Chapter One: The Beginning

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a silver glow over the land. Stars shimmered like scattered diamonds across black ink, but Myra Rose Thorn only had eyes for the moon. Even when clouds drifted across its surface, it could not escape her gaze.

The wind crashed against her, sending loose strands of black hair whipping around her face. It was a quiet night, too quiet—especially considering how many lives were being lost at that very moment.

She was Myra Rose Thorn, a pureblood vampire, the future suzerain of Romania. Perhaps even the next head of the Thorn tribe.

The door creaked open behind her. Myra turned, meeting the gaze of the man who stepped in. James Azal. His brown hair, streaked with orange highlights, was a tangled mess, and his clothes were soaked in mud and blood. His green eyes burned with something wild—murderous. In the dim light, he looked like a lunatic who had escaped from an asylum.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said, voice edged with something close to mockery.

Myra narrowed her eyes. Where else would I be? She hadn't exactly been given a choice.

"I don't remember being allowed to leave," she shot back, tossing him a towel. What he needed was a bath. "You and my father locked me in here, remember?"

She led him to her bed, reaching up to wipe away the dirt clinging to his face.

"It was for your protection," James muttered.

Myra scoffed. Protection? From what?

"The world is dangerous, Myra. You can't handle it."

She stilled. Not because he was right—but because he was so very wrong. It wasn't that she couldn't handle the world. The world couldn't handle her. She was one of the most powerful vampires alive, yet they treated her like a helpless child.

James had been assigned as her mentor by the council, but at some point, he had stopped being her teacher and started acting like her personal guard dog. Just like her father. Both of them were doing everything they could to keep her from her destiny.

Annoyance burned in her chest. "Take a bath," she said, standing. "I'm going to see my father. You're irritating me."

She left before he could protest, heading straight for the dining hall. At this hour, her father would be having dinner—or, more accurately, a glass of blood.

Just as she expected, Thomas Thorn sat at the head of the long dining table, his expression unreadable. He rested his head on his palm, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip.

His gaze flickered to her, and for a moment, a smile ghosted across his lips. Then his eyes dropped to her attire, and his expression soured.

"What are you wearing?"

Myra froze. Damn it. She should have changed.

Her oversized T-shirt and shorts were nothing special, but to her father—who had been born in the fifteenth century—it might as well have been a brothel uniform.

"Did your uncle give you that?" he asked.

She nodded.

He scoffed. "Aren't you ashamed? Do you belong to a brothel?"

Myra quickly shook her head and lowered her gaze. She should have known better. Her father had never approved of change. To him, anything that wasn't a dress was unacceptable.

Thomas Thorn was an indifferent man—even to his own daughter. But he hadn't always been this way. Once, his eyes had been warm, his lips always curved into a smile. That was before her mother died.

After her mother's death, something inside him had shattered. He withdrew from the world, showing kindness only to those within the mansion. To everyone else, he was ruthless. Who could blame him? Losing your mate meant losing the other half of your soul.

Still, Myra knew one thing for certain—she was his favorite. Not because of her power, not because she was the future suzerain, but because she looked like her mother. Same warm brown eyes, same flawless white skin, same rosy cheeks and soft pink lips. The only trait she had inherited from her father was his black hair with crimson highlights—a signature of the Thorn bloodline.

Thomas set his glass down and reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Did you have dinner with Ezra?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Why would I?"

Before he could respond, another voice cut in.

"Did you tell her?"

Myra turned to see James standing in the doorway. He had finally bathed and changed, though his hair was still a mess. As always, he refused to comb it.

"Tell me what?" she asked, tilting her head.

James and her father exchanged a glance. Their expressions were neutral—too neutral.

"We're revoking your position as suzerain," her father said flatly. "You'll be moving to Rome tomorrow with Ezra and Lisa."

Silence.

Myra stared.

Her fingers curled into fists.

What?

Six years. Six years of training. Six years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice. And just like that, they were taking it away?

"Is this because of him?" she demanded.

Her father didn't answer, but the flicker of red in his eyes told her everything. Of course. Him.

Vampires didn't have kings in the traditional sense. They had a council—tribe heads, lords, suzerains. And then there was the one responsible for all their suffering. The one they called Dracula.

Not the Hollywood version. The real one. A monster.

Even before her mother's death, her father and Dracula had been enemies. But after her mother was killed, war had erupted between them. It was because of Dracula that so many Thorn tribesmen had died today. Because of him, their people were suffering.

And now, because of him, they were taking her title away.

Myra shot up from her seat, her chair scraping against the floor. "You didn't even ask how I felt about this," she said, voice shaking with anger. She met her father's cold, smoky-gray eyes and lifted her chin. "I am not going to Rome. And I am not giving up my position."

"Myra!" her father roared, his voice reverberating through the room.

She didn't flinch.

For the first time, she stood her ground.

"I can take care of myself," she said. "I am not a child."

Thomas's eyes darkened. "You're seventeen. Even to the humans, you are still a child." What were they talking about she was going to be eighteen in a few months

Behind him, James sighed. "Myra, you're a rose surrounded by wolves. You need protection."

She held her father's gaze, unwavering.

"You're forgetting something about roses," she said. "They have thorns."

Then she turned on her heel and left.

Let them try to control her. Let them try to keep her caged.

She would show them all.

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