Angry bird

He continued walking, nowhere in mind, just pure rage leading him.

He walked rashly, his mind journeying beyond the physical realm.

'How dare they force me to marry a witch?

How dare she think she could use me to further her thirst for power'? Rasmus thought.

As he walked through the mansion, everyone avoided him like a plague.

His eyes were crimson, burning with rage.

They knew the consequences of provoking him while he was in this state.

It was dire.

Someone bumped into him and fell to the ground.

He looked down and saw a frail-looking young girl that looked like she was in her early twenties, her onyx-black eyes staring deep into his crimson eyes.

The eyes were hollow and rimmed with fatigue, indicating lack of sleep.

She also had several hickeys on her neck, which looked like a badge of ownership.

She had fair skin which had been ruined by countless visible bruises... which looked recent.

The girl quickly got up and dusted her gown, trembling slightly. Her movement weak, tired, and slow.

"Sorry, Your Highness," she bowed and hurriedly left, her frail body moving like a bag of bones about to crumble.

He stared back at her, no emotion in his eyes.

She was a feeder.

A human who had dedicated herself to be a blood bank for the royal vampires.

The feeders were the only human bloodline to know of the existence of the vampires as a race that controlled the human world from the shadows.

They agreed to serve the vampires in exchange for the long-coveted gift of immortality.

After a feeder served for a number of years, they would be turned into halflings—vampires that were not born but rather turned.

The feeder bloodline was bound by a sacred oath that made them unable to tell their fellow humans about the existence of the bloodsuckers... else they die.

Killed by the ancient magic binding the oath.

Rasmus tore his gaze off her and continued moving.

He didn't stop walking until the mansion's hallway was behind him.

He headed for the basement level.

The mansion's quiet place.

His private space where he could vent his anger and frustration.

A place where the security cams were off and no one dared to interrupt him.

The elevator doors slid open with a chime that grated against his nerves. He hissed in annoyance.

Rasmus stepped out into the mansion's private underground level, jaw clenched, fists jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket.

He didn't wait for the hallway lights to fully flicker on; he just moved.

His supernatural senses granted him vision even in the darkest places.

His crimson eyes shone brightly in the dimly lit hall.

Motion sensors picked up his pacing—down one hall, then another, back again.

His footsteps echoed off polished concrete. Every few strides, his hands slammed into the wall, leaving a huge dent everywhere his fist came in contact with.

He released a low snarl.

His fangs looked dangerous and sharp.

He passed a touchscreen console mounted beside a locked vault—punched it once, just hard enough to leave a small dent across the glowing keypad.

Alarms didn't trigger. The house knew better than to challenge him when he was like this.

Eventually, he found himself in one of the empty workout rooms.

A room with a sleek design. Its floors were obsidian black and had the royal crest—which was a fang that looked the color of blood... a crimson fang.

It also had mirrors. Mats. Equipment. And silence.

A place designed to accommodate the strength of a royal blood like his.

Rasmus kicked a bench clean across the room. It hit the far wall with a crash and broke into countless pieces.

He didn't stop.

His jacket hit the ground next.

Then he was on the punching bag.

Bare fists slamming hard into reinforced vanium.

Vanium.

The only metal on Earth capable of withstanding the power of a vampire.

The problem was...

It could never take up to five punches from Rasmus.

A royal blood.

One-two. One-two-three. Rasmus's fist demolished the punching bag, its metal splitting into various pieces.

"Arrgh!" The skin on his knuckles had a piece of vanium stuck in it. Blood seeped through his fingers. He welcomed it.

With a grunt, he removed the shard of vanium and the cut closed almost immediately.

Sweat stuck his shirt to his spine. His breath came in short, angry bursts.

"How dare they? Who the hell does she think she is? That she can switch me on and off. Like I'm some kind of lever. Like I'm a puppet she can do whatever she wants with. She wants me to marry to satisfy her," he shouted aloud, in a very angry voice.

"And it's definitely not with a witch. That accursed race took the light from my life, and I'm going to make sure I return the favor by making them live their life in fear, in darkness... afraid of me," he whispered, talking to no one but himself.

"She has my little sister. That manipulative bitch, she kidnapped her. She is using her against me. Her innocence against my conscience."

Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the pieces of the punching bag. He pummeled his fist over and over again against the sharp edges of the broken metal.

When he raised his head up, he looked at the mirror. His reflection stared back at him. Hurt and broken.

Chest heaving, disheveled, crimson red eyes, long sharp fangs that looked... hungry. Blood dripping down his hands. Sharp pieces of metal stuck in his hands.

He saw the monster he was slowly becoming—one that he hated but could do nothing to stop.

His mother never brought him up this way.

Elara would not be happy knowing that her very own Rasmus is the monster that the world now hides from.

Both the corporate world and the supernatural world.

Arriana, his little sister, would be sad.

Arianna. The name echoed.

Then the memories crashed on him.