The jeers did not fade as the newlyweds fled the scene. They evolved—splintering into a riotous chorus of cheers, laughter, and half-drunk declarations about true love and ancient passion.
Not a single mortal soul had ever seen a Vampire Lord—much less Sullivan himself—commit to something so brazen. So indulgent. So utterly wicked in its delivery.
It had confirmed exactly what the gossip columns always whispered about the monsters on the hill. The vampires were the sultry sort. The kind of lovers who made sinners of saints.
How exotic.
“Hey, Eves.”
Oliver tapped his niece’s shoulder.
She turned with eyes still blown wide, lips parted in stunned disbelief. She hadn’t actually thought he’d do it—much less in front of God and everybody.
But her uncle Sullivan hadn’t merely kissed the Princess.
He had all but devoured her.
“I don’t think…” Evie swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can stomach any more drinking after that.”
“What do you mean?” Oliver asked, voice breezy, smile easy—too easy. “He gave the people what they wanted.”
That smile didn’t reach his eyes, because he had seen something else. Something no mortal could parse and no Vampire Lord would dare whisper about.
For all of Sullivan’s legendary control, something had cracked through for a split second—something old, something hungry, something primordial enough to make Oliver’s lungs seize.
His new in-law was going to need to watch her back if she wanted to survive the Sanctum.
And if she didn’t learn to do that fast…
Sullivan might not even notice he’d swallowed her whole.
“I told you!”
A triumphant voice rang across the Great Hall, silencing even the drunkest revelers.
Venice Cartelli’s heels clicked like applause as she sauntered to the center of the room. Her mauve hand-sequined dress glittered beneath the light of the chandelier as if in spotlight. The band quieted for her without being asked. They always did.
“Tell me,” she crooned, spreading her arms wide, “why would a brutish, positively saturnine man like Sullivan marry such a delicate little flower of a girl?”
The drunken chorus rose at once.
“The treaty!” a human shouted.
“Resource rights to the Forest!” barked a dwarf.
“Just spoils of war! Who wouldn’t want Tempesta’s daughter as a trophy, huh?” a werewolf scoffed. Laughter followed.
Venice’s own laugh cut sharp through the noise, however.
“Oh, please.”
She tossed her perfectly curled hair—the kind of practiced motion that could split a room in two—and gestured grandly at the opulence around them: the lavish decor, the chandelier dripping light like molten gold, the live band frozen mid-note.
“Why go through all the trouble of orchestrating this grand soirée?”
Her voice rose, ringing with the confidence of a woman who had never once been wrong in her life.
“The planning. The flowers. The dress. The venue.”
She swept her arm across the scene.
“We are inside Sanctum Vespertine, for heaven’s sake! The doors hadn’t opened to outsiders in over a century—and suddenly thrown wide for a mysterious girl hidden away in a forest full of secrets?”
Her eyes glittered.
“There can only be one reason.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
She paused.
Milked the silence dry.
“Sullivan married for love.”
The hall erupted.
A single declaration.
A spark struck in a room soaked in wine and fantasy.
And from it, the rumor took hold—greedy, glowing, unstoppable.
Whispers wove through the hall like threads of gold, spinning themselves into a fairytale already too sweet to challenge. The Forest, the treaty, Tempesta’s fall—every rumor folded neatly into the narrative.
He rescued her.
She tamed him.
The ancient predator and the porcelain bride.
Power and grace. Darkness and light.
A story so enchanting it rewrote itself into truth the moment it reached mortal ears—a rain-soaked fairytale they wanted to believe.
Satisfied—radiant with victory—Venice descended from her makeshift stage and glided across the room toward two familiar faces.
“Oliver. Everest.”
Her smile could have burned holes straight through them, it was so bright.
Oliver let out a low whistle. “You were so convincing, even I almost believed ya.”
“Thank you, dear,” Venice cooed, patting his cheek. “Your compliments are always so sweet.”
Evie jerked her chin toward the figure half-hidden behind Venice’s skirts. “And who’s that?”
“Oh!” Venice stepped aside and seized the small woman by the shoulders, guiding her forward as though presenting a rare collectible. A pastel-pink bow sat in her fluffy ash-blonde hair; her cardigan swallowed her frame; her glasses were perpetually sliding down her nose no matter how many times she pushed them up.
“This is the article writer for The Weekly Ring! Isn’t she just precious?” Venice practically vibrated with cheer as she hugged Avalon Grey against her chest like a beloved plush toy.
“Uh-huh,” Evie said, nodding solemnly. She leaned in with faux discretion. “If you need rescuing, blink twice.”
