Owned by the Ice Vampire King

Ivy's POV

The kitchen reeked of mildew and something metallic that clung to the back of my throat. Water dripped from a crack in the stone ceiling, pooling near the industrial sink where I stood scrubbing plates with hands so numb I could barely feel the broken rubber gloves digging into my wrists.

The fluorescent bulb overhead flickered, casting the cramped space in sickly yellow light. My fingers were raw beneath the torn gloves, the old frostbite cracks splitting open again as icy dishwater sloshed over my knuckles.

Tessa Garcia shoved past me deliberately, her shoulder catching mine hard enough to make me stumble against the sink. "You dumbass. Not like you've got anywhere else to go anyway."

I kept my eyes down and said nothing because she was right—I didn't have anywhere else to go. She grabbed a tray of appetizers from the counter and disappeared up the stairs.

I went back to scrubbing the same pile of dishes, the water numbing my hands further with each passing minute. Several minutes later, Connor's voice boomed down from the stone staircase, rough and impatient. I yanked my hands out of the freezing water and climbed the slick stairs toward the prep area above, my joints stiff from the cold.

Connor was waiting by the cutting board, his thinning gray hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. The counter was piled with ingredients and a large steel bowl filled with something dark that gave off the unmistakable iron-rust smell of diluted synthetic blood. He wiped his palms on his apron repeatedly, his eyes darting toward the ceiling. "Listen, Ivy, we've got some very important people upstairs tonight, so don't mess anything up, understand?"

I nodded quickly, but before he could say anything else, a high, piercing scream came from above.

The air seemed to compress around us. Tessa came flying down the stairs moments later, moving so fast she nearly lost her footing, her green eyes wide with terror. She was clutching her left wrist against her chest.

"He—he just grabbed my wrist," she gasped, her voice shaking, "it was like ice, and he said—he said my blood stinks—" Her mascara was already smudging as tears spilled over. She bolted for the back exit, leaving nothing behind but the echo of her sobs.

Connor turned to me with a face that had gone gray. "You're going to take the hors d'oeuvres up to the private room." He shoved a serving tray into my hands before I could respond.

I had to go through the back service corridor to reach the front hall—a narrow passage with exposed pipes running along the ceiling and walls stained with years of condensation. The front courtyard was lined with expensive cars—three sleek supercars and a row of armored black sedans that gleamed under the exterior lights. 'Just deliver the food and get out,' I told myself. 'Don't look at anyone, don't say anything.'

The two security guards flanking the entrance barely glanced at me as I slipped past them into the front hall. The interior was decorated in Gothic style—deep crimson velvet curtains and wrought-iron chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling. The handful of servers clustered in the far corner were whispering with their heads bent close together, and every single one of them looked terrified. The air smelled like expensive cigar smoke layered over something cold and faintly sweet.

Connor's nephew Garrett intercepted me near the hallway entrance, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit. "If anyone asks you a question," he said quietly, his voice flat, "you say 'I don't know' and nothing else." His phone buzzed and his expression shifted. "I need to grab the wine glasses. Just wait by the door until I get back." He disappeared down a side corridor, leaving me alone at the mouth of the hallway.

I stood there clutching the serving tray, my arms beginning to ache from holding it so long. The temperature was noticeably colder, and when I couldn't suppress the sneeze any longer it came out muffled behind my mask but obscenely loud in the silence.

Garrett reappeared from around the corner carrying a wooden box of crystal wine glasses, his face tight with tension. "Come on," he muttered, jerking his head toward the private room. "They're waiting."

The door swung open at his knock, and I followed him into a private dining room with a massive round table made of black ebony wood surrounded by high-backed leather chairs. Silver candelabras flickered in the corners, casting shadows across the faces of ten men seated around the table, all dressed in expensive suits. The warm lighting made their uniformly pale skin look unnatural.

I kept my eyes down as I began setting out the hors d'oeuvres, moving mechanically from plate to plate, and I'd barely finished the third when a man wearing black-framed glasses spoke up. "Just leave the one in the mask and Garrett. Everyone else can go."

The other servers who had been standing along the wall filed out quickly and the door clicked shut. I kept my head down and focused on arranging the remaining plates, acutely aware that I was now trapped in this room.

The middle-aged man at the head of the table raised his glass, his eyes fixed on someone to his left, and when that person gave a small nod, the host gestured for a bottle to be opened. The sharp scent of expensive liquor filled the room as the seal broke, rich and heady enough to make my head swim.

I forced my hands to keep moving, but I couldn't shake the growing awareness that someone was staring at me with unbearable intensity. The weight of that gaze pressed against the side of my face like a physical touch, and finally I couldn't stop myself from glancing up.

Amber eyes met mine across the candlelit space, glowing with a faint reddish sheen, set in a face so pale it looked carved from white jade. The young man in the beige silk shirt had delicate, almost fragile beauty, his light golden hair slightly disheveled. There was a small mole just above his upper lip, and his expression was carefully neutral except for his eyes, which studied me with unmistakable recognition. Then his mouth opened and he spoke in a voice that was low and clear and impossibly familiar.

"…Ivy Hayes?"