, the candlelight trembled as though it too shared their dread.
Aeryl's mother stood frozen at the window, her hands clutching the sill so hard her knuckles whitened.
Her chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, the echo of her husband's shouting and the men's scrambling fading into the night.
"She's gone… My daughter...." her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.
Lilah slipped beside her, small arms wrapping tightly around her mother's waist. She pressed her cheek into the fabric of her gown, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"Don't say that, Mama," she begged, voice quivering. "She's strong. She'll come back."
Her mother's hands dropped, trembling, to rest over Lilah's.
She wanted to believe it.
To cling to hope. But the thought of Aeryl alone in the dark woods—where shadows hunted and men were cruel—broke through every defense she had.
A sob tore out, unbidden.
Lilah's lips trembled, and despite her words, her own tears spilled, hot and unchecked.
She tried to bury her cries in her mother's gown, tried to be strong for once, but the weight was too much.
Soon, both of them were weeping in each other's arms, clutching tight as if holding together the pieces of their hearts that had just shattered.
†‡†‡†‡
The corridor reeked of sweat, perfume, and candle smoke.
Velvet curtains clung damp to the stone, muffling the sounds of women's moans as Santos slouched back into the silky, throne-like chair at the end of the hall.
His shirt hung open, pale chest gleaming with the sheen of oil and spit, and his hair fell wild against his temples.
They were on him like starving creatures.
One woman straddled his lap, skirts bunched high, her throat arched as his fangs grazed the tender hollow beneath her jaw. She whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders as he let his tongue trace lazy circles before biting down—not enough to draw blood, just enough to make her tremble.
Another crawled at his knees, tongue sliding over the hard planes of his inner thighs, leaving wet trails as she moaned against his skin. She pressed kisses lower, desperate, as if she worshipped him with her mouth.
The third knelt behind him, hands tangled in his hair, pulling his head back so she could suck at the corner of his mouth and face, lips wet and greedy.
Their sounds filled the chamber—panting, sobbing, whimpering. The slap of skin against skin. The rustle of lace as they fought for more of him, as though they'd drown if he didn't touch them again.
Santos laughed under his breath, a cruel sound that only made them moan louder.
He let his hands wander at will, squeezing soft flesh, forcing gasps out of throats, making them arch into his grip like puppets on strings. He gave nothing tender. Only hunger.
Only command.
When the one on his lap whimpered, "My lord, harder—"
he seized her jaw and forced her mouth open, kissing her deep, wet, brutal, until she choked on her own breath.
The others didn't stop.
One was licking his chest, circling his nipple with her tongue, the other was already sliding lower, desperate to taste him, to take him in fully.
The room spun with heat, candles guttering in their wax as Santos sat like a king among writhing bodies, every gasp and moan his to command.
His head tilted back, lips parting, eyes half-closed in something that wasn't quite bliss, wasn't quite boredom.
Even here, in this mess of mouths and flesh, he thought of his brother.
Of the carriage.
Of the talk of a mate.
His lips curled faintly as he tightened his grip on the woman in his lap, making her cry out with a mix of pain and ecstasy.
"Let him chase his little hybrid," Santos muttered, voice low, throat vibrating against the teeth at his neck. "I'll take the rest of the world."
Santos lounged like a monarch, shirt wide open, pale chest streaked with lipstick smears and faint crescents of nails.
Santos's grip tightened, cruel, possessive. He pushed the one woman harder against his lap, pulled the other's hair until she whimpered, held the third by her throat just to feel her pulse stutter under his hand.
Blood. Flesh. Moans. The room became an altar, and Santos its wicked god.
The corridor had dissolved into a pit of heat, blood, and moans.
Santos sat sprawled in his chair like a dark idol, and the women clung to him as though they were drowning.
The one on his lap convulsed in his arms, trembling as his fangs sank deeper. Her moans turned ragged, broken.
Blood trickled down her breast, staining her shift, and her eyes rolled back—not in pain, but in a fevered bliss that bordered on madness. Every pulse he drank pulled a shiver through her body until she gasped, clutched him tighter, and whispered,
"Please… don't stop. Please…"