Chapter 5: Blood and Bargains
The door to the guard captain’s office was polished hematite, cold and unyielding under Adrian’s knuckles. He knocked twice, a sharp, definitive sound. The response from within was a grunt.
Adrian pushed inside.
Captain Vorghan’s office was a spare, utilitarian space carved from the same dark stone as the rest of the armory. It smelled of oil, steel, and the coppery tang of old blood. The captain himself was a broad-shouldered vampire with a military haircut and a face like weathered granite, seated behind a steel desk littered with data-slates and duty rosters. His dark eyes, the color of shale, lifted from a report and fixed on Adrian with immediate suspicion.
“Prince.” The title was courtesy, nothing more. There was no love lost between the king’s illegitimate son and his loyal guard dog.
Adrian didn’t wait for an invitation. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound final in the small room. He approached the desk, his movements a study in predatory grace. He let a smile touch his lips, but it wasn’t the usual sardonic twist. This was slower, more deliberate, an open display of intention.
“Captain,” Adrian said, his voice a low purr. He stopped just before the desk, resting his palms on the cold steel. “You have something I want.”
Vorghan leaned back in his chair, the creak of leather loud in the quiet. His gaze traveled over Adrian’s disheveled appearance—the open silk shirt, the mess of platinum hair, the necklace resting against the intricate black tattoos. A flicker of something passed behind the captain’s eyes. Hunger. Contempt. A volatile mix. “I have many things. Which one could possibly interest you?”
“I’m giving you an opportunity,” Adrian continued, ignoring the question. He let his smile widen, leaning forward slightly. “A chance to survive what’s coming, and to fuck me. Two rewards for one price. Consider it a transactional apology for my general… disagreeable nature.”
The captain’s stony expression didn’t change, but his nostrils flared slightly. His eyes dropped, scanning Adrian’s body, and lingered. Adrian had made no effort to hide the hardened line of his arousal pressing against the black fabric of his pants. He saw the exact moment Vorghan noticed it—a subtle tightening of the jaw, a quick, involuntary flick of the tongue over his lower lip.
The captain looked back up, his gaze now fully focused, calculating. “Tell me your price.”
“The access codes to the east wing. Cassian’s wing. And the real patrol rotation schedules for tonight. Not the ones filed for the king’s review. The actual ones.”
Silence crashed down, thick and heavy. Vorghan stared at him, his face impassive. The hum of the ventilation system seemed to grow louder. Adrian held his breath, his heart a still, cold stone in his chest. This was the moment. Betrayal or compliance.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Vorghan gave a single, sharp nod.
Adrian’s smile turned genuine, a wicked, triumphant thing. “Good.”
He straightened up, his fingers going to the fastening of his pants. The button came undone with a soft click. The zipper followed, a hushed whisper in the tense quiet. He pushed the black fabric down over his hips, freeing his erection. He was already fully hard, the length of him jutting out, flushed and eager. Pre-cum beaded at the tip.
Vorghan’s controlled composure cracked. A ragged breath escaped him. He pushed his chair back from the desk, the wheels screeching on the stone floor. He reclined in it, spreading his legs, a silent command. His own trousers were already tented.
Adrian rounded the desk. He dropped to his knees on the cold stone, the chill a sharp contrast to the heat building in his gut. His hands went to the captain’s belt, deftly unbuckling it, then the button and zip of his fatigues. He didn’t bother with niceties. He pulled the stiff fabric down, and Vorghan’s cock sprang free, thick and heavy. Adrian didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and took him into his mouth in one smooth, deep motion.
Vorghan hissed, his hands flying to grip the armrests. “Fuck,” he growled, the word guttural. “What a delicious mouth.”
Adrian hollowed his cheeks, applying suction, his tongue working along the vein on the underside. He looked up, meeting Vorghan’s darkened gaze. The captain stared down at him, a prince on his knees, and a possessive, triumphant light ignited in his eyes. He pushed his hips forward, driving himself deeper into Adrian’s throat.
Adrian took it, relaxing his jaw, letting the captain set a rough, demanding pace. Vorghan’s hands came up, one tangling in Adrian’s messy platinum hair, the other gripping the back of his neck. He held him in place, fucking his mouth with slow, deep thrusts.
“That’s it,” Vorghan grunted, his voice thick. “Take it. Such a pretty little whore for a prince.”
The degradation sent a sharp thrill through Adrian, cutting through the clinical detachment of the transaction. Heat pooled low in his belly. He moaned around the cock filling his mouth, the vibration making Vorghan curse again.
Suddenly, the captain pulled out, his length sliding wetly from Adrian’s lips. Before Adrian could process it, Vorghan’s hands were on him, hauling him up by the arms. He spun Adrian around and shoved him face-down onto the steel desk. Data-slates clattered to the floor.
