Chapter 2 Rescuing the Blood Slave

Adrian’s POV

I sat lounging in the corner of Lucas’s private lab, legs crossed at the ankle, flipping through a glossy fashion magazine I’d borrowed from the surface. Some celeb was trying to bring bell sleeves back. Brave, I suppose. The shoes were a mess, though—platforms with satin? Really?

“Such a shame,” I muttered. “You’ve the face of a goddess and the stylist of a clown.”

I turned another page, admiring a sleek monochrome spread that reminded me of Paris in the late ‘60s. Or maybe it was Milan in ‘84. Hard to keep track after a few decades.

The low click of footsteps reached my ears—measured, familiar. I folded the magazine closed and stood, brushing imaginary dust off my shirt.

“Count,” I greeted respectfully, with a slight bow.

Lucas gave a short nod as he entered. His coat barely rustled. Not a man of wasted motion.

“Share the progress,” he said flatly, coming to a stop near the center desk.

“Ah, yes,” I said, walking over to the shelf and retrieving my ledger. “You’ll be pleased, Count. Things are moving along quite smoothly.”

I opened the notebook with a practiced flick.

“Subject 091, Marla Vance. Lives alone, freelance writer, diagnosed with major depressive disorder. I’m her—what do they call it—’emotional alignment coach.’ She’s already offered two vials, entirely of her own accord. Said I ‘radiate safe energy.’ Can’t argue with taste, eh?”

Lucas gave a slight nod, then glanced at me sideways. “How long will it take you to drop the 1902 lingo?”

I blinked, then offered a sheepish grin. “Apologies, sir. She said I made her feel... safe. Calming presence and all that.”

He didn’t respond, but I took the lack of correction as a green light.

“Subject 093, Dev Patel. Runs a struggling bookstore. Divorced, mid-thirties. Carries layers of guilt and rejection that practically drip off him. I told him I was part of an experimental wellness program—mind-body detox, personalized blood analysis, the works. Said it could help with sleep and emotional regulation.”

I flipped a page. “Talia Grey. Twenty-two. Left university last semester. Claimed she just needed a ‘break.’ Real story’s abandonment trauma. Father disappeared when she was five. She latched onto me like a lost puppy by session three.”

Lucas gave another nod.

“All three have responded to light charm. No memory interference needed. The usual trick—mirroring body language, subtle vocal cues, and a warm smile. You know the routine, Count. Humans want someone who sees them. I make sure they feel seen and heard.”

I closed the book gently and looked up. “I’ve kept all activity well below radar. We’re clean.”

Lucas’s gaze lingered on the book in my hand for a moment. He said nothing, but that was typical.

Now, I had a question. One I’d been meaning to ask for weeks.

“Count,” I said, cautious but curious, “do you mind if I ask… something more academic?”

He looked at me. So I continued.

“These clients... their issues vary wildly—anxiety, trauma, detachment. But I’ve been wondering. When you feed on them... does their condition affect the taste? I mean, does blood carry… a mood?”

I hesitated, then added, “Forgive me, Count. You know I don’t partake. I’ve always been more about the setup than the sip. But the way they cling to me, broken and sweet—it got me thinking.”

I tilted my head slightly. “Does madness change the flavor?”

Lucas paused after I asked the question, his gaze narrowed slightly. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and detached—like a doctor going through patient notes, rather than a predator describing its prey.

“Yes,” he said. “Every psychological imbalance leaves its own mark in the blood. I can detect it the moment it enters a room.”

I leaned forward a little. “So it’s not just emotional energy, but actual… flavor differences?”

He gave a single nod. “The depressed are thick. Bitter. Like something already rotting but not yet expired. The blood barely flows—it drags. Sluggish. It’s what hopelessness tastes like, Adrian.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “The anxious, on the other hand, burn hot. There’s a spice in them. A sharpness that hits fast and hard if you drink too quickly. Bipolar blood swings between those extremes—one vial might be thin and sweet, the next syrupy and acidic. They’re volatile.”

I whistled under my breath. “And narcissists?”

He clicked his tongue once, visibly disgusted. “Rotten. Their essence smells like decay. Even before the first drop, I know it’ll taste like spoiled meat wrapped in perfume.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing every word. “And all that… just from their blood.”

“Not just blood,” he said. “The scent of their disorders carries in the air. A depressive has a dull presence, like a room gone stale. The anxious rattle the atmosphere. And the narcissists—” his mouth twitched in contempt— “They reek of themselves. I know before they open their mouths.”

“I have to say, Count… that’s remarkable.”

He shot me a glance, dry and amused. “If only you could evolve your English half as fast as your flattery.”

