Chapter 1

The solicitor’s office smelled like ink and cold stone—human places always did, like they’d been scrubbed clean of anything immortal.

“Miss Hale,” the woman behind the desk said, sliding a folder toward me. “If you’re sure.”

I watched the sunlight spill through the tall windows, bright enough to make the dust sparkle. In Morretti House, curtains stayed drawn and the lamps burned at noon. Here, the day belonged to me.

“I’m sure,” I said.

The pen felt too light in my fingers. One signature, one stamp, and the word kept would finally lose its teeth.

It wasn’t a marriage contract. I’d never had that kind of name. I was the girl James Morretti had dragged out of a wolf-feeding frenzy three years ago—half-dead, half-human, and then half his, after his fangs sank into my throat in a moment of uncontrolled hunger.

Pureblood vampire blood in the wrong hands could start wars. If the wolves ever got it—if they ever got me—they’d have a key to every locked door in his world.

So they housed me. Fed me. Dressed me. And reminded me, politely and endlessly, that I belonged nowhere else.

The transfer request wasn’t freedom, not exactly. It was a reassignment, a legal shift of custody from Morretti House to a human-run research institute at the border—one of the few places where a daywalker like me was considered a resource instead of a stain.

I signed. The solicitor stamped. The world didn’t change.

It would change when James signed.

Back at Morretti House, the evening had already turned the windows black. The estate sat on the hill like a sleeping predator, its gardens trimmed into obedience and its gates lined with iron thorns blessed by priests who’d died centuries ago.

I stepped inside and heard laughter.

Not the brittle, polite laughter the purebloods used around me.

Real laughter.

It came from the grand salon.

I paused in the doorway.

James stood near the fireplace, coat open, sleeves rolled up like he’d forgotten he was supposed to be untouchable. Candlelight kissed the sharp lines of his face. His eyes were a deep, old red, calm tonight—no feral edges.

Vicky Rossi lounged on the sofa like she owned it.

She held a small silver fork between two fingers, spearing a slice of black truffle from a plate and lifting it toward his mouth with lazy intimacy.

“You hate the smell,” she teased.

James’s mouth curved. “I hate many things.”

“And yet you eat when I offer.” Her smile sharpened. “Good boy.”

A few other nobles watched, amused. Their eyes drifted to me and became something else—measuring, dismissive, entertained.

Vicky noticed me last. She turned as if I were a servant who’d arrived late with wine.

“Oh,” she said sweetly. “Your little project returned.”

James’s gaze found mine. It didn’t soften. It didn’t harden. It just landed, like a hand on the back of my neck.

“What is that?” he asked.

I lifted the folder. “A report.”

Vicky rose and crossed the room, her perfume thick as velvet. She took the folder from me before I could blink and flipped it open.

“A report,” she repeated, drawing out the word. “How adorable.”

Her eyes skimmed the header. She laughed—bright, cruel, delighted.

“‘Transfer Request.’” She tilted the folder toward the room like she was presenting a joke. “James, look. Your little blood bag is trying to submit homework.”

The nobles chuckled.

My fingers went numb. Not from fear. From the long familiarity of being made small in front of witnesses.

James didn’t reach for the folder. His attention stayed on me.

“You’re filing requests now?” he asked, tone mild, as if I’d asked for a new set of curtains.

“It’s just paperwork,” I said. I kept my voice steady. “For a program. Human-run.”

Vicky’s eyes glittered. “Aww. She wants a field trip.”

James finally extended his hand. Not to me. To the folder.

“Give it here,” he said.

Vicky placed it into his palm, still smiling, still sure of her place.

James flipped to the signature line without reading the first page. He always did. He signed treaties, land purchases, security authorizations the same way—by trusting his people to put the right document in front of him.

He pressed his name into the paper with a quick, practiced motion.

Then he closed the folder.

There was a pause, a tiny hitch in the room’s air, like the house itself noticed.

I exhaled.

I didn’t smile. Smiling would have been begging them to ask why.

Vicky leaned closer to him. “So obedient,” she murmured, not quiet enough.

James handed the folder back to me. His fingers brushed mine, cold and brief.

“You should have told me,” he said.

I met his eyes. “You were busy.”

Something flickered there—irritation, maybe. Or the faintest confusion, like a man realizing a familiar object had been moved.

Vicky looped her arm through his. “Come on. We’re celebrating tonight. Don’t let your little—”

She glanced at me and chose her words like a knife selecting its angle.

“—bedmate dampen the mood.”

James didn’t correct her. In fact, he said, with quiet certainty, “That title is generous.”

Generous.

As if being called a warm body in his bed was an honor I hadn’t earned.

I turned away before my face could betray anything.

In my room, I shut the door and rested my forehead against the wood.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

TRANSFER REQUEST: APPROVED. FINAL CLEARANCE PENDING.

I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.

Three days, it said beneath the approval.

Three days until I was no longer inside Morretti House at all.

Down the hall, laughter rose again.

I lay on my bed, eyes open in the dark, and listened to it like it was coming from a different life.