- Kayla
- Feb 8
- 4 min read
Théo has never cared much for what the other vampires do in his city. He’s the spare to the spare—useful only when someone needs a pretty face at the right party, the right laugh at the right joke.
His father doesn’t bring him into anything that matters. Théo is expected to finish university, dress well, smile often, and keep the Noircœur name looking untouchable.
So that’s what he does.
He is rarely alone. There is almost always a drink in his hand—preferably the blood-wine his father has bottled like a family tradition. It’s a lush blend of berries and something darker, thick as honey on the tongue. Warm. Soft. It smothers the edges until everything becomes pleasantly distant.
“Darling,” a woman murmurs, voice threaded with impatience, “are you even listening to me?”
Théo tilts his head, eyes lifting to the girl perched in his lap like she belongs there. Mary St. Bartholomew—pretty, obedient, and desperate to be chosen by someone important.
“No,” she answers for him with a heavy sigh, sliding off his lap as if to punish him. “You’re not.”
“Mary.” Théo reaches out, letting his hand hover—an invitation, not a grab. “Come back.”
She pauses. Of course she does.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, smile easy, practiced. “Tell me again.”
Mary returns easily, settling into his lap again, arms looping around his neck. She presses close, deliberate, as if intimacy is a language she learned to speak fluently.
Théo lets her. Lets the warmth cover him.
He keeps his smile soft—pleasant, empty, harmless—while his eyes stay awake, tracking the room over her shoulder.
Tonight is different.
Tonight, he can’t afford to be decorative.
Someone tipped him off before the party even began. Not with a dramatic warning—no one in Nice does drama when they can do discretion—but with a single sentence delivered like a casual cruelty: Rebels may attempt entry.
Rebels.
A word that means a hundred different things depending on who’s saying it. Idealists. Terrorists. Desperate vampires who’ve decided the system isn’t worth surviving. Théo doesn’t know what they want from this party—blood, leverage, a name, a face, a scandal.
He only knows what will happen if the wrong people get involved.
If he alerts the wrong arm of the city, the response won’t be measured. It will be thorough. It will be bodies on expensive marble and apologies written afterward.
So Théo watches.
He watches hands more than faces. He watches the way people move—who belongs and who is trying to imitate belonging. He watches for the little tells: a gaze that lingers too long on exits, a drink held too tightly, a laugh that arrives half a second late.
Mary shifts against him, warm and eager, and he keeps one arm around her like everything is normal.
Like he isn’t counting the doors.
Like he isn’t listening for a mistake.
“Sir, would you like another?”
Théo meets the servant’s eyes—brown, human, and a little too wide. Fear sits there, bright and undeniable.
“No. This will do.” Théo lifts his glass in a lazy half-gesture, dismissing him.
The servant doesn’t leave.
Not right away.
He lingers a heartbeat too long, smile tight, posture careful in the way humans get when they’re trying to look harmless.
Théo keeps his expression pleasant as he studies him. Dissects, quietly.
The air around the man is thick with distress—adrenaline-sour, sharp enough to taste. A single bead of sweat slips down his temple, catching the light before it disappears into the collar of his uniform.
Normal fear is common at Noircœur parties. Humans always know, on some level, what they’re standing near.
But this feels… pointed. Théo could make him confess with a look. He doesn’t.
The servant’s gaze flicks—too fast—toward the exits.
Théo doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. He just files it away.
Is this a frightened human doing his job…
Or is he a door someone intends to walk through?
“Actually,” Théo says lightly, “yes. I would love another.”
He takes the glass, sets it on the side table beside him—an excuse to keep his hands busy—and watches.
The servant freezes for half a beat. A blink that lasts too long. A breath that catches as if he’s forgotten what comes next.
Then the man turns away and walks back toward the servants’ corridor, posture stiff, pace a touch too fast.
The stench of terror follows him.
Mary shifts against Théo, completely unaware of the tension in his shoulders, the way his attention has sharpened into something dangerous. She keeps talking, voice bright with the kind of gossip that fills silence and makes people feel safe.
“—and I’m telling you, Sabrina swears she didn’t touch him, but André’s been wearing that guilty face all week,” she says, rolling her eyes like infidelity is the most urgent crisis in the room. “And his wife? She knows. Everyone knows.”
Mary keeps talking—Sabrina Whoever and André Whichever and the eternal tragedy of rich people failing to be faithful.
Théo doesn’t even consider drinking from the glass the fearful servant offered. He isn’t stupid enough for something so banal. People have been trying to poison Noircœurs since before he learned to spell his own name.
Théo hums at the right moments, gives her the right half-smile. And keeps his eyes on the corridor.
Now the question is which faction has decided to take a swing at his family this time.
And why him?
If someone wanted to hurt Noircœur, there are cleaner targets. Adrien, the heir—polished, visible, predictable. Blaise, forever hovering close enough to resent it. Even Lilianne, who signs lives into and out of existence with a pen.
Théo is supposed to be background noise. A pretty distraction. The youngest, the least political—low value on paper.
Which is exactly what makes it suspicious.
Because this isn’t the first attempt on his life.
It’s just the first tonight.