Page 24 of Blood Bond

ChapterEighteen

As darkness descends, the city awakens to its nocturnal pulse. Vampires emerge, mingling with those who adore them and those who yearn to be like them.

Donovan strides through the throng, an air of disdain surrounding him. To him, humans are like vermin — the longer he lives, the more this sentiment festers. They seem to destroy and corrupt everything they touch. Despite his own destructive past as a human, for which he harbours regret, he believes he has evolved since his transformation.

The streets buzz with human activity, mostly gravitating towards the various clubs and establishments. Donovan observes the hypocrisy: humans who once scorched the skies to oppress vampires, who unleashed afflictions like HIV and Alitora, now freely mingle in these dens, offering their blood as if in a twisted celebration.

But their actions are not without self-interest. They desire, they beg, confirming Donovan's belief that they need to be controlled. Left unchecked, he fears they will lead the world to ruin, ensuring no one, vampire or human, survives.

Donovan strides through it all with an air of disdain that's palpable even amidst the chaos. He's tall, dark-haired, and exquisitely handsome; his eyes a fierce red that seems to burn holes in those who dare to look at him for too long. But it doesn’t stop them.

His tailored suit fits him like a glove, accentuating every muscle and curve of his body. He oozes power and control as he weaves through the crowd, his movements graceful yet purposeful - he knows where he's going and doesn't have time for frivolity. Everywhere he goes, women smile at him, their cleavage provocatively displayed, their movements flirtatiously calculated. Each one seems eager to capture his attention.

The vampire elite mix and mingle with the pulsating crowd, their regal presence commanding the attention of all those around them. Glimmering jewels and luxurious fabrics adorn their immortal bodies, reflecting the intoxicating lights of the city. They feed off the energy that surrounds them, a feast for their senses as much as blood is to their sustenance.

Donovan continues through this dazzling spectacle, resolute and unimpressed. Maybe another night he’d have paid one or two some attention, taken what they offer to him, but tonight he has other ideas, a different person he needs to see.

Crevan.

Crevan is exactly where Donovan expects to find him — at his bar, Nocturne. It's his usual haunt.

Unlike the others who queue patiently, Donovan doesn't pause at the entrance. The vampires staffing the bar recognise his stature immediately. They open the doors upon his approach, their actions verging on a bow, acknowledging his presence with a silent respect.

Donovan straightens his shoulders and adjusts the cuffs of his jacket, ensuring his appearance is impeccable. He moves with purpose, well aware of his destination. The table in the back corner, always surrounded by a select crowd, is his target.

Pushing his way through the burgeoning crowd, Donovan ignores the distractions around him. The dancers on stage, the explicit displays of flesh and desire – while it's all available and has often been his for the taking, tonight he remains focused. His gaze is fixed on the table where Crevan holds court.

Crevan, draped in brocaded silk and fine velvet, lounges like a king among his courtiers. His ebony hair cascades down his back in thick, lustrous waves—an intriguing contrast against his pale skin that glows with an internal luminescence exclusive to their kind.

He’s pathetic. A shambles to their kind.

The sight of Crevan laughing with the women around him sets Donovan’s blood aflame—an irony not lost on him

As he approaches the table, the air thickens. A hush falls over the previously raucous crowd as all eyes follow his progress across the room. The music dwindles to a faint background noise as everyone awaits the imminent confrontation.

Crevan looks up from his wine glass and meets Donovan’s gaze with a cryptic smile playing upon his lips. He extends one arm out in invitation while signalling for another round of drinks with the other. Despite his ostensible hospitality, it's clear to Donovan that this isn’t a gesture of goodwill—more like merry jest before the storm.

"Can I offer you something to drink?" Crevan asks, his eyes glancing not towards the bar but at the assortment of humans nearby. Some willing to offer their services, and the odd one who isn’t.

Donovan doesn't spare them a glance. "You were supposed to keep her with you," he states, cutting straight to the point. "She was meant to stay here until I decided otherwise."

Crevan, a high-ranking vampire in his own right, wields significant power and commands respect. Yet, in the presence of Donovan, his authority is diminished. He maintains a composed facade, careful not to show fear before the surrounding humans and vampires, but he's also wise enough not to overstep his bounds with Donovan. "Perhaps we should discuss this in my office," he suggests, making a move to leave.

Donovan shakes his head firmly. "I'm not here for a conversation. I want to know why you defied my orders. Why was she put up for auction, and how did my brother end up with her?"

"H-he offered to pay," Crevan stammers, a hint of hesitation in his voice.

"Pay?" Donovan echoes, the single word slithering from his lips like a viper poised to strike. His eyes, iridescent against the low light of the room, fixate on Crevan. The crowd draws back. "And was it your right to sell her?" Donovan hisses. Crevan's eyes widen slightly at this blunt confrontation but he quickly recovers, hiding his surprise beneath a mask of deceitful calm.

"I didn't have a choice," Crevan protests weakly, avoiding Donovan’s gaze by refilling his wine glass once again. Both vampires know that he's skirting around the truth. "He threatened––"

"He threatened you?" Donovan interrupts sharply, "Or did he simply offer more?"

“Such matters are better spoken about in private.”

"No. I strongly disagree. You thought you could betray me? You believed I would simply accept everything as fine?" Donovan's voice cuts through the room, filling it with a palpable, oppressive silence. The tension thickens, almost tangible.

Crevan swallows audibly, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand until the stem cracks, breaking into two pieces. "Donovan," he starts, his voice wavering, a feeble attempt to regain some control. But his efforts crumble under Donovan's relentless, piercing glare.

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