Chapter 2
Ivy's POV
The tray crashed to the floor.
Shattered porcelain exploded across the polished hardwood, and deep crimson synthetic blood wine pooled between the floorboards like something obscenely real. My hands were still frozen in mid-air, trembling violently now that they had nothing to grip.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered behind my mask, my voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to—"
Garrett was already rushing forward, nearly shoving me aside in his panic. "Please forgive us, gentlemen! This is entirely our fault—we'll clean this up immediately and bring fresh—"
"Everyone out." The voice came from somewhere to my left, casual and amused. "Except the girl."
My blood turned to ice.
Garrett's face went gray. He grabbed my elbow hard enough to bruise and hissed in my ear, "Don't say anything stupid. Just apologize and get out as fast as you can." Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made my knees weak.
I was alone with them.
Ten pairs of eyes fixed on me with varying degrees of interest and amusement. The one who'd just spoken leaned back in his chair with a mocking smile, his deep red hair catching the candlelight, blood-red eyes gleaming with cruel amusement as he watched me with obvious entertainment.
"Clean it up," he said, his tone suggesting this was all some kind of game to him.
I dropped to my knees immediately, my joints protesting as they hit the hard floor. My hands shook so badly I could barely pick up the larger pieces of broken porcelain without cutting myself. The liquid had splattered across my worn sneakers and soaked into the knees of my threadbare work pants. I could feel their eyes on me as I worked—could feel them watching the way my fingers fumbled with the shards, the way my shoulders hunched defensively, the way I kept my head down like a beaten dog.
The man laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. "O-negative blood. Pure strain, too." His voice was closer now, and when I glanced up through my lashes I saw he'd moved to stand directly over me, blocking out the candlelight. "That's rare these days. Most of the bottom-feeders are so contaminated they're barely worth draining."
My hands froze on a piece of broken plate.
The man crouched down, and I caught a glimpse of his face—handsome in a predatory way, with blood-red eyes that seemed to glow brighter as he leaned in. His fingers reached toward my neck, brushing against the edge of my mask, and I could feel the unnatural coldness radiating from his skin even before he touched me. "Let's see what's under here—"
"Dylan." The silver-haired man's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Sit down."
The red-eyed man—Dylan—straightened up slowly, his mouth curving into a mocking smile. "Just having a little fun, brother." But he returned to his seat, and I noticed the way his movements had gone stiff and mechanical, as if something had physically forced him to obey.
I gathered the last of the broken porcelain with shaking hands and dumped it onto the tray, not daring to look up again. The pool of synthetic blood had spread too far to clean with just my hands.
"You can go," the silver-haired man said.
I scrambled to my feet, clutching the tray of broken dishes, and turned toward the door. But just before I reached it, I made the mistake of glancing back one last time.
Lucien was still staring at me. His face was porcelain-pale in the candlelight, too perfect and too cold, but those amber eyes were the same ones I remembered from high school—the same ones that used to smile when he lent me his notes during chemistry class. The same ones that had looked at me with such gentle patience when I'd been too shy to speak.
My hand found the doorknob and I fled.
The back corridor was freezing. I pressed myself against the damp stone wall, trying to catch my breath, my legs threatening to give out. The tray slipped from my numb fingers and clattered to the floor.
Lucien Sinclair was a vampire.
"You're a fucking idiot!" Garrett's voice exploded down the corridor, making me flinch. He appeared around the corner, his face flushed with anger and fear. "Do you know who that was? The one who touched you? That's the Blackwood family's second-in-command! He could've turned you into a blood slave right there, or drained you dry, and no one could've stopped him!"
I stared at him, the words washing over me without really sinking in. My hand drifted to my neck where Dylan's cold fingers had brushed my skin, and the old scar beneath my mask throbbed with phantom pain.
Garrett was still ranting, but I'd stopped listening. My eyes caught on a faded poster on the corridor wall—one of those government-issued Blood Accord propaganda pieces: "Peaceful Coexistence, Mutual Prosperity." The words looked absurd next to the peeling paint and water stains.
All I could think about was Lucien's face in that candlelit room. Lucien, who used to share his lunch with me when my grandmother forgot to pack mine. Lucien, who always wore perfectly ironed white shirts and had ink stains on his fingers from taking too many notes. Lucien, who'd been the only person in school who never made me feel invisible.
He was actually one of them now.
