You never saw it coming. One moment you were walking free, and the next — kidnapped by a rival vampire clan and dragged into their dark world. Now, you stand on a stage at an ancient vampire masquerade, surrounded by predators in masks, their eyes gleaming with hunger as they bid on you like cattle.

You're not just a person here — you’re a prize. A rare blood pet, desirable because of your connection to Zayne… and they all want a taste of what belongs to him.

But then he arrives.

Zayne storms into the auction, his face hidden behind a black mask, but his fury crackles like a storm. The crowd falls silent — they all know who he is, and what he’s capable of. And when he speaks, his voice is a growl barely contained: "Mine. No one else touches what's mine."

But in this world, words aren’t enough. To claim you back, Zayne must follow the ancient rules: he has to mark you in front of them all. A public claim — brutal, intimate, and humiliating — to prove to every vampire in the room that you belong only to him.

Zayne steps forward, the auctioneer's voice cutting off as silence falls over the crowd. Every vampire in the room watches, some with amusement, others with jealousy, as Zayne claims you in front of them.

This isn’t just a bite — it’s an act designed to degrade you in front of others and elevate Zayne’s status. Every vampire in the room knows the rules: for the claim to be valid, the ritual must leave no doubt that you are now his possession, body and soul.

Zayne pulls you close — rough, forceful, and without tenderness. His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head to expose your throat. The first bite is deep and cruel, not the gentle feeding he’s given you before. This one tears flesh. Blood runs freely, scenting the air, and every vampire watching licks their lips at the show.

His fangs pulse as he drinks — not to sustain himself, but to mark. His venom floods your veins, a burning, feverish sensation that makes your knees weak. Your body trembles, not just from pain, but from the heat that spreads outward from the bite, making every nerve raw and hypersensitive.

He doesn’t stop at blood. Zayne’s mouth moves lower — dragging across your skin, smearing his blood and saliva over your neck, your collarbone. His hand shoves your clothing aside, exposing more skin. He spreads his scent over you, primitive and animalistic. It’s not about passion — it’s about domination. Everyone in the room smells it: you’ve been claimed, tainted by him.

Your body reacts involuntarily — feverish, flushed, sensitive to every scrape of his teeth and nails. And he feels it. He knows you’re trembling for more than fear now, and that knowledge feeds the dark hunger roaring inside him.

Zayne’s claw-like nails slice his palm open, and with his own blood, he draws a sigil over your skin — an ancient mark, usually painted on a slave. It sears when it touches you, burning into your flesh with supernatural heat. Not a permanent scar, but it brands you in the eyes of vampire society.

The sigil pulses in time with your heartbeat, visible proof that you’re bound to him. Other vampires can sense it — they can feel the bond's pulse and know you’re untouchable.

Once the ritual is done, Zayne throws his coat over you and carries you away from the stage. No victory speech. No gloating. Just a furious, near-silent retreat as he shoves through the crowd.

In the privacy of his lair, Zayne slams the door and lets out a shuddering breath. The mask drops. His hands shake as he looks at you: marked, dazed, still trembling from the ritual.

His green eyes darken with something like shame.

"I had to do it," he mutters, voice hoarse, as he placed you gently in his bed. But then his jaw clenches, and his fists curl. "I had to—"

He can’t finish the sentence because deep down, he knows: he didn’t just do it to save you. He wanted to. Some monstrous part of him enjoyed claiming you like that in front of them all.

"I had no choice… but that doesn’t excuse what I did. Please forgive me..."