Seville City never actually slept. From the Vale Tower's fortieth floor, below shimmered with radiant energy, spinning headlights like kaleidoscope that seemed virtually choreographed. Neon signs flashed like they were fighting for dominance, and it was a beautiful vista. To Vale Adrian, it was a reminder. It was alive because it was made to come alive by him. Each tower, each deal, each trembling rival across the negotiation table—there was their reserved emperor.
The penthouse enveloped him with hard edges and shiny marble, every square foot of it to intimidate, not to comfort. A glass partition closed in over the city, and the soft thrum of the air conditioner was all sound. The art on walls—vulgar abstracts in crimson and shade—had cost the price of tiny houses, but Adrian did not often look at them. Riches was armour. Reputation was cloak. The real man moved invisibly in his blood's beat.
He let his hand rest upon the glass and caught his own face. Dark eyes, hard jaw, stormcloud eyes—eyes that flashed with scarlet flame for an instant. He shut his eyes, breathed slowly, and the crimson drained away to grey again. He never quite did lose it, but at least he was able to disguise it behind that face that world was accustomed to: Adrian Vale—tycoon, visionary, ruthless tactics genius. Not the cursed son of a fallen house.
Dominance thrum of his skin sprang to life once more, agitated, impatient. It had nearly slipped away earlier that evening.
Yesterday Evening
The boardroom was once chilly, clinical, and intimidatory. A large shiny table went down its centre, and men all suited up encircled it. Some were his supporters, most of his opponents, all of them curious to know if young tycoon with botox smile would manage to pull through all possible odds.
The question at hand was Vale’s acquisition of Hawthorne. For years, Hawthorne Industries was bleeding money. Its rivals were circling it like vultures. Adrian did not want to acquire the carcass—Adrian wanted the land underneath it, a piece of waterfront property that was just right for Vale Energy headquarters growth.
“The numbers do not add up,” growled one of the older board members, a thin-haired man with a flair for banging his fist for emphasis. “No one saves Hawthorne. You’ll be investing in a bottomless pit.”
He sat back in his chair, his face tranquil, his hands together tip to tip. “Graves are useful once you know what’s buried underneath them.”
Confusion corrugated all over the table. A young investor stuttered, “You mean—the patents?”
Adrian's smile never made it to his eyes. “The patents. The waterfront. The distribution agreements that Hawthorne still refuses to let go of. You see a dying company. I see a gateway, and I intend to be the only one to hold a key.”
The old man sneered. “And what do you do when you haemorrhage trying to get through it?”
The hum started then, in his chest. The non-human of him was awakened to challenge. His eyes cleared. The fluorescent lights in the room dimmed by just a fraction. In one beat, his eyes flamed with fury. He wrestled them down, his hands white-knuckling the edge of the table.
“What happens?” He edged closer, his voice low enough to make other men lean in close. “What happens is this: tonight, Hawthorne falls into my hands. Tomorrow, Vale Energy will buy it. Men who invest with me double their monies. Men who do not—” He trailed off, his gaze scanning across the table like a knife. “—will be standing on the bank, watching me control the river.”
Silence. The room was his.
Papers pushed across the table, signatures followed, reluctant hands going ahead of their minds. One after one, they queued up. Even a gray-haired debunker finally grunted his name to the contract, not looking at Adrian.
It was his contract. His Hawthorne. And the city would yield once more to Adrian Vale.
After the room was empty, Adrian remained behind. He pressed his chest to detect the vibration of power that he had restrained. Too close. It was getting harder to contain it year after year. His mother’s warning was still echoing in his mind: If you do not restrain it, it shall consume you. And the city shall bleed again.
Return to the Penthouse
But hours later, he stood in his penthouse with the deal closed, the empire expanded, and the same consuming flame tormented him from within. His face stared back from the glass—serene, unassailable, fully human. He almost laughed.
The drink he had poured sat untouched on the bar. Twenty-year-old scotch, going to waste as decor. He never surrendered to being drunk. To lose control for even a moment was not safe.
He let his thoughts stray where he did not dare to think: Seraphel's clan. Their name was ash these days, but whiffs of rumour still lingered. Even alive? Aloof successors? His mother had passionately insisted their house was slain in war, but Adrian was no simpleton to believe enemies stayed dead. Least of all who carried light and loveliness like arms to do harm with.
The blood of Duskfang inside him remembered. It remembered their arrogance, their cruelty, their fire. And it whispered for revenge.
He was hearing a knock on the door. Crisp and clear.
Adrian stood up, moving the mask back into place. “Come in.”
His aide, a self-possessed woman in her forties with self-control of iron, entered.“Sir,” she said quietly. “The girl has arrived.”
For an instant, a weight was upon his chest. He'd known that moment would come—his mother's condition, the predicting of the curse. A marriage, a bonding, a chance to keep at bay that beast within him. But knowing it and living it were two different matters.
He gazed once more at the glass partition, with its flaming city in neon. His own eyes glimmered with small red glows.
"Send her in," he said. And for the first time in years, Adrian Vale wondered if even his empire would be enough to keep at bay the darkness swelling in him.