Avalon let out a delighted chuckle and extended her hand. “Avalon. Friends call me Ava.”
Evie reached—only to be bodily swept aside like a napkin in a strong breeze as Oliver slid in front of her with the grace of a man who had never once respected personal space.
He caught Avalon’s hand and kissed her knuckles with a wink. “Name’s Oliver. Friends call me Ollie.”
“No one fucking calls him that,” Evie deadpanned, shoving him hard enough to reclaim her place. She finally clasped Avalon’s hand with dignity he had fully sabotaged. “Call me Evie.”
Ava laughed a bit louder this time. “Your friends are hilarious, Vee.”
“Hilarious. Obnoxious. Same thing.” Venice flicked her wrist, already moving on. “Speaking of obnoxious—why are you not with the Silverthread girl?”
Oliver inhaled like someone preparing to dive into shark-infested waters. “Listen… I don’t want to talk about it.”
Venice pivoted toward Evie next, scowl sharpened to a perfect wingtip. “Where are your heels?”
Evie raised a single placating hand. “Okay. Listen. Listen to me. Before you go full sequined wrath on me—just listen.”
She stepped back two paces, calm as a saint, turned, and strolled toward the nearest window ushering them to follow her. That alone made the other three keep pace behind her.
“If you give me five seconds to explain, you’ll see exactly where I’m coming from.” Her voice was steady, measured.
Completely in control.
She undid the latch. The stained-glass pane creaked open, hinges protesting under rust. Outside, the storm had dwindled to a gentle drizzle; wind curled eagerly into the room, tugging her hair like an accomplice.
“Because, you see, Venice—”
She never finished the sentence.
Evie defenestrated herself from the situation, gone and running before her boots even hit the grass.
Venice quickly grabbed the edges of the window sill, shouting into the wet night. “Everest you get back here this instant!”
But it fell on deaf ears.
As the Drakovich house fled the scene of their head’s party, the other clan heads whispered, scoffing, giggling at the very notion of the fashionista’s speech.
It was almost endearing in its foolishness.
Among the mortal races, marriage was an ordinary yet cherished tradition, a binding of two sides—be it for love, power, or necessity. It was the promise of kinship and devotion. Though most traditions had long since faded, the notion of marriage still held meaning—from the humans and the elves to the dwarves and the werewolves.
Even the goblins, wild-hearted and death-hardened, lost themselves to the dream of romance now and then.
In contrast, the hedonistic Vampire Lords whispered their thinly veiled derision, hiding sneers behind friendly smiles. They wouldn’t dare say it aloud—not unless they fancied their entrails gift-wrapped in cardboard boxes. With a bow on top, of course.
Sullivan wasn’t some barbarian.
Still, they rolled their eyes.
Within vampire society, to promise eternity is to promise actual, literal eternity. Beings unfettered by the unrelenting passage of time felt no need for such proclivities.
The whisper of boredom was a constant at their heels, gnawing at even their newest indulgences—satisfaction an ever-broken promise.
What use was a single constant lover when all of creation lies at your discretion to be dined upon?
Many lovers made for a buffet of sanguine delights, whilst they would starve on a fleeting tryst.
And every Vampire Lord knew that there was no other among them as insatiable, as starved, as gluttonous as those of the Drakovich Clan, and none more so than Sullivan. He was known to be a bottomless pit, greedy for delicacies beyond just food.
He had devoured kingdoms, crushed rebellions between kisses, and left entire bloodlines ruined beneath silk sheets—and still, it was never enough.
Love was not exchanged between the pureblooded. It was beneath them—pleasantries meant for lesser things. Creatures who begged for heedless mercy, slowly poisoned by the very thing they supped like babes at a breast.
The Vampire Lords and their brood would not be fooled. There could only ever be the love of the parents for their children. Even when those same children plunged daggers into their backs.
What love could be truer than that?
No—it was a tool, a trick, weapon to wield beyond kin, beyond blood. A whisper for pillow talk, a saccharine note in a hunter’s lullaby. A little trinket to lure in the humans when the monsters still lurked within the shadows of their dark and depraved dreams.
It was for the weak who had no way to stand on their own. It was something that could never last under the weight of actual, literal eternity.
Love may be a many-splendored thing—but to them, it was only an amuse-bouche, served warm and fleeting, at the cold eternal banquet. And Sullivan would never dine on scraps.
But if it was love—true love—then it wasn’t the bride who would shatter.
It was Sullivan.
The very thought brought such dazzling, fang-filled smiles to all of their beautiful faces.
