Chapter 1

Okay, I know I'm not supposed to feel like I was in heat, but I couldn’t help it. Jason Nollan. The vampire king was hot. Big letter, super H.O.T.

Am I stupid? Definitely.

Anyway, call me Phia, or Phiagirl and I'm a shewolf, a hybrid who could wield magic, and here I was salivating over a vampire. Our natural enemy. How sick was that?

I sighed and swallowed a lump as the vampire king with his dark scowl approached me with a predatory grace, as if he possessed not only my existence but also the very air I struggled to draw into my lungs.

I leaned back against the cold, unforgiving wall, my wrists bound in shackles, yet a smirk lingered on my lips, a defiant spark in the face of danger as I looked at my ill-gotten copy of Homer laying on the floor and sighed as I gazed around the massive empty hallway.

There he was. Imposing and powerful, and I couldn't get my eyes away from him. He was the vampire king. The most powerful of all nighters, and yes, I could sense him; I know he was there to either kill me or maybe save me? I don't really know... Either way, both weren’t promising. I had never seen him this close before—but I was fairly certain he didn’t need pointers on how to enjoy Homer or read poetry.

One question lingered.

Why me?

I didn't expect a rescue.

I’m just a mere shewolf, the wallpaper, the unnoticeable, certainly not interesting; in fact, I’m boring, an ordinary shifter who didn’t belong anywhere, with no real friends aside from Princess Diane and Patrick, the brother of my supposed to be mate.

I frowned at the massive vampire; why was I here again? Well, Asshole, son of the alpha of the north, caged me here just because I don't bow to his stupid agendas like sucking his dick. He was supposed to be my fated mate, my lover, but the night I gave him my virginity and bonded with him, he proposed to Princess BJ, the daughter of the nearby pack. Of course, I was mad, and what has that gotten me? Jailtime. Starvation and hatred among the jailguard. They couldn't blame me. I scream like there is no tomorrow.

The vampire king frowned.

Like he just read my mind and he didn't like what he saw.

God, he was hot.

And yes, anyone who has read paperback bestsellers or even watched television knew that vampires were breathtaking, but nothing prepares you to actually see one. Their bone structures were so well honed that they seem chiselled by an expert sculptor. Breathtakingly handsome. Like a model. Like a god.

Then they move or speak, and your mind couldn’t begin to absorb what you’re seeing. Every movement was graceful; every word was musical. And their eyes were arresting, which was precisely how they caught their prey. One long look, a few quiet words, a touch: once you’re caught in a vampire’s snare, you don’t stand a chance.

“There you are, little wolf,” the vampire king murmured. The scent of cloves, cinnamon, honey, and something that reminded me of incense filled the air. He set me on my feet, picked Homer off the floor, and handed it to me with a small bow. “Poetry, I presume?”

I nodded as I watched his expensive outfit or whatever those fancy gold and silver logos were.

Not bad for someone who appeared to be in his mid- to late thirties, though I imagined that his actual age was at least twenty times that or more.

He didn’t boast or swagger; with a face carved like a dark god and a physique that radiated raw, immortal power, he didn’t need to. His very presence commanded reverence, and I felt the weight of that dominance settle around us like a heavy cloak.

In comparison, Alpha Jehg—or his son Asshole—was considered the most formidable shifter in our pack, yet even he paled against the sheer intensity of the vampire standing before me. This king’s power surged through the cell, overwhelming and undeniable, as if he had seized the essence that flowed between Heaven and Hell, leaving no room for resistance. He carried the weight of his noble lineage with effortless ease, and in that moment, envy ignited a fierce flame within me, a burning reminder of my own limitations.

This vampire king, an enigma woven into the fabric of ancient myth, had emerged from the shadows of legend to confront a mere wolf girl like me.

My mind, starved for understanding, raced to decipher his purpose. Was he here to deliver me from my chains, to be my saviour in this dark hour, or had he come with darker intentions, ready to pounce and claim me for himself?

Yeah, right. Maybe not. But why me? Did he know my secret?

Hopefully not.

However, the uncertainty hung thick in the air, a tantalising mix of fear and intrigue that kept me on edge.

Staring down at this vampire, I realised with a sinking feeling that my knowledge on the subject about the vampire king was, alas, largely theoretical. Little of it seemed useful now that I was facing one.

The only vampire with whom I had more than a passing acquaintance worked at the science laboratory in Paris. Jess was slight and gorgeous, with bright blond hair, blue eyes, and an infectious laugh. He’d slept with most of the women in Paris and was now working his way through the city of love. What he did after he seduced them I had never wanted to enquire into too closely, and I’d turned down his persistent invitations to go out for a drink. I’d always figured that Jess was representative of the breed. But in comparison to the one who stood before me now, he seemed raw-boned, gawky, and very, very young.

This one was tall—well over six feet, even accounting for the problems of perspective associated with looking down on him from the gallery. And he definitely was not slight. Broad shoulders narrowed into slender hips, which flowed into lean, muscular legs. His hands were strikingly long and agile, a mark of physiological delicacy that made your eyes drift back to them to figure out how they could belong to such a large man.

As my eyes swept over him, his own were fixed on me. From across the room, they seemed black as night, but as deep as sapphire staring up under thick, equally black eyebrows, one of them lifted in a curve that suggested a question mark. His face was indeed striking—all distinct planes and surfaces, with high-angled cheekbones meeting brows that shielded and shadowed his eyes. Above his chin was one of the few places where there was room for softness—his wide mouth, which, like his long hands, didn’t seem to make sense.

But the most unnerving thing about him was not his physical perfection. It was his feral combination of strength, his raw power and agility, and his keen intelligence that was palpable across the room. In his black trousers and soft grey sweater, with a shock of black hair swept back from his forehead and cropped close to the nape of his neck, he looked like a panther that could strike at any moment but was in no rush to do so.

He smiled. It was a small, barely polite smile that didn’t reveal his teeth. I was intensely aware of them anyway, sitting in perfectly straight, sharp rows behind his pale lips.