Page 50 of Vampire Soldier

Deidre and Kasar are sequestered in the far corner, their heads bent close. His raven-black hair gleams under the low amber lighting, broad shoulders angled toward her protectively. And Deidre—sharp-smiled, wolf-slick Deidre—wears danger like a dress, sipping an iced whiskey with surprising civility as she studies the curve of the performance space.

Toe the line, and she looks like elegance. Cross her, and you’ll be bones in a ditch courtesy of her mate.

Ambrose leans into his seat like he was built for it. One arm rests over the crest of the sofa behind Eloise, who lounges beside him in a dress the color of sin before dawn. She’s beautiful here under these chandeliers, all thick hair and unapologetic thighs, the steel in her gaze softening just enough for Ambrose to look at home beside her. Her attention flicks to me, half amused and wholly aware. It’s in part thanks to her that we’re sold out—she’s responsible for all of the graphic design we needed.

Ashe cuts a quieter figure, standing sentinel just behind Cassandra—who, of all those present, is the most genuinely welcoming. She meets my gaze with a warm smile, her wine goblet held loosely in one hand, posture relaxed but elegant. There’s no artifice in her expression, only curiosity and calm, the kind of grace that’s always made her feel more like an anchor than an enigma. Gods, I do not miss Eris.

My boots hit the thick carpet without echo, the door shut and sealed behind me.

Cassandra speaks first. “I’ve heard impressive things about your stage producer,” she says, voice rich and sweet, like poisoned wine meant to taste like the heavens. “I’m excited to see the show.”

“Me too,” Wren adds, her interest keen, bordering on clinical. “You found her close to opening, didn’t you?”

Deidre arches one brow with approval, her polished indifference lifting just enough that I see the predator beneath. “If so, she’s a miracle worker. I’ve seen some of the rehearsals. Seamless.”

Beside Ambrose, Eloise leans into her goblet with a familiar smile. “I’d love to meet her,” she says, this time with genuine warmth. “I stopped by earlier this week, but she looked too focused to interrupt. You weren’t exaggerating—she moves like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.”

“She exceeded every expectation,” I answer. My voice comes out too flat. Too smooth. But I can’t let it slow, lest it crack. I move to the empty chair placed dead center between Lan and Kasar, silently claiming it with every inch of the posture Ambrose has spent a millennium perfecting.

Cassandra nods, turning back toward the stage beyond the two-way glass. The hush settles again. But I’m drowning in it.

The seats hum faintly beneath us with the pulse of the floor—lighting circuits warming, music ready to bloom. My name sat on every investor’s lips in the past hour. Every handshake left a stain of what they assumed was flattery but reeked of calculation. But here—here among the Nightshades—I am not just an owner in white gold cufflinks. I am a General. I am a monster. I am a brother.

And yet the only one I hunger to see isn’t beside me.

She should be here.

Not buried in black velvet and pre-show chaos beneath the stage. Not pretending tonight is anything but what it is—a triumph milked from panic, rehearsed on shattered nerves and sleepless nights and stolen hours while raising her daughter with the kind of ferocity I’ve seen in wolf mothers facing down hellhounds. Not while a worthless cur sniffs around her heels as if he owns her.

The lights below dim.

Conversation dies. Glasses still. Our world tightens to a singular rhythm—the soft cue from the tech booth, the ripple running along the red velvet curtain as it stirs.

Silence.

And then?—

The swell of brass. The decadence of strings. A whisper of percussion that promises tease before climax.

The curtain peels apart like a breath just before the reveal of a secret.

A spotlight bleeds forward.

A single dancer appears—a burnished gold reflection of my dreams of success, sewn together by Tara and directed by Blake.

And then more.

They emerge from the dark like masks, faceless perfection born from the mangled choreography of ambition and brilliance.

And Blake’s fingerprints are everywhere.

The transitions slip like silk. The music surges in perfect tandem with the lighting—a cascade of color designed to make human hearts leap and supernatural ones pulse with need.

Ambrose watches like he’s dissecting prey. Deciding if its secrets are worth keeping.

Eloise sips wine precisely when the spotlight fades to half intensity, then leans into Ambrose’s side, murmuring something I don’t bother to hear. Everything about her bleeds contentment, like she’s watching a favorite performance.

Deidre’s whipcord posture never falters. Her gaze tags each transition with the merciless efficiency of someone who knows how to find fault and file it away until blood matters. No doubt she is already crafting headlines for the article I know she plans to publish in the Newgate Times.

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