Betrayed by her Blood. Claimed by the Night.

LAVINIA QUISPE POV: The Claim

The moment I reached the dais, my legs felt like marble, heavy and cold. Priestess Elowen, stern and crimson-vested, gave me a rigid nod.

I knelt before the low obsidian altar. The crimson sash around my waist felt like a suffocating vice, already making deep breaths impossible. I bowed my head, trying to quell the hammering of my heart.

“Klaus, Zilo, and Zack,” the Priestess intoned, her voice echoing hollowly in the vast hall. “The Blood-Mother bestows upon you a most precious gift: a Lady. To be united by your Beloved in heart, soul, and flesh.” She looked at me. “Tonight, we celebrate the inception of that union.”

Beloved. The word was a vicious lie. I instantly glanced toward the Princes for a reaction. Klaus and Zilo watched with solemn reverence, accepting their fate.

But Zack.

My breath hitched. His blue eyes weren't just apathetic anymore; they burned with stark, undisguised anger and cold resentment. All my flimsy excuses—that his mood was due to destiny's burden, not me—shattered. He hated this. He hated me.

A wave of nausea ran through me. This is not what I am. Not even remotely. But this was my duty. I squeezed my hands tightly in my lap, determined to fulfill my part, even if my consort wanted to make a spectacle of his disdain.

The air charged with an electrical tension as the Priestess announced, “The first stage, the sharing of Blood.”

Zilo was passed the silver chalice and athame. I held my breath, wincing as he cut his palm.

"I give of myself freely," he declared in his silken, gentle voice, letting the crimson blood trickle into the chalice. His words were a sincere vow, a comfort.

Klaus followed, his dark, usually impassive eyes fixed on the chalice with a hint of reverence. “I give of myself freely.”

My heart was hammering, but a genuine fear set in when the chalice and athame passed to Zack. He was seated to my right, and I didn't dare look up.

He sliced his palm, the motion abrupt and almost violent. “I give myself freely,” he clipped, the words devoid of conviction, a hushed, impatient dismissal of the ritual. The blood he contributed seemed darker, heavier, staining the silvery mix.

When he handed the chalice to me, his fingertips brushed mine, sending an unpleasant, cold jolt through me. He couldn't even fake it.

I took the cup. The mixture of their blood was deep, rich, like spiced wine, not metallic as expected. I forced myself to drink, feeling a genesis of a bond, a shift within me, even if it was a chain being forged, not a connection.

The Priestess nodded in satisfaction. “You may claim your Lady. For eternity.”

I swallowed hard, my anxiety spiking to an unbearable level. Three men. Three claims.

Zilo knelt to my left, Klaus to my right, and Zack directly in front of me. I kept my gaze locked on my hands, fighting the urge to wring them.

When Zilo pushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, the sheer gentleness of his touch made me shiver. I looked up. His eyes were full of knowing, silent reassurance: I'll be gentle.

Klaus took my right hand. His touch was amazingly soft as he raised my wrist to his lips. Then, without warning, his fangs sank into my flesh. The pain was sharp, immediate, but quickly gave way to a dizzying sense of strange euphoria I wasn't prepared for.

A low, possessive growl tore from his throat—instinctive, powerful—making me shiver with a different kind of dread.

Zilo leaned in next. I felt the whisper of his lips against the side of my throat before he bit in, right above my shoulder. I gasped as the pain intensified, fusing with the rising, strange high.

Then Zack leaned in, his face so close I had no choice but to meet his eyes.

The anger was gone. What lay there was far worse. Not desire, but raw, consuming bloodlust. A dangerous, primal hunger that left me feeling utterly exposed, prey.

He sank his fangs into the other side of my throat. This time, there was no euphoria. Only searing, tearing pain that forced a cry from my lips. He growled, just as Klaus had, but his sound was laced with a violent, possessive claim.

The others released me, but Zack remained, fangs buried in my flesh, drinking. Too long. More than the ritual demanded. I felt the blood drain from my head, panic surging as I realized he was crossing a line, asserting a cruel, immediate dominance.

Finally, he pulled away. His eyes were dark, glazed with a chilling Blood Hunger that left me feeling like a consumed object, not a "Beloved" consort. The wound he inflicted was the deepest, the slowest to heal.

Zilo’s tongue swept up along the line of blood his fangs had drawn—a surprisingly intimate, soothing gesture. But the damage was done.

“Before your Covenant and the Divine, the Blood Mark has begun!” the Priestess declared, and the great hall erupted in applause. The exhaustion was instant, but I had to stand, to smile, to play the Lady.

Zilo and Klaus both extended a hand to help me rise. But before I could take either, Zack moved forward, cutting them off. He set a possessive hand lightly on my lower back, angling his body close so his warm breath ticketed my ear.

His voice was low, a dangerous, silken whisper that was meant only for me.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, the implicit promise gone, replaced by a cutting threat. “Try not to bleed on the floor, Lady. It’s expensive marble. You may be our wife, but you are not yet beyond punishment.”