The Vampire Queen's Ex Became Her Dinner

Three years ago, in that deadly barrier, I carved out half my progenitor heart and dragged Theron back from death's door. The wound on my back has never healed.

I thought it was a soul blood pact—bound in life and death. Then Samaela appeared, that fragile human with barely a century to live, and it all became a joke.

He believed her lies. Swallowed every word about how I'd murdered her parents in cold blood.

For that pathetic creature who couldn't even bear sunlight, my carefully groomed blood vassal sawed off my pureblooded wings, ripped out my progenitor fangs with his bare hands, and threw me into the Silver Cathedral.

Three years. Nailed to a cross with pure silver chains, I endured concentrated UV rays and holy water burning through me day and night.

Everyone waited for me to go mad, to beg, or turn to ash. I didn't.

Listening to their wedding bells toll outside, I simply watched—in the silence of my flesh charring and regenerating—as the silver light on my chains fractured inch by inch.

Then I tore out the silver spikes embedded in my rotting flesh, dragged my bleeding wreck of a body forward, and kicked open the doors to the Crimson Blood Moon Gala's hall.

Theron had forgotten one forbidden clause in the blood pact: The oathbreaker's life belongs not to the gods, but to me.

"Well, well, look who crawled back. Three years of holy fire and she still won't turn to dust."

Two sneering voices drifted from the shadows. My other two contracted blood vassals descended the stairs, crystal goblets of fresh blood in hand, swaggering with each step.

One wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Had your demon wings sawed clean off and you still dare show your face at the Crimson Blood Moon Gala? You're not even worth the dirt under a street thrall's boots now."

A dull throb pulsed through my gums where my fangs used to be—the ones the person I trusted most tore out with iron pliers three years ago.

My legs, eaten away by old holy water burns, felt like lead, but I kept my spine straight. Not an inch bent.

I stared at them without a word, my lips curling into a smile devoid of warmth.

Just one powerless, cold smile—and the servant's sneer died in his throat. His hand jerked, blood splashing onto his sleeve as he instinctively stumbled back half a step.

Frightened already?

I didn't even spare these fools a shred of contempt. My gaze cut past them, locking onto the crimson velvet throne at the far end of the hall.

A tall dark figure vanished from the chair in an instant.

The next second, brutal force slammed me against the freezing stone pillar with a sickening crack.

The jagged wounds on my back tore open violently, blood instantly soaking through my clothes. My stomach lurched, but I bit down hard, refusing to make a sound.

Theron materialized before me.

He wore a dark red ceremonial suit, a glaringly obvious ruby brooch fastened at his collar—the first-generation blood vassal mark I'd bestowed upon him a century ago.

Now he looked down at me as though I were carrion rotting in a ditch.

His hand clamped around my shoulder, fingers digging deep. Overwhelming pain crashed through me, as if my bones were dissolving—he'd coated his nails in concentrated hunter's silver.

The silver seeped through the cracks into my bloodstream. My skin hissed and smoked, the stench nauseating. Cold sweat rolled down my temple.

His gaze lingered on my mangled shoulder for half a second. His throat bobbed almost imperceptibly, and his grip loosened by a fraction.

But in the next instant, disgust flooded back into his eyes. He straightened his spine even more rigidly, as if breathing my air was torture itself.

"Carmilla," Theron's voice cut like winter steel, "you'd better know your place. Three years in that cathedral and you still haven't learned when to bow?"

I raised my blood-crusted face. These eyes had once wept crimson tears in the flames a century ago, begging me not to leave him behind. Now, they held nothing but arrogance.

"Bow?" I asked coldly, my gaze drifting past him toward the crimson moon half-shrouded in mist beyond the hall's vaulted ceiling, letting blood from my shoulder drip steadily down his fingers.

"Theron, three years ago you believed Samaela's lies—that I murdered her parents. You severed my wings to appease her. Ripped out my fangs. Is that what you call justice?"

I suddenly stepped forward. My shoulder blade drove hard into his silver-coated nails, the pain sharpening every nerve to crystal clarity.

"Today is the Crimson Blood Moon ceremony, my chief blood vassal." I locked onto his constricting pupils. "The price for betraying a soul blood pact... are you prepared to pay it?"

At the words "soul blood pact," Theron's eye twitched violently. His fist clenched, poised to shatter my face, but the moment he raised his hand, his heart stuttered a beat.

The most violent rejection from deep within the covenant.

The two servants whipped around toward the window, finally realizing what night this was.

"Theron..." one stammered, legs trembling, "the soul blood pact isn't dissolved yet. Tonight's the darkest phase of the Crimson Blood Moon ceremony. If the backlash actually comes..."

"Shut your mouth!" Theron snarled.

He whirled back, glaring at me with eyes that wanted to tear me apart. "Don't threaten me with that contract, Carmilla. You think you're still some almighty queen? You're nothing but a broken, useless cripple."

He shoved me aside, his nail piercing through his own chest without hesitation, forcing out a single drop of dark crimson blood—the primordial blood I'd given him to preserve his life all those years ago.

He grabbed my jaw roughly, pressing that droplet against my cracked lips. "Swallow it. Use your binding name to revoke your blood seal right now and dissolve this contract!"

My back pressed against the pillar, I steadied my weakening legs. A low, rasping laugh crawled up my throat as I watched him rush so eagerly toward his own demise, pity and mockery flooding my gaze.

"Theron, a forced unilateral breach of a soul blood pact ends only one way—death." I swallowed the stale blood pooling in my mouth.

"Death? Is that your grand threat?" He flicked his sleeve where it had touched me, contempt etched across every feature.

He bared his sharp fangs hungrily, yanking at my collar as if preparing to bite straight through my vein and sever the magical bond by force.

"Don't!" Both servants clutched their chests as sudden, stabbing pain erupted. They collapsed onto the cold stone floor. "The backlash! The pact is warning us! Theron, this will kill us!"

Rage flashed across Theron's face. He spun and kicked the nearest servant, sending him flying across the floor.

"Pathetic cowards! Why fear a cripple who's lost her wings and her venom?"

He lifted his chin with toxic pride, scoffing. "Even if there is backlash, so what? Don't forget—we have Samaela! Her modern medicine combined with hunter cell regeneration is a hundred times more powerful than this rotting old contract! Three years ago we tore this monster limb from limb, and we're still standing, aren't we?"

Soft footsteps echoed through the hall. Samaela emerged from behind the throne in a pure white wedding gown.

This fragile human held a half-filled goblet, swirling fresh blood with casual ease. She nestled against Theron's side and let out a mocking little laugh.

"Look at these pathetic fools, scared of a phantom pain. If her broken contract could actually kill you, it would've happened three years ago."

Theron turned back, forcing that drop of primordial blood toward my lips. "Revoke the blood seal. Dissolve the contract. Now."

I ignored their posturing.

I simply looked calmly toward the blood moon hanging above the hall's ceiling, then back at the three of them. My gaze settled on them as though they were corpses already measured for their graves.

Blood caked across my gums as I pulled my lips into a slow, cruel smile. My voice echoed through the deathly silent hall:

"No need to rush, Theron."

I stared straight into his eyes, delivering his sentence word by word:

"The moment that mist clears completely, and the full crimson moon hangs directly overhead—every oathbreaker will die. Without exception."