“Right,” I cleared my throat, adjusting my tone with a sheepish grin. “Impressive, I meant. Truly.”

Then, with a small chuckle, I muttered, “Still amazes me how fragile they are. The humans, I mean. You break their heart once, and they carry it like a curse for years. Sometimes I think they’re just slightly more emotional cattle.”

Lucas turned his gaze to me, sharp and approving.

“They are.”

His voice was clipped, final. It didn’t need explaining.

“But…” I added, leaning one hip against the table, “I suppose not all livestock are created equal.”

Lucas’s expression shifted, his posture straightening just a touch.

“She’s not.”

I didn’t need to ask who.

He folded his arms behind his back, speaking with a stillness that only came when something mattered.

“Alicia. She’s different.”

My curiosity piqued instantly. I adjusted my stance, eyes narrowing slightly. “In what way?”

“She’s depressive, yes—but her blood isn’t entirely dead. There’s sweetness underneath the bitterness. A strange balance of density and purity. It shouldn’t exist. And yet, in her… it does.”

He paused.

“The problem is her body. The blood is rich, but choked. There’s too much fat. It moves like jelly—useless in its current state. If I try to refine it chemically, I lose what makes it valuable. But if I let time mold her naturally, let her suffer in the right way... I can cultivate it.”

I tilted my head. “So, she’s not a source yet. She’s a project.”

Lucas gave the smallest nod. “Precisely. She must be shaped from within. Her diet, her pain, her living conditions… all of it matters. The blood needs to be purged. And when it’s ready...”

“She’ll be what? A long-term reservoir?”

He looked at me, eyes hard. “She’ll be my restoration.”

There it was. The real truth.

I remembered what the hunter had done to him—Leo. The clash had been fast, brutal. And it had left Lucas wounded in ways no one else but me could see. Not visibly, but in the little hesitations. The longer recoveries. The days he stayed out of sight. And now, this girl—Alicia—was supposed to fix it all.

“She’s… valuable,” I said slowly, more to myself.

“If drained entirely,” Lucas continued, “she could recover ninety percent of my strength. And with her condition? The world would assume suicide.”

I raised a brow. “Convenient.”

Lucas turned slightly, meeting my eyes. “This one—” he paused, his voice colder now, “—I won’t tolerate failure.”

I bowed my head slightly. “Understood, Count.”

And I did understand. This wasn’t just another recruit. This was salvation wrapped in flesh and fat and tears.

Still, I hesitated. Just a moment. “If I may…”

He didn’t answer—just looked at me. I took that as permission.

“Alicia is… more difficult than most,” I said. “She keeps to herself. No clubs. No online circles. Doesn’t go out. She’s practically invisible.”

Lucas didn’t speak, but the silence was different this time. Charged. As if he already didn’t like where I was going.

“She’s built a little bubble, Count. She rarely leaves it. But…” I raised my hand slightly, offering the rest of the thought like a peace offering. “Her friend, Kayla. She’s active, emotionally driven. The protective type. If I can’t get to Alicia directly… I’ll go through her.”

“Kayla?” he said, his voice low and even. “That sounds suspiciously like another one of your drawn-out social strategies. Weeks of waiting, and now you’re asking for more time?”

“Just a little more, Count,” I said, steady and respectful. “The plan’s already in motion. Kayla’s emotionally tied to Alicia—through her, I can create an opening.”

His jaw tensed. The look in his eyes—sharp and full of restrained irritation—told me I was skating on thin ice. But then, with a barely visible motion, he gave a single nod.

Just once.

That was all I needed.

Before I could speak again, hurried footsteps echoed from above—fast, uneven, and clumsy. Someone was coming, and they weren’t calm about it.

Lucas didn’t flinch. He simply turned and began climbing the stairs, and I followed a step behind. We moved in silence, but the air around us shifted. Not just because of the sound.

It was the scent.

Blood.

And not just any blood.

As we reached the top, the full picture came into view.

A girl—soaked, shaking, red-streaked—stood in the doorway. Braids clinging to her wet cheeks, clothes smeared with drying blood. My succubus instincts barely stirred; I’d seen worse, smelt worse. But beside me, Lucas went rigid.

His nostrils flared.

His jaw locked a second later.

That was when I knew—this wasn’t any ordinary spill.

The girl—Kayla, Alicia’s roommate if I remembered correctly—stumbled forward, wild-eyed.

“You have to help me,” she gasped.

Before I could speak, she launched herself toward Lucas. Her sleeve smeared a crimson streak against his coat.

Lucas didn’t recoil, but something shifted. Something dangerous.

His spine stiffened. His eyes darkened in a way I hadn’t seen in years. For just a second, the calm, ancient creature beside me nearly lost composure.

