Elias

Chapter 6 Elias POV

I stare into the abyss of my creation—The Busty Empire—taking in everything it holds. The dancers glide across the stage like silk caught in wind. Vampires, witches, and humans mingle in this carefully controlled chaos, unaware of the delicate balance teetering beneath them.

I often wonder what would happen if the humans did know.

If they realized they were sipping overpriced cocktails beside predators.

Would they run? Scream? Or would they stay, intrigued by the danger they sense but don’t understand?

A pang jolts in my chest—sudden, sharp.

Not pain.

A pull.

Something… or someone is calling to me.

An instinct deeper than thought tugs me from my seat. I place my glass on the counter, nod once at Jimmy, and pass through the crowd like smoke. My senses flare, guiding me toward the entrance of the bar—toward her.

But when I arrive, there’s nothing.

No one.

Then—click.

The rhythmic tap of heels against concrete. The sound echoes from the stairwell leading down to the basement.

Seriously?

Can people not read a f*****g sign?

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling. As usual, I follow the sound, curiosity outweighing irritation. I descend slowly, and there she is.

A woman.

Not just a woman.

There’s something powerful about her. Primal. Her presence hums in the air like static before a storm.

She stops, sensing me. Turns.

And there it is.

Her gaze locks onto mine—defiant, sharp.

For a moment, my control falters. My eyes flicker red.

She’s breathtaking.

And infuriatingly unaware of it.

Her scowl is delicious. I can’t help the genuine smile that curls across my lips—something I haven’t felt form in centuries.

“If you’re looking for the bar, you’re definitely heading in the wrong direction,” I say, voice dipped in amusement. I lean against the wall, letting the shadows frame me like a predator with patience.

She doesn’t flinch.

Her stance is strong. Confident.

I want to break it.

Or maybe… worship it.

What in God’s name is wrong with me?

I’ve been a vampire longer than most civilizations have stood. I’ve hunted kings and burned cities. And now, I want to kiss a woman for scowling at me in a stairwell?

“You really should put signs in the hallway,” she quips, lifting an eyebrow with maddening smugness.

I laugh—a rich, amused sound that startles even me.

“You mean that one?” I point toward the bold, glowing sign just steps from where she walked in.

She stares at it, visibly embarrassed.

And I find it… endearing.

Endearing.

God help me.

“Right. Well, now that I look even stupider than I feel,” she mutters, brushing past me with a shoulder bump.

Her touch is electric.

A current that jolts something long dead inside me.

My hand moves on its own. I catch her gently by the shoulder.

We both pause.

There’s calm.

Stillness.

Not even her hunter instincts flare.

“Can I help you?” she asks, tone sharp, but not unkind.

“Your name,” I say, my voice low, almost reverent.

She steps in close, her breath ghosting against my skin. Her scent—vanilla and something wild—wraps around me, easing the centuries of tension in my muscles.

She leans in, lips near my ear.

“Do you really think I’d give you my name… vampire?”

Then she’s gone.

Gliding up the stairs like she owns the night.

And I watch her leave, chest tightening, thoughts spiraling.

Who the f**k is she?

⸻

Back downstairs, I descend deeper—into the part of the Empire only a select few know about. The coven beneath the club. My home.

It’s a modern bunker disguised in old-world charm. A blend of underground concrete and lavish decadence. Velvet curtains, gold accents, dim amber lighting.

I move through the halls and into my den. A large crimson chair waits by the fireplace. The flames aren’t real—holographic, more for ambiance than warmth. Real fire and vampires are a poor combination.

I sit, pouring myself a whiskey from the crystal urn on the side table.

I reach for the thing that still grounds me—my diaries.

I’ve kept them for centuries. Every year, every mistake.

I open the first:

17/06/1820.

Neat cursive lines the page.

I am Elias Lane. I live in London, England. I am thirty years of age and set to marry Claudine Webster, daughter of a wealthy and esteemed family. She is fair, with wide brown eyes and plump lips. Truly beautiful and kind…

I laugh bitterly.

Kind.

What a joke.

If I could rewrite this page now, it would read: “She was a venomous witch in a porcelain mask.”

I flip forward through the entries until I find it. The day everything changed.

12/12/1820.

Claudine, my wife, is not human.

I wrote of my suspicions throughout the year, but now I know. The night she finally claimed me, the night I gave her my trust—my body—she sank her fangs into my neck.

Before I could die, before I could refuse, she slit her wrist and pressed it to my lips. I drank. I was reborn into a nightmare.

I stare at the page, remembering the searing pain, the betrayal, the hunger that followed.

I was born a man of reason. A scholar. A romantic.

But Claudine turned me into something else.

A weapon. A beast. A ghost that drinks life to feel alive.

And yet… tonight.

For the first time in centuries, someone touched my world—and I didn’t want to destroy it.

That woman upstairs…

She’s dangerous.

Not because of what she is.

But because of what she could make me feel.

And I have no idea if I want to run from her.

Or follow her into the dark.