The bass thumped like a second heartbeat, a relentless thrum that vibrated through the black marble floors of Eclipse, Boston’s most elite underground club. Strobe lights pulsed in rhythmic flashes—scarlet, indigo, silver—casting jagged shadows over the writhing mass of bodies grinding on the dance floor.
It was Halloween night, which meant the place was crawling with humans dressed in different costumes.
Everywhere Damien looked, he saw cheap plastic fangs, streaks of fake blood, humans playing at darkness without the faintest idea of what real monsters looked like.
He smirked, lounging in a private booth, long legs stretched out, a real predator among playthings.
They wanted to be vampires. He was born one.
His kind weren’t the cursed dead of human folklore. His Breed had never been mortal. They were the offspring of ancient conquerors—alien warriors who had crash-landed on Earth thousands of years ago, taking human females as mates, blending their superior genetics with human flesh.
Unlike the weak, reanimated corpses humans imagined, the Breed were powerful, hot-blooded, born of both worlds, and lethal by design.
Damien was pure royal blood—untouched by human lineage, descended from the strongest of the first warriors. He could snap the spine of every costumed fool in this club before they even registered his movement.
Instead, he was here for something simple.
A distraction.
The woman on his lap purred as she rolled her hips, her neon purple wig slipping slightly as she ran her fingers down the laces of her bustier.
“I’m a very, very bad witch,” she murmured, her voice sultry with alcohol.
Damien’s lips curled, his hand settling at the curve of her waist. “My favorite.”
She giggled, tipping her head back, exposing the delicate curve of her throat—a silent invitation.
Easy.
He brushed his lips against her pulse point, tasting the warmth of her skin, the steady thrum of human life beneath his tongue.
His fangs ached, lengthening in anticipation. One bite, one drink, and the tension coiled inside him would ease—
Then it hit him.
A scent.
Dark. Intoxicating. Sweet like wild honey, but laced with something sharp. Like fire and power and something ancient—something he had never encountered before.
It sliced through the club’s thick perfume haze, drowning out the sweat, alcohol, and human filth. Overpowering. Wrong.
Damien sucked in a breath—and immediately regretted it.
His head snapped up. His vision blurred, then sharpened too fast. His body reacted before his mind could process it—muscles tensed, fangs throbbed, hunger shifting into something twisted and primal.
A snarl curled in his throat, instincts screaming at him to hunt. To find the source. To claim it. Destroy it.
What the f**k was this?
His fingers tightened on the witch’s waist before he even realized it. When she spoke, her voice barely registered—a dull, useless murmur. He didn’t even see her anymore.
There was only the scent.
A presence. A force. A woman.
And she was slipping away.
Damien inhaled deeply—then ripped himself away from the woman in his lap so suddenly she let out a startled gasp.
“Hey,” she murmured, blinking in confusion. “You okay?”
No.
But he didn’t say that. Instead, he pressed his palm to her forehead and erased the past half-hour from her mind, watching her eyes glaze over. He had never dismissed a feed so quickly.
He Didn’t care.
Not when that pull was still there—tugging at something inside him, a leash he couldn’t see, couldn’t break.
"Go on now and join your friends." His voice was even, controlled. The woman swayed on her feet, then drifted into the crowd, forgetting him entirely.
He barely noticed.
The scent coiled around him again, winding through his veins like liquid fire, twisting reason into instinct.
It was like a siren’s call. It called to something in his blood, his bones, his very existence.
His fangs throbbed. His vision sharpened. His heart slammed against his ribs as his lungs expanded, dragging in more of the impossible, irresistible aroma. His muscles locked, body preparing to lunge—
At what?
For the first time in over a century, Damien’s mind and body were at war.
This wasn’t human. Not entirely. It wasn’t vampire, either. But it was potent, strong enough to ignite something raw and uncharted inside him.
It didn’t just stir hunger—it set it ablaze.
And it was here.
His gaze snapped toward the club’s entrance, where the scent was strongest. His pulse hammered, instincts demanding he find the source. Claim it. Devour it. End it.
Damien's movements were sharp, focused. He needed to find the source of that scent. It still lingered, teasing him, beckoning him outside.
He shoved through the club doors and stepped onto the dimly lit street, his sharp gaze scanning the throngs of people. The scent was here. He could almost taste it.
The shift was instant.
The crisp October air bit against his skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat burning through his veins. He inhaled sharply.
The bass had faded. The neon glow barely reached past the curb. Out here, the world felt colder, darker
There...
He traced the scent to a narrow alley beside the club, swallowed in shadows and reeking of damp pavement and spilled liquor.
And yet—that other scent remained, curling through the air like an unspoken promise.
He took a step forward—
Then the darkness moved.
A low, guttural growl sliced through the night, just before agony ripped through Damien’s back.
He snarled as claws raked deep, shredding through the fabric of his black shirt, sinking into his flesh like fire.
Not human claws.
Not his breed.
Wolf.
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