Veena

2- YOU'RE NOT GOING TO MAKE IT ALONE

"You are now of age, Alessandro."

"It’s not about being of age, Father."

"Then what is it about?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, closed my eyes, and sighed in frustration. He was making this harder than it needed to be.

"Look at your younger step-cousin, Sire Niklaus. He’s happily married. Two young vamps already. Even Stefan—his little brother, who’s decades younger than you—is also married."

"I’m not them, Father."

"Of course you’re not. You’re better than they are. You’re royal blood."

I opened my eyes and stared at him, thoroughly annoyed. It was painfully early in the morning—too early for one of his marital rants, which I despised having in the first place.

"I’ll think about it, Father."

"Oh, don’t tell me that," he whined. "Action, son. Action."

I nodded. "Action, Father. Action," I mimicked his tone.

"Are you mocking me?"

"Am I?"

He gave me a hard glare, which I returned with the same intensity. Then he stepped forward, a foot or two shorter than me, and grabbed my shoulders.

"Make me proud, son."

"By getting a wife?" I asked with a smirk.

He looked at me like I’d just insulted all seven vampire gods.

"You’re taking everything for granted."

"And you’re taking everything too seriously," I retorted.

He let out a sharp breath, released my shoulders, and walked back to his throne.

"You’re impossible."

"Am I?" I said again, raising one brow, smirk intact.

"Oh God, Alessandro Addams Selvatroz, can you please be kind to your aging father just once?"

I chuckled. His posture, his delivery—he was practically performing a tragedy for an invisible audience. He sank into his throne with a dramatic huff and looked at me with pleading eyes.

"There are many women out there eager to have you as a husband. Why not consider one?"

"Marriage isn’t about consideration, Father."

"Lady Maya Atieno is a fine woman. Elegant, posh, classy, and kind. She spoke to me the other day—she loves you."

I scoffed. Maya? That fox? Please.

"She’s not my taste, Father."

"What about Lady Lilith Aldnold? She’s beautiful—even among the Ascendant Purebloods. And she has the figure you like," he added with a suggestive grin that made me glance at him like he’d lost his mind.

"Also not my type."

"Then what is your type, Sandro?"

"Just let it go, Father."

Of course, he didn’t. He never did.

"Marielle Clemente, then. Her father’s the sheriff, and—"

"She’s a slut. Everyone knows that."

"That doesn’t matter. She’s still a fine wine, and she’d suit you well. Besides, her father is a powerful man."

"Still not my type."

I walked to one of the cushioned chairs in the throne room and dropped into it. I was too tired to stand through this circus act, and frankly, thirsty. This entire conversation had drained me more than a stake ever could.

He sat sulking like I’d denied him blood and wine. He took this whole discussion with the gravity of a royal war, while to me, it was just exhausting nonsense. His murky grey eyes bore into mine with a building intensity.

I crossed my legs at the knees, rested my hands together, and stared back at him with a smirk.

"Just let it go, Father," I said again.

But no. He wasn’t done.

"Princess Zafina Alvah. Future queen of Vandoron. She would make a good wife. I even heard she’s... talented in many ways."

He said it pointedly, and even though I understood the message he was trying to pass, I rolled my eyes.

"Is this some kind of fairytale where a prince marries a princess?" I replied, a smirk etched on my undeniably handsome face.

"Well, in fairytales, princes usually marry paupers," he argued. "Is that what you want?"

"Not a bad idea—if the pauper suits my taste," I replied nonchalantly, shrugging my shoulders. He shot me a furious glare.

"Alessandro," he drawled.

"Father," I smiled, all teeth.

"My king," a voice interrupted, and I’d never been more grateful for a disruption in my life.

"Yes, Mateo?" my father replied in the tone he reserved for others—harsh, cold, and loud.

Mateo, the coven’s Huntsman and Chief Guard, entered with his usual air of confidence. Calm, collected. He knelt on one knee and bowed before the throne.

"What is it this time?" my father asked.

Mateo stood and gave me a slight bow. "Prince Alessandro," he greeted in a whisper. I nodded in return.

"We have a trespasser, my lord."

"Who is he?"

"It’s a she, my lord."

"Status?"

"Human."

My father's eyes narrowed. "Hmmm... that’s rare. Where is she?"

"In the confinement room, my king."

"Bring her in."

Mateo bowed and left to retrieve the girl. When I looked back at my father, his expression was dark.

"You’ll do the questioning," he told me. "You’re good at it."

I smirked. "I’m honored, Your Highness."

"Well, I’m also good at questioning, Father."

That familiar voice echoed through the throne room like nails on glass. I winced internally.

He entered like a fox—slow and sly—his creepy Cheshire-cat smile plastered on his face. He slid into the seat beside me, still grinning, and I fought the urge to wipe it off.

"Hello, brother," he said in a sickly sweet tone. I gave him my usual death glare, which he was far too used to by now.

"Alessandro will do it," Father said firmly.

"No, let him do it, Father," I offered with a false smile. "The inexperienced lad needs to learn." I gave Evander a look that I knew would rile him up.

"I’m no inexperienced lad," he snapped back. He leaned close to my ear and whispered, "Even my ladies can testify."

He let out a cold laugh and stared at me with those deep black eyes—too familiar, too irritating. I didn’t reply. I refused to give him the satisfaction, and truthfully, his squeaky voice was beginning to make me nauseous.

Evander Aloysius Selvatroz. My half-brother—and a mistake, if you asked me. He had no sense of place or propriety. And worse, he competed with me over everything. Everything. From women, to slaves, to possessions... even seating positions at dinner.

He may have been the older one—seven decades senior to my one-hundred and seventy years—but I didn’t care. He acted like a petulant child, and I had neither the time nor the patience for his antics.

My internal rant was cut short when Mateo returned with the others. They brought in an almost lifeless young woman. Her long blonde hair spilled over her face. Bruises covered her body—deep and fresh—promising scars that might never truly heal.

"Well, shall we begin?" Evander said, feigning authority.

I rolled my eyes.

But yes... let us begin.