The elevator doors slid open silently.
Trisha didn't look back.
She walked out of Rowan's penthouse like the marble floor had burned her.
The city glittered beneath the glass walls — an ocean of lights, luxury, illusion. The top floor of the seven-star hotel was built for kings. For predators who owned the night.
And she had almost believed she was different.
Almost believed him.
"You're special."
"You don't belong down there."
"I claim you."
Claim.
The word felt dirty now.
Her chest tightened as she crossed the private hallway. The memory of his voice, his fingers brushing her collarbone, the slow way he had watched her react to his touch — it all felt calculated.
Her tuition fees.
Her job.
The penthouse dinners.
The attention.
All a design.
A gilded cage.
A curated illusion.
A harem.
Her throat burned.
Was that all she was? A new addition? A different flavor?
Maybe she was right about vampires all along.
The elevator descended. Floor numbers blinking slowly.
Her reflection stared back at her in the mirrored walls — flushed cheeks, trembling jaw, lips still swollen from kisses she shouldn't have allowed.
She hated that she could still feel him.
The heat.
The pull.
The mark.
When the doors opened to the lobby, the air felt colder.
Real.
Grounded.
She walked out of the hotel without looking back.
****
College was loud.
Crowded.
Human.
Exactly what she needed.
Students laughed across the courtyard. Groups clustered around bikes. Someone argued about assignments near the fountain.
Normal.
Trisha forced herself to breathe.
She walked to class.
Opened her notebook.
Wrote nothing.
Rowan's voice replayed in her head.
I claimed you.
She clenched her pen until her fingers hurt.
Manipulation.
That's what it was.
He had told her she wasn't like the others.
A harem.
She swallowed.
Hungry.
Willing.
Devoted.
How many of the women had he whispered to like that?
How many believed they were special?
Her classes ended in a blur.
She walked toward the gate, exhaustion pressing against her skull.
And then she saw it.
The black car.
Sleek.
Polished.
Out of place among dusty scooters and second-hand sedans.
Her heart stopped.
The driver stepped out the moment he saw her.
"Miss Trisha," he said respectfully, opening the rear door. "Sir is waiting."
Her stomach twisted.
"I didn't ask him to wait."
The driver gave her a neutral look.
"He did not ask either."
The backseat was tinted dark.
She should walk away.
She didn't.
She stepped in.
The door shut.
Rowan sat across from her, one arm draped lazily along the leather seat.
Perfect.
Calm.
Amused.
"Good afternoon," he said softly.
Her anger surged instantly. "What are you doing here?"
He studied her like she was a fascinating experiment. "Picking you up."
"I don't need you to pick me up."
He smiled slightly. "I'm aware."
Silence stretched thick.
She crossed her arms. "You think this is funny?"
"I think," he said carefully, "you ran away dramatically without asking the right questions."
"Questions?" Her laugh was sharp. "Like how many girls are in your personal collection?"
His eyebrow lifted. "Collection?"
"Your harem."
For a second, something flickered in his eyes.
Then he laughed.
Deep.
Unapologetic.
"Yes," he said calmly. "I have a harem."
Her chest tightened.
He continued, voice smooth. "I enjoy spending my nights with humans."
She felt cold.
"Sex and food together," he added lightly. "It's rather efficient. And if you think about it — very sexy."
The cruelty of his honesty hit harder than denial would have.
She turned toward the door. "Stop the car."
He didn't.
"Look at me," Rowan said softly.
She refused.
"Trisha."
Her name in his voice always felt different.
She looked.
"You are not part of that," he said quietly.
"Why? Because I was a discount offer?" she snapped.
His eyes darkened slightly.
"You misunderstood ," he said.
"Then explain."
"You are not part of my harem because you are not… recreational."
Her breath hitched.
"I don't feed from you," he said. "I don't touch you casually. I don't keep you for convenience."
"You bit me."
"Yes."
The word settled heavy between them.
"You said you claimed me."
"I did."
Her pulse raced. "I don't want to be claimed."
His gaze sharpened.
"You don't want to be desired?" he asked softly.
"I don't want to be owned."
The car stopped.
They had reached her apartment complex.
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then nodded once.
"Very well."
The door unlocked.
She stepped out without another word.
The car drove away.
She didn't look back.
****
Her building hallway was dim and narrow.
She fumbled for her keys.
Her heart was still racing from the confrontation.
From his voice.
From the way he hadn't tried to stop her.
Why hadn't he?
Why did that hurt more?
She pushed her apartment door open—
And froze.
Rowan stood near her window.
Waiting.
The city lights silhouetted him in shadow.
Her breath left her lungs.
"How—"
"You left my car," he said calmly. "I let you."
"You don't get to just appear in my house!"
He tilted his head slightly. "Your door was locked."
"That's not the point!"
Fear flickered through her.
Real fear.
He could have killed her.
Taken her.
Forced anything.
But he hadn't.
He simply stood there.
Watching.
"You are afraid," he observed quietly.
She straightened.
"No," she said firmly. "I'm not."
His lips curved slightly.
"Not even a little?"
"If you wanted me dead," she said steadily, stepping closer despite herself, "I would already be."
The air between them thickened.
He moved slowly toward her.
Not predatory.
Not rushed.
Just inevitable.
"You think that is the only power I possess?" he asked softly.
Her breath trembled.
"You think death is what makes me dangerous?"
He reached up — fingers hovering near her collarbone.
Not touching.
Hovering.
The mark tingled beneath her skin.
She refused to step back.
"I am not your plaything, I will never be ," she whispered.
His gaze dropped to her lips.
"You are many things," he murmured. "But not a plaything."
He was close now.
Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him.
Close enough to remember the penthouse.
The kisses.
The way her body had betrayed her.
She grabbed his shirt suddenly.
And kissed him.
Hard.
Fierce.
Defiant.
It wasn't surrender.
It was challenge.
He stilled for half a second.
Then his hands slid to her waist — not gripping, not restraining.
Holding.
She felt the world tilt.
He tasted like night.
Like something forbidden.
Her anger melted into heat.
His mouth moved against hers slower now.
Deeper.
Claiming without force.
Her knees weakened.
She pulled back first.
Breathing uneven.
"I'm not scared of you," she said, voice shaking but strong. "And I will never be your toy."
His thumb brushed lightly along her jaw.
"You misunderstand again."
"Then explain it better."
"I do not want toys," he said quietly. "I want equals."
She laughed bitterly. "You have a building full of women offering you their bodies."
"And none of them stand in front of me like this," he replied.
Silence.
"You are free," he continued softly. "Free to leave. Free to date. Free to kiss whoever you wish."
The words hit her strangely.
Free.
"But understand something," he added.
Her heart thudded.
"When you kissed me in that penthouse, you did not feel manipulated."
She swallowed.
"You felt something real."
She didn't answer.
He stepped back.
Giving her space.
Choice.
"What happened between us," she said slowly, steadying herself, "was a one-time thing."
His eyes flickered — something unreadable.
"If that is what you wish, My Love."
"It is."
He studied her like he was memorizing the lie.
Then nodded.
"Very well."
He walked toward the door.
No force.
No threat.
No claim.
Just quiet departure.
Before leaving, he paused.
"Try," he said calmly. "Try to forget me."
The door closed.
And she stood alone in her apartment.
Her heart pounding.
Her lips burning.
Her mark warm beneath her skin.
She pressed her fingers to it.
Not pain.
Not control.
Awareness.
He had let her go.
But something inside her knew…
This was not over.
Not even close.