The knock on Chloe's apartment door didn't sound like knuckles against wood. It sounded like a heavy, iron gavel striking an anvil.
THUD. THUD.
Chloe froze, a half-eaten pop-tart halfway to her mouth. The cheap lavender incense in the room was instantly overpowered by a heavy, suffocating wave of crushed frankincense and sterile hospital alcohol.
Elara's stomach plummeted. Gideon.
She walked to the door, her bad knee protesting. She checked the peephole.
It wasn't Gideon. It was a man in a shapeless gray burlap coat. His eyes were covered by a thick leather blindfold, stitched directly into the skin of his temples. A Vatican Courier. A deniable, unbreakable delivery system.
Elara opened the door two inches, leaving the security chain attached.
The Courier didn't speak. He simply held up a sleek, brushed-titanium biometric lockbox. The Vatican seal—a crossed pair of golden keys—was stamped onto the metal.
Elara shoved her thumb against the scanner. It beeped green. The Courier dropped the heavy box onto the cheap welcome mat, turned on his heel, and walked away in absolute, terrifying silence.
Elara dragged the box inside and kicked the door shut.
"What is that?" Julian asked. He was still sitting on the wooden stool, his torn shoulder still slowly dripping dark blood onto the linoleum. He looked pale, the edges of his golden eyes fraying with sheer exhaustion.
"Asset maintenance," Elara said flatly.
She popped the titanium latches. Cold air plumed out of the box. Inside, nestled in dry ice, were three heavy, dark red IV bags. The label read: Sanguis Purus - Grade A+. Vatican Reserve.
Sitting on top of the bags was a single piece of heavy, cream-colored cardstock.
Elara picked it up. She recognized the sharp, immaculate handwriting immediately.
Elara,
I have always taught you to be humane to dying animals. Use my personal requisition to feed the stray. I would hate for it to collapse before tomorrow's execution. It ruins the spectacle.
Forever yours,
Gideon
Elara stared at the note. Her jaw tightened. The sheer, suffocating arrogance of the man.
A low, vibrating sound started in the kitchen. It took Elara a second to realize it was Julian.
He was staring at the heavy cardstock in her hand. His supernatural hearing had picked up the scratching of the fountain pen from across the room. He knew exactly what it said.
Julian stood up. The wooden stool clattered backward, hitting the cheap cabinets.
"Throw it out the window," Julian snarled.
The golden glow in his eyes wasn't just bright; it was blinding. His fangs fully descended, clicking together with a sharp, violent sound. His massive chest heaved, the torn muscles in his shoulder tearing further, fresh blood spilling down his chest. He didn't care.
"Julian, sit down," Elara said, holding up one of the freezing blood bags. "You're losing motor function."
"I said, throw it out the window!" Julian roared. He took a step toward her, his claws extending, ripping the air. "I will burn to ash before I drink a single drop of that Paladin's charity! I am Julian Thorne! I do not eat scraps from the Vatican's table!"
"It's not scraps, it's Grade A+ pureblood reserve," Chloe muttered from the corner, safely hiding behind a hideous floor lamp. "That bag is worth more than my car."
"Quiet, Chloe," Elara snapped. She didn't back away from the furious, starving Apex predator. She walked straight up to him.
She held the heavy plastic bag right under his nose.
The physical reaction was instant and humiliating. Julian's pupils dilated so wide his eyes looked almost black. His nostrils flared. His jaw unhinged slightly, a feral, involuntary hiss escaping his throat. His biology was screaming at him to take it. To tear the plastic open and feed.
He violently jerked his head away, his hands balling into fists so tight his knuckles cracked. He was physically shaking, fighting his own DNA.
"It's poison," Julian choked out, his voice thick with absolute self-loathing. "He wants me to drink his collar."
"He wants you to starve," Elara corrected him, her voice deadpan, cold, and razor-sharp.
Julian glared at her, chest heaving.
"Look at me, Thorne." Elara tapped the freezing plastic bag against his bare, uninjured chest. "Gideon didn't send this to save you. He sent this because he knows exactly how big your ego is. He knows you'll refuse it. He knows you'll sit in this cheap kitchen and bleed to death out of pure, stupid Alpha pride. Because a dead Julian Thorne is a massive win for his Inquisition."
Julian went completely still.
"If you die today," Elara continued, her voice dropping, hammering every word like a nail into a coffin. "Gideon takes your company. He takes your billions. He uses it to fund whatever psycho army is being built with that Elder Blood. And he gets to legally execute my mother to cover the audit."
She shoved the blood bag hard against his chest.
"So," Elara said, her eyes locked onto his. "Are you going to be a good little victim and die for him? Or are you going to drink his expensive, tax-free blood, heal your arm, and help me steal your empire back?"
The kitchen was dead silent. Only the heavy, ragged sound of Julian's breathing filled the space.
He stared down at the human woman. Small. Fragile. And utterly, ruthlessly pragmatic.
Julian's hand shot up. He didn't gently take the bag. He snatched it from her grip with terrifying speed.
He didn't look for the plastic straw. He didn't look for the tear-tab.
Julian brought the bag to his mouth and sank his fangs directly into the thick plastic.
It ruptured. Dark, rich blood spilled over his jaw, staining his throat. He drank it violently, aggressively, his golden eyes locked onto the wall, burning with the promise of absolute, unadulterated murder.