The evening began with the arrival of three elegant bck cars at Duke Maximilian's estate, each bearing the insignia of allied noble houses. As darkness settled across the grounds, staff hurried to make final preparations for what should have been a routine political gathering. Instead, the night was destined to become one of the most excruciating social experiences in fifty-five years of Maximilian's vampire existence.

  "They're here," Maximilian muttered, adjusting his tie for the seventh time while peering anxiously through the window. "Baron Fletcher, Viscount Thornfield, and Count Ambrose. All directly connected to Archduke Lucius's progressive faction."

  Elias glided to his side, the picture of aristocratic grace despite his own mounting anxiety. "I've checked everything twice. The refreshments, the seating arrangement, the blood-wine selection—all perfect." He hesitated before adding, "Remember, this is our first formal reception since... well, since everything changed between us."

  The unspoken reality hung between them. Three days had passed since Elias confessed his original spy mission and Maximilian admitted he'd known for weeks. Three days since they'd acknowledged their political arrangement had somehow transformed into something genuine. But acknowledging private feelings and presenting them publicly were entirely different challenges.

  "I've never actually had to appear... coupled... before," Maximilian said, his schor's vocabury failing him at a critical moment. "Academia didn't exactly prepare me for vampire retionship etiquette."

  Elias ughed, the sound both nervous and fond. "And I was only ever trained to stand decoratively at court functions, not to actually participate in one as a host's consort. I suppose we'll have to improvise."

  From the driveway came the sound of car doors closing and formal greetings being exchanged with the night staff.

  "We should be natural," Elias suggested quickly. "Just be ourselves."

  Maximilian stared at him bnkly. "My natural state is cataloging artifacts alone in my vault. Your natural state was pretending to be an ornamental pet at Orlov's court. Neither seems appropriate for hosting allied nobility."

  Before Elias could respond, the doors to the main hall opened. The butler announced each noble with fwless formality as they entered, a procession of aristocratic vampires in impeccable evening attire.

  "Baron Fletcher of the Western Hillcrests, vassal to Archduke Lucius."

  A slender vampire with a precisely trimmed goatee stepped forward, eyes immediately cataloging every detail of the room with the practiced assessment of old nobility.

  "Viscount Thornfield of the Northern Valleys, vassal to Duke Harrington, who serves Archduke Lucius."

  A broad-shouldered vampire with an air of military precision entered next, his gaze lingering on Elias with unconcealed curiosity.

  "Count Ambrose of the Eastern Lownds, direct vassal to Archduke Lucius."

  The final guest, a vampire of distinguished appearance with silver streaks in his dark hair, completed the trio. Unlike the others, he made no attempt to hide his skeptical assessment of the hosts.

  Maximilian stepped forward with formal stiffness, Elias at his side. "Welcome to our estate. We're honored by your presence this evening."

  The formalities proceeded with clockwork precision—the ritual greetings, the presentation of token gifts, the ceremonial offering of blood-wine. Yet beneath the perfect etiquette, something was clearly amiss. The visitors exchanged subtle gnces, their eyes moving from Maximilian to Elias and back with barely concealed doubt.

  "We've heard much about your... unique partnership," Count Ambrose said as they moved to the formal sitting room. Crystal goblets of blood-wine were distributed by silent staff. "The political implications are quite significant, of course."

  The emphasis on "political" hung in the air like an accusation.

  "Indeed," Viscount Thornfield added, settling into a leather armchair. "A consort arrangement between Archduke Lucius's faction and a representative of Archduke Orlov's court. Most unexpected."

  Baron Fletcher, never one for subtlety, went straight to the heart of the matter. "Some wonder if it's merely a paper arrangement. For show, as it were." His eyes fixed on the considerable distance between Maximilian and Elias on the settee. "Politically expedient but without substance."

  Maximilian froze, a schor suddenly faced with an unresearched topic. The implied question was clear: was their retionship merely political theater? Three days ago, the answer would have been simple. Now, with feelings acknowledged but still new and fragile, the situation felt impossibly delicate.

  "I assure you," Maximilian began stiffly, "our arrangement is quite—"

  "Darling," Elias interrupted, suddenly sliding closer until their shoulders touched. He pced his hand over Maximilian's with deliberate tenderness. "Don't be so formal. These are allies, after all."

  Maximilian nearly dropped his blood-wine. In all their months together, Elias had never called him "darling," nor had they dispyed physical affection before others. The shock must have shown on his face because Baron Fletcher's eyebrow rose significantly.

  "Yes, of course," Maximilian managed, forcing a smile that felt completely unnatural. Realizing he should reciprocate somehow, he awkwardly patted Elias's hand. "My... sweet illusion."

  He immediately regretted the endearment. Sweet illusion? What vampire in five centuries had ever used such a term? Elias's eyes widened fractionally, though his smile remained fixed.

  "The Duke is so bookish," Elias expined to their guests with an affectionate ugh that sounded only slightly strained. "Always coming up with the most unique endearments. Last night he called me his 'categorical imperative.'"

  Count Ambrose choked slightly on his blood-wine.

  "Well," said Viscount Thornfield after a painfully long pause, "how... philosophical."

  The conversation lurched forward like a damaged vehicle, covering territory alliances, blood farm production quotas, and the test political machinations from rival territories. Throughout it all, Maximilian and Elias remained unnaturally close on the settee, their shoulders pressed together in what they hoped appeared to be comfortable intimacy rather than the tense awareness it actually was.

  When a servant arrived to refresh the blood-wine, Elias seized the opportunity to demonstrate further "affection" by dabbing an imaginary spot from the corner of Maximilian's mouth with his napkin.

  "You always miss that spot," he said with forced sweetness.