I caught the scent more clearly now, and realization hit me like a slap.

That blood—was Alicia’s.

And if I could sense it, I couldn’t begin to imagine what it was doing to him.

“She’s dying!” Kayla cried. “My friend—Alicia. I tried—I tried to stop the bleeding, but there was so much—”

I stepped forward, ready to question her further, but Lucas raised one hand without even looking. His eyes were sharp, but distant—fighting something.

He turned on his heel and disappeared into the back without a word.

I gave Kayla a quiet nod. “Stay here.”

When Lucas returned, he had the emergency kit in one hand and keys in the other. No cape, no grand entrance—just ruthless efficiency.

He shut the clinic door behind us with a snap.

“Lead,” he told Kayla.

She didn’t hesitate. She bolted down the sidewalk, coat flapping like a flag of panic.

Lucas followed close. I moved last, trying to stay composed, but inside, my thoughts were spinning.

If the blood was affecting him like that—he’d been holding back far more than I realized.

Whatever Alicia was… she wasn’t just valuable anymore.

She was essential.

…

The moment we stepped into the apartment building, the air hit like damp rot. Even with my senses dulled to human decay, the place had a stillness I didn’t like. The walls were peeling. The floor creaked like it was about to give. And there was a heaviness—old, sour, and soaked in bad memories.

Lucas said nothing, but his jaw twitched. His nose flared.

He’d picked up the blood.

Kayla was already ahead of us, bounding up the steps like a woman possessed. She didn’t look back, didn’t slow. Her boots hit the stairs in panicked rhythm, and it was everything in her posture—how her hand slipped on the railing, how she missed a step but didn’t stumble. She was holding herself together by instinct alone.

Lucas didn’t rush. He climbed like he was counting each step, conserving focus.

I followed behind them both, my pace casual, eyes open. I knew how this worked.

“You said she was in the bathroom,” Lucas said. “What happened?”

“An injury,” Kayla replied, breath short.

Her voice cracked, just a little. Her speed faltered for half a step, enough for Lucas to catch it. He didn’t press her.

He didn’t need to. We both understood what that meant.

The moment we reached their floor, the smell got worse. Stronger. I could smell Alicia’s blood thick in the air. It wasn’t just human—it was special. Even I could feel that much, and blood rarely stirred anything in me.

But Lucas? His control slipped the second we crossed the threshold.

He froze for half a second. Shoulders squared. Fingers twitching like something was crawling under his skin.

He walked forward and I followed him to the open bathroom door.

That’s when we saw her.

Alicia, floating in water stained so deep red it looked black. Her arms hung limply over the rim of the tub. The blood was still trickling. The water had long stopped steaming.

Lucas dropped his bag. Just—dropped it. No theatrics. No effort to hide it.

I blinked.

I’d never seen him fumble anything.

His hand went to the doorframe, bracing. Breath caught. I saw his chest move too fast for a man who didn’t panic.

Kayla stepped in behind me and saw the same. I could hear her breath hitch, maybe thinking—for a second—that the sight had shaken the doctor, too. She didn’t know what it meant.

“Help her,” she said. Her voice was a whisper now.

Lucas turned toward her, his tone low. “Get out.”

“But… She need me.”

“She needs me,” he said firmly.

Kayla flinched. Not out of fear. Just confusion. She thought it was the blood. That it had made even the doctor queasy.

She stepped back and vanished down the hall without another word.

Lucas moved fast. He reached into the tub and lifted Alicia like she weighed nothing. His sleeves soaked through, his hands stained. But he didn’t pause. He laid her on the cracked tile floor and began assessing the wound with quick, practiced eyes.

He pressed down on the gash, muttering under his breath. I knew those words—calculations. Blood volume. Pulse checks. All the things that should’ve mattered. But from the way his expression shifted, I knew the conclusion before he said it.

It was too late.

Not to save her. But to save her blood.

All that blood. Contaminated. Gone.

Lucas’s shoulders tensed again as he reached into his coat.

When he pulled out the vial, I actually blinked.

Queen’s Blood.

He had told me once it was older than either of us had the right to touch. That it was reserved for something greater. Something necessary.

I said nothing and stepped back as he opened the vial.

The liquid glimmered—thicker than anything human, shining like rubies under cheap bathroom light.

He connected it to the transfusion line, hands steady, expression locked. Not angry at her. Just angry at everything that had gone wrong.

Alicia was supposed to come willingly, slowly led into his web like the others. Conditioned, cultivated. But now, all of that careful design had unraveled in a single night.

When the last drop drained into her, Lucas finally sat back.

I understood what it meant now.

Alicia’s value had just doubled and she could not be drained in one go anymore.