Vorghan yanked Adrian’s pants down to his thighs, baring his pale ass. A calloused hand smacked one cheek, the sound sharp in the office. Adrian gasped, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth metal.
He heard the captain spit into his palm. A slick, warm pressure probed at his entrance, a thick finger working him open roughly, quickly. It was not gentle, not tender. It was preparation for conquest.
Adrian buried his face in the crook of his arm, biting his own flesh to stifle a cry as Vorghan positioned himself. The blunt, wide head of the captain’s cock pressed against him, demanding entry.
Then Vorghan pushed in.
It was a single, brutal thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt. Adrian cried out, a sharp, ragged sound torn from his throat as the stretch burned, then gave way to a shocking, full feeling. The desk rattled beneath them.
“Oh, fuck,” Vorghan groaned above him, his body pressing down on Adrian’s back. “That royal cunt is so fucking tight.” He began to move, setting a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming Adrian into the unyielding edge of the desk. “Gonna fill this pretty prince ass with my seed. Mark it from the inside.”
The words, filthy and base, ignited something feral in Adrian. The pain, the dominance, the sheer transactional obscenity of it—it stripped away the last of his pretense. “Yes!” he gasped, pushing back against the thrusts, meeting force with force. “Fuck this royal hole! Use it!”
Vorghan snarled in approval, his pace becoming even more frenzied. One of his hands snaked around Adrian’s hip, fingers wrapping around Adrian’s own neglected erection. He started stroking him in time with his thrusts, his grip tight, almost punishing.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. The deep, relentless pounding filled him, a brutal rhythm that shook his whole body. Vorghan’s rough hand on his cock provided a harsh, delicious counterpoint. Pleasure coiled tight in his core, a spring wound to breaking.
“Going to come inside you,” Vorghan panted, his thrusts growing erratic, sloppy. “Going to breed you like a common bitch.”
Adrian’s vision whited out. His orgasm ripped through him, violent and convulsing, as Vorghan’s words echoed in his ears. He shouted, come splattering across the cold steel of the desk beneath him. The clenching of his muscles around the captain’s cock triggered Vorghan’s own release. The captain drove in one last, deep time, grinding his hips against Adrian’s ass as he emptied himself with a guttural roar.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. The air stank of sex, sweat, and metal.
Vorghan pulled out with a wet sound, leaving Adrian feeling suddenly, sorely empty. He stepped back, zipping his trousers with a crisp efficiency that was jarring after the animalistic frenzy.
Adrian pushed himself up, wincing as the movement pulled at sore muscles. He turned, pulling his own pants up, the fabric sticking unpleasantly to his skin. He felt raw, used, and utterly focused.
The captain was already back behind his desk, as if nothing had happened. He tapped a command into a data-slate, his face a mask of professional detachment once more. He slid the slate across the desk.
“The codes. The rotations. They’ll be active for a thirty-minute window starting at 2:17 AM. That’s when my personal detail does its sweep. The east wing will be clear. The king will be in the westward observatory. Cassian’s door requires a retinal scan from an authorized guard. My biometric override is embedded.”
Adrian picked up the slate, his fingers surprisingly steady. The information glowed on the screen. It was everything he’d asked for. He met Vorghan’s eyes. There was no gratitude exchanged. This had been a deal, pure and simple.
“If this is a trap,” Adrian said, his voice hoarse.
“It’s not,” Vorghan cut him off, his tone flat. “The king’s vision is a death sentence for all of us who actually have to fight his wars. Cassian was a good commander. Better than you.” He stood. “Now get out. I have rounds to falsify.”
Adrian nodded, tucking the data-slate into his pocket. He turned and left without another word, the taste of salt and betrayal still on his tongue.
The corridor outside was empty, the hum of the armory a constant drone. He walked quickly, the aftermath of the encounter settling into his bones as a dull, gritty ache. It was a familiar feeling. A tool had been used. A transaction completed.
He was almost to the junction leading back to the guest quarters when a figure melted from the shadows. Caius. The lieutenant’s face was unreadable, but his pale eyes flicked over Adrian’s disheveled state, taking in the flush still high on his cheeks, the slight limp in his step.
“The king requests your presence in the Hall of Whispers,” Caius said, his voice neutral.
A cold trickle, distinct from the sweat cooling on his skin, traced Adrian’s spine. “Now?”
“Immediately.”
There was no refusing. Adrian gave a curt nod, falling into step beside Caius. He clutched the data-slate in his pocket like a talisman, its hard edges digging into his palm. The plan was in motion. Mercedes’s family was coming. The codes were obtained.
And now, his father wanted to talk.
The Hall of Whispers earned its name. As Adrian followed Caius through its towering obsidian archway, the very air seemed to swallow sound, leaving only the faintest echo of their footsteps. It was a long, narrow chamber with walls that curved into a shadowy ceiling. Ribbons of pale, bioluminescent fungus grew in artful patterns along the stone, providing the only light—a cold, ghostly glow that made the deep shadows between them seem to pulse.