  "And you always notice everything," Maximilian returned, his academic brain desperately searching for appropriate romantic behavior. In a moment of inspiration drawn from some long-forgotten novel, he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Elias's ear.

  Unfortunately, no strand was actually out of pce on Elias's perfectly styled head. The gesture ended up more like an awkward pat to the side of his face.

  Baron Fletcher's expression suggested he was witnessing some bizarre mating ritual of an unfamiliar species.

  As the evening progressed, their attempts at dispying affection grew increasingly desperate and consequently more bizarre. When Elias mentioned Maximilian's impressive historical knowledge, the Duke responded by kissing his consort's hand with such schorly precision it resembled a boratory procedure more than a romantic gesture.

  Not to be outdone, Elias began referring to Maximilian exclusively by endearments, each more outndish than the st—"my midnight schor," "my cataloging crusader," and, most bewilderingly, "my bibliographic bloodstone."

  Count Ambrose appeared physically pained by each new term.

  The nadir came during a discussion of border security when Maximilian, attempting to appear naturally affectionate, casually draped his arm around Elias's shoulders. The gesture might have been convincing if he hadn't maintained the exact same rigid position for seventeen minutes, arm extended at a precise ninety-degree angle, refusing to adjust even when Elias needed to lean forward to sip his blood-wine.

  "Your devotion to each other is... remarkable," Viscount Thornfield commented dryly as Maximilian finally released Elias from what had essentially become an aristocratic headlock.

  By the time dessert was served—a rare concession to Elias's unusual need for actual food—the nobles' skepticism had transformed into something closer to horrified fascination. Far from convincing anyone of their genuine connection, Maximilian and Elias had instead created the impression that they were engaged in an eborate, if incomprehensible, performance art.

  "Perhaps we might see your famous artifact collection," Baron Fletcher suggested, clearly desperate for any activity that might prevent further dispys of "affection."

  "An excellent idea," Count Ambrose agreed with suspicious enthusiasm.

  Relief washed over Maximilian's face as he rose, finally able to retreat to familiar schorly territory. "I'd be delighted to show you my recent acquisitions. The pre-evolution technological preservation wing has several fascinating new additions."

  As they moved toward the door, Elias caught Maximilian's sleeve. "Don't forget your promise, darling," he said with a meaningful look. "You said we'd show them the ceremonial blood ritual chamber before the night ends."

  No such promise had been made, and no such chamber existed in the estate. Maximilian stared at his consort in complete confusion.

  "The special room," Elias emphasized, eyes widening significantly. "With the preserved artifacts for traditional blood bonding ceremonies. The one we were exploring st night."

  Realization dawned on Maximilian's face as he finally understood—Elias was creating an escape route from this increasingly unbearable social situation.

  "Ah, yes," he replied, adjusting his unnecessary gsses. "The ceremonial chamber. Most sacred and... private. Perhaps another time would be more appropriate for such an intimate dispy."

  Baron Fletcher practically lunged for the front door. "Quite right! Wouldn't dream of imposing. Perhaps we should continue our discussions at a more formal venue. The upcoming territorial council meeting, perhaps?"

  Viscount Thornfield and Count Ambrose followed with indecent haste, making hurried farewells while avoiding direct eye contact with either host.

  As the three bck cars departed down the driveway, Maximilian and Elias stood in the entrance hall, maintaining their uncomfortable proximity until the st taillight disappeared around the bend.

  The moment the cars were out of sight, they sprang apart like opposing magnets.

  "What," Maximilian asked with schorly precision, "was that?"

  "That," Elias replied, colpsing against the nearest wall, "was the most excruciating social performance of my entire existence. And I once had to stand decoratively in Orlov's court for fourteen hours straight during a territorial negotiation."

  "We were trying to appear naturally in love," Maximilian said, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic agitation. "I believe we instead created the impression that we're involved in some obscure blood ritual requiring uncomfortable physical proximity."

  "Sweet illusion?" Elias questioned, a smile tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion.

  "Bibliographic bloodstone?" Maximilian countered, eyebrow raised.

  They looked at each other for a long moment before Elias started ughing, the sound genuine and unguarded in a way it had never been before. After a moment of schorly hesitation, Maximilian joined him, his typically reserved demeanor cracking to reveal something warmer beneath.

  "I believe," Maximilian said when they'd finally collected themselves, "that we may have permanently damaged our political credibility with Archduke Lucius's allies."

  "On the contrary," Elias replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "I believe we've convinced them that we are genuinely bound to each other—if only by mutual social incompetence."

  Maximilian considered this with academic thoroughness. "An interesting hypothesis. Our spectacur failure to appear naturally intimate might paradoxically suggest a genuine connection, as no one would willingly perform so badly unless authentic feelings were involved."

  "Exactly," Elias agreed. "Political arrangements are typically much more convincing performances."

  A comfortable silence fell between them, considerably more natural than any moment in the previous hours of forced intimacy.

  "Next time," Maximilian said finally, "perhaps we should simply be ourselves."

  "Ourselves," Elias repeated thoughtfully. "A schorly vampire who prefers artifacts to people, and his illusionist consort who was raised as decorative furniture. What could possibly go wrong?"

  "Less than tonight, I imagine," Maximilian replied with unexpected dry humor.

  "Though I must admit," Elias added, his voice softening, "parts of it weren't entirely pretense."

  Maximilian looked at him sharply, the schor's eyes missing nothing. "Which parts?"

  Elias merely smiled, his violet eyes glimmering with the faintest hint of his ability. "I suppose you'll have to conduct further research to find out, my bibliographic bloodstone."

  As they made their way deeper into the estate, they maintained a respectful distance from each other—and yet, somehow, they had never been closer.