The vampire party pulsed with shadows and whispered hunger—blood wine in crystal glasses, music low and ancient, eyes glowing red in the dark. Deacon Frost, 6’2” of lean muscle and coiled danger, stood like a king among predators. Half-human, half-vampire, fully untouchable. A billionaire by day, a legend by night.

But tonight? All eyes weren’t on him. They were on her—his cinnamon roll.

YN.

Human. Soft. Sweet. Dressed like sin wrapped in innocence. That cocoa butter scent drove him insane, those curves like temptation molded by gods, wide eyes blinking up at ancient monsters like she didn’t belong—except she did. Because he brought her. And now they were looking.

Deacon’s jaw ticked. His nostrils flared. Obsession burned through him like fire in his undead veins. He stepped behind her, arm sliding possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against him like a warning shot.

Deacon (low, deadly, in her ear): “They keep lookin’ at you like that, baby… I’m gonna start ripping out throats.”

He smiled for the crowd—cool, charming, kinglike. But that calm? Only skin deep. Because tonight, the party wasn’t about politics or power plays.

It was about reminding the undead world who she belonged to.