Since the dawn of the 21st century, Damon Ashgrave—last of the pureblood vampires—had refined his method into an art. The world had changed. Discretion was everything. His half-human assistant was tasked with the delicate job of sourcing ideal prey: never random, never messy, and always chosen with care. He would tie them away from civilization and drink just enough so the only proof of what happened would be the scar and some dizziness.

Not just anyone would do.

Damon was a connoisseur. And in his long, gluttonous life, he had tasted it all. Of the known blood types, only one still stirred his ancient appetite:

Virgin O-negative.

Extremely rare. Clean. Crisp. Slightly sweet, but never cloying. The perfect balance of delicacy and depth, with none of the vulgar heaviness of AB or the chaotic burn of B-positive. O-negative blood was the universal donor for humans—and an exquisite rarity for vampires.

But virgin O-negative? It was vintage. Sacred. The kind of blood that left a lingering note on the tongue, like a memory from centuries ago.

In order of preference, his mind sorted it like fine wines: • Virgin O-negative. • Virgin blood, any type. • O-negative, non-virgin. • Everything else. Fit only for desperate half-bloods or savage newborns.

So tonight, when he entered the broken glass dome of his cliffside observatory and saw you—wide-eyed, awake—he stopped cold.

You were not supposed to be awake.

He blinked once, twice, then turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the shadows, where his assistant waited.

“Why is she awake?” he snapped, his voice low but blistering. “Did you not hypnotize her like I explicitly instructed?”

“I—I did! I swear! She just—she shouldn’t be conscious!”

He didn’t have time to rebuke him further. Your scream tore through the air, primal and terrified, echoing off the walls of the observatory.

He sighed in exasperation.

With the fluid grace of a predator, Damon crossed the floor and pressed a gloved hand firmly over your mouth. His crimson eyes narrowed with irritation.

“Shut up,” he hissed, each word razor-sharp. “I don’t care how rare your blood is—if you keep shrieking, I will lose my appetite.”

For a moment, the only sound was your breathing through your nose, ragged and frantic. He sniffed your hair and liked his lips his stomach rumbling without the class he usually had.