The King stood at the far end, before a bas-relief carved into the wall depicting some ancient, stylized battle. He did not turn as they approached. Caius stopped at the threshold, melting back into the corridor, leaving Adrian alone with the immense, silent pressure of his father’s presence.
“You reek of sweat and ambition,” the King said, his voice measured, filling the quiet without echoing. He finally turned. In the fungal light, his grey eyes looked like chips of glacial ice. “And of Captain Vorghan’s rather vulgar cologne.”
Adrian said nothing. He kept his face smooth, the mask of dutiful son firmly in place. Denial was pointless; the King’s senses were preternatural. Acknowledgement was weakness. Silence was his only weapon.
The King studied him, a biologist observing a mildly interesting specimen. “The world that is coming,” he began, walking slowly along the edge of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, “requires not just weapons, but decisive action. Clear, unambiguous cuts through the chaos.” He stopped, facing Adrian directly. “I have watched you. Your… utility. Your brutality when directed. It is a pure thing, unclouded by the burden of legitimate sentiment.”
A cold knot formed in Adrian’s gut. This was not a summons for a reprimand. It was something else.
“I have decided to bestow an honor upon you,” the King continued, his tone leaving no room for the word to be anything but a threat. “A new title. Executor. You will have a singular mandate: to remove anyone or anything that stands between this court and its destined supremacy. No tribunals. No prisoners. Just the final, quiet cut.”
The knot tightened, twisting into a coil of ice. Adrian kept his breathing even, his posture relaxed but attentive. He could feel the shape of the trap before he saw its teeth.
“Your first commission,” the King said, his gaze boring into Adrian. “In two days’ time, you will enter your brother Cassian’s quarters. You will decapitate him. You will bring me his head.”
The words hung in the dead air. They were so simple, so grotesquely matter-of-fact. Adrian’s world telescoped down to the feeling of the data-slate in his pocket, its hard, stolen promise now curdling into a death warrant. Cassian. His brother. The better man. The legitimate heir Adrian had just vowed to put on the throne.
Every instinct screamed. Rage, white-hot and venomous, flooded his veins. It took every ounce of centuries-honed control not to flinch, not to let a single muscle twitch.
Instead, Adrian bowed his head, a gesture of submission. When he looked up, his face was a flawless sculpture of gratitude. “Thank you, Father,” he said, his voice steady, devoid of any emotion but cool respect. “For this honor. For finally recognizing my efforts.”
A smile touched the King’s lips, thin and utterly devoid of warmth. It was the smile of a man watching a dog perform a clever trick. “For having been born of a filthy human,” he said, the words deliberate, crafted to wound, “you know your place remarkably well.”
The insult was a physical blow, cracking against the bedrock of Adrian’s deepest shame. Inside, he writhed. Hatred, vast and desolate, turned over in his gut like a dying star. On the outside, he simply bowed again, deeper this time. “I was born to serve you, my King.”
The King watched him for a moment longer, then gave a dismissive flick of his hand. The audience was over.
Adrian turned and walked out of the Hall of Whispers. His steps were measured, calm. He did not hurry. He nodded to Caius as he passed, his expression unreadable. He navigated the labyrinthine corridors back toward the guest quarters with robotic precision.
Only when the heavy door to the suite closed behind him did the mask fracture.
Mercedes and Kael were on their feet instantly, drawn by the stiffness of his entrance. He stood just inside the door, his back to them, his head bowed. The silence in the room was different now—taut, electric.
“We have a problem,” Adrian said, his voice low and scraped raw.
He turned. The casual, sardonic prince was gone. In his place was something feral, his amber eyes glowing with a barely contained inferno. He looked at Mercedes, his gaze intense enough to pin her to the wall. “Your family. They need to be here tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight.”
“What happened?” Kael demanded, stepping forward, his body a line of tense readiness.
Adrian ignored him, his focus solely on Mercedes. “The timetable just moved up. Way up.” He took a step closer to her, the air crackling around him. “Your brothers better fucking deliver on their word. Because if they don’t…” He let the sentence hang, the implication bloody and final. “If they’re late, more blood will run than necessary. A lot more.”
Mercedes held his gaze, her gray-green eyes wide but unflinching. She saw the turmoil in him, the seismic shift behind his controlled fury. She gave a single, firm nod. “They’ll be here,” she said, her voice certain, an anchor in his rising storm. “They never fail.”
Adrian stared at her, the truth of the King’s order coiling like a snake in his chest. He couldn’t say it. Not yet. The words I have to kill my brother in two days were too big, too damning. They would change everything.
So he just nodded back, a sharp, desperate gesture. “They better not.”