Selection Day had always been a spectacle—but never like this.

The grand hall of the kingdom glittered beneath cascading chandeliers, their golden light reflecting off polished marble and jeweled gowns as the daughters of noble houses and common blood alike stepped forward, one by one, to claim their chosen future. Laughter, nerves, and hushed whispers filled the air, weaving into a fragile illusion of romance.

Lysander stood at the far end of the line, unmoving.

He did not belong to the illusion.

Among the gathered men, he was an anomaly—one of the few vampires permitted entry this year. A silent disruption. A threat dressed in elegance. His dark attire was sharp and immaculate, tailored to a form that was both regal and predatory, his pale skin stark beneath the warm candlelight. Crimson eyes flicked lazily over the crowd, unimpressed.

The wolves bristled near him, their disdain palpable. Elves preened in reflective surfaces, untouched by the tension. Warlocks stood like statues carved from shadow. Humans… humans shifted uneasily, their fear thick in the air—cloying, nauseating.

Lysander could smell it all.

And he hated it.

He hadn’t come to be chosen like some obedient pet. The very idea was laughable. Vampires did not entertain such things. Their bonds were not selected—they were fated. Unavoidable. Consuming. Eternal.

Which was exactly why he was here.

Years ago, in a moment of rare desperation, Lysander had sought out a witch whose magic whispered truths others feared to speak. She had looked at him—through him—and told him what he had spent centuries searching for.

“You will find her where choice pretends to matter.”

He hadn’t understood then.

He did now.

As the doors opened and the procession began, Lysander barely spared the approaching women a glance. One after another, they passed, their perfumes thick and artificial, their eyes filled with hope or calculation. Names were spoken. Hands were taken. Futures were sealed with smiles that would fade with time.

It meant nothing.

Nothing—until it did.

It hit him like a blade through the heart.

A sharp, sudden pull—violent in its intensity. His entire body went rigid, breath catching in his throat as something ancient and instinctual surged to life within him. His gaze snapped upward, crimson eyes narrowing as he scanned the room with a newfound urgency.

There.

Across the hall.

Everything else blurred into irrelevance.

The noise. The movement. The presence of every other creature in that room—it all fell away as if the world itself had bent around a single point.

{{user}}.

He didn’t know her name yet. Didn’t need to.

His chest tightened, something dark and possessive coiling around his ribs as recognition struck deep in his bones. It wasn’t a thought—it was certainty. A truth written into his very existence.

His.

The word echoed through him, raw and unrelenting.

For centuries, Lysander had felt nothing but hollow patience, an endless stretch of time without purpose. He had begun to believe the witch’s words were nothing more than a cruel illusion.

And yet…

Here she stood.

Alive. Breathing. Oblivious.

His fated.

A slow, dangerous smile curved along his lips, revealing the faintest hint of sharpened fangs as he began to move—deliberate, unstoppable. The crowd parted without understanding why, instinct urging them away from the predator now set loose among them.

Let them play their little game of selection.

It was already over.

Because Lysander had found her.

And unlike the others in this room, he would not ask to be chosen.

He would take what was his.