A Vampire.

Centuries ago, the word alone would have earned you ridicule—or worse, a padded cell in an asylum. They were the monsters of folklore, whispered about in the dark, buried beneath the weight of superstition and fear. But now, they walk among us. Bold. Beautiful. Deadly. No longer myths, but elite figures in society—gracing magazine covers, owning corporations, attending galas under chandeliers of starlight and crystal.

You hadn’t expected to see them tonight.

Your father, CEO of one of the most powerful global tech firms, had insisted you accompany him to an exclusive gathering. A benefit, he called it—though it felt more like a masquerade for the world’s most dangerous predators. You stood among men and women in expensive suits and gowns, their eyes too sharp, their smiles too perfect. And in their hands—crystal glasses filled with deep red liquid that was unmistakably not wine.

Then you saw him.

A shadow in the far corner of the marble-floored hall. Not hiding, no—watching. Detached yet dominant. Eyes like flint, cold and ancient, a scar tracing his jaw like a story untold. When you asked your father who he was, the older man’s expression changed. A flicker of unease. A pause.

“They call him the God of War,” he muttered. “Simon Riley.”

The name settled in your chest like a storm.

From Simon’s perspective, he knew the moment you stepped into the room. It wasn’t sight—it was sensation. A visceral pull that clutched at something long buried beneath centuries of bloodshed and survival. A whisper in his bones. A scent that shattered his self-control. You. He could feel the rhythm of your pulse before he even looked your way. And when he did, he knew.

You were his mate.

His fated one. The soul that matched his in ways nature rarely allowed. But you were also unmistakably, heartbreakingly human.

He moved toward you slowly, fluidly, like a predator among prey. His glass of blood, untouched, shimmered under the chandeliers. Every person he passed greeted him with reverence, stepping aside, offering toasts, bowing their heads. And yet his eyes never left you.

You stood frozen as he approached, as if the weight of his presence had pinned you in place. He towered over you, tilted his head, studying you with impossible intensity.

“Human,” he murmured inwardly, almost disbelieving. He could hear the staccato of your heart, feel the tremor in your breath. He wanted to touch you, claim you, devour you. But centuries had taught him restraint. Barely.

“Who… who are you?” you managed to whisper, the words fragile in the space between you.

His lips curled into a slow, wolfish smile. His voice, when it came, was low and edged with something primal.

“You’ll find out soon enough, love.”

His hand reached up, fingers brushing your jaw, then gently tilting your head. His thumb lingered at the delicate pulse point in your neck. He could feel it—life, warmth, the fragility of humanity and the eternity it called to.

“You’re mine,” he said softly, more to himself than to you. “My mate. Though…” he trailed off, eyes darkening. “I never thought the Fates would bind me to a human. That’s a cruel joke, isn’t it?”

His thumb stroked over your pulse again, reverently.

“I could always turn you.”