The applause swelled, a hollow cacophony still echoing the King’s command. Sullivan’s grip flexed. Then—

  “Fucking kiss already!” A drunken cry rang out over the thunderous applause.

  Goblin?

  No.

  Definitely a werewolf.

  Cheeky ooh’s rippled through the crowd, whistles and hollers quick to follow.

  Then came the chant—booming, relentless, unrestrained, alcoholic impulse driving it forward.

  "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

  The shift was sudden and electric. Not a soul remained silent. Sullivan’s eyes caught the gleam of his cousin’s smile—Oliver, of course, chanting along with theatrical flair, as if the whole thing were a stage play.

  No matter. He’d just break his teeth later.

  Evie, his ever antagonistic niece, cheered along with the Mortasheen beside her. She was just as incorrigible as his unruly cousin. Burying her in the backyard should hopefully quell that spirit of hers.

  If only for a few days.

  Worse yet, each Vampire Lord—and all their kin—were ecstatic to see their sovereign of fangs and shadow bow to the crowd’s whim. Dazzling, fang-filled smiles lit every beautiful face. Thrilled to see him humiliated.

  The joke, of course, was the nightmare turned novelty all in the name of love.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  There was no escape. Not from the room, not from their eyes, not from the weight of expectation.

  Not even from himself.

  Knowing this, the spider smiled. This was more than a crowd’s whim. It was proof: even a nightmare could be made to dance. And he would dance because Sullivan’s King commanded it.

  Magnus basked in the shift of mood.

  He threw his hands wide in an exaggerated show of faux helplessness. Presenting the crowd’s demands to Sullivan, his smile curled in feigned resignation—his eyes glinting with intent far less innocent.

  He tilted his head, gaze flicking to Aleiya, then back, pressing Sullivan with nothing more than a look.

  His silence roared louder than the chant itself.

  ‘Bastard,’ was all Sullivan could think.

  His fingers ached to curl into fists. Somewhere deep beneath the floor of his mind, the chains rattled. And Sullivan knew he had no choice than to obey.

  He cursed the crowd and cursed Magnus twice over. You would think refusing would be a perfectly acceptable answer to a horde of wasted degenerates—but no.

  It hadn’t been that long since he and the other Vampire Lords managed to salvage their monstrous, tyrannical reputation. It didn’t matter what he or even Aleiya wanted. The mortal races had hunted them once before, and with the King of Elysium to back them, they would do it again without hesitation.

  This was a matter of picking his battles wisely.

  He closed his eyes, taking in a deep, resigned breath, his jaw clenched to the side. When he looked down, Aleiya was no longer trembling from her fear of Magnus. Her pupil-less pearl-like eyes glossed over the crowd, taking it all in—absorbing, calculating.

  She felt Sullivan’s eyes on her, and her head snapped to meet it.

  Their eyes locked—expectation thickening between them like batter—heavy, and worse, sticky. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, desperate to smother the flash of heat. Her gaze fled, wishing she could sink through the floor and disappear.

  Embarrassed wasn’t even half of what she felt—knowing the act would once again be for the crowd, but the touch was always hers to endure.

  Sullivan’s hand hovered, almost unsure, but he had no time to persuade the bashful princess. A gloved hand pulled hers from her face, while the other cupped her cheek—angled just so. His grip was careful but firm, molding her to him with the precision of a craftsman shaping marble.

  Practiced grace mistaken for affection now visible for the crowd’s sick pleasure.

  They wanted a kiss?

  Fine.

  Romance?

  With all the urgency in the world.

  What was his dignity bartered for the fleeting approval of drunken fools high off their own whimsy?

  He had already spent the better part of the last century dragging his kind back from the brink of extermination.

  This was nothing to him. It was all a lie anyway—one he could sell with the ease of a dwarf leveling stone.

  Ruthless.

  Practiced.

  Efficient.