Raised by Vampires Book 2: The Seeds We Sow
المؤلف
S. A. Elodie
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“Mine,” I growled, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her down onto me. She gasped, her nails raking over my skin, her breath warm against my neck. Aya’s crimson eyes locked onto mine, wild, untamed, filled with something deeper than lust. A promise. A claim.
He was a prince. She was a servant. Now, they are both something else entirely.
Once, Alexander Night had everything—power, privilege, a future carved in blood and glory. Then came the revolution. Now, stripped of his crown, hunted like an animal, he clings to the last thing that matters: finding his missing sister before his enemies do.
Aya was nothing once. A servant. A girl who loved a prince she was never meant to have. The revolution freed her from that life, from him. But some ghosts refuse to stay buried, and when fate throws her into Alexander’s path once more, she makes a choice she should not—she helps him.
But the past still lingers between them, sharp as a blade. The love they once shared has turned to something volatile, dangerous, laced with betrayal and longing. The world wants them dead, but the real battle is the one waged between them—between resentment and desire, vengeance and forgiveness, ruin and redemption.
And in a world where everyone wants them dead, desire might be the most dangerous weapon of all.
Requiem for the Lost
ALEXANDER
BOOK 2: The Seeds We Sow
They say the love of a pureblood vampire is eternal. It’s unbreakable and all-consuming. But they never mention what happens when that love is lost.
When she was ripped away from him, it broke him. The man he once was—the one who adored her, treasured her—was swallowed by the emptiness she left behind. What emerged was a different creature.
A beast with hands stained in blood and a heart in ruins, ready to set the world ablaze for revenge. For hundreds of years, he’s worn his sins like a second skin, etching his pain into history, submerging his sorrow in war and destruction.
Because if he can’t have her, then nothing else deserves to exist. But fate is a harsh mistress. Because now, she’s standing before him again.
The woman he would have died for—the woman he did die for. And she’s no longer his. No passion is deeper. No bond is stronger. No pain is more unbearable.
And now, I’ll stop at nothing to make her mine again.
***
I moved silently through the decaying corridors. The manor had lost its former splendor. The marble floors were scratched and dull.
The rugs that once adorned the staircases were ragged, torn, and dirty. The tapestries and paintings of our family—the royal family—were ruined, burned, or ripped apart.
Our manor was a mere shadow of its former self: a mockery to our family, a cage. I slipped into what used to be the main hall.
Of the five chandeliers that once hung proudly from the vaulted ceiling, only one remained, barely functioning, plunging the room into perpetual darkness. The lounge chairs, sofas, and armchairs that once furnished the room had long since vanished.
The elite who used to lounge on them, feasting on unwilling humans’ throats, had disappeared as well. I longed for those days of luxury—of humans lounging in chairs, willingly offering me their blood, their bodies.
I moved past the thrones, the only furniture left in the room. They were made of solid gold, now covered in dust and bloodstains.
They hadn’t been touched for fifty years, not since my grandfather was killed during the revolution. The new queen had no interest in a crown or a throne.
She ruled from wherever she pleased, trampling our traditions as if they were nothing. The faint smell of mold lingered in the corners of the hall.
Once-polished banisters were dulled by decades of dust, their wood warped and splintered. It wasn’t just a ruin—it was a tomb, echoing with the remnants of everything we’d lost.
At the back of the room, I pushed hard against the torn painting that once depicted my grandfather and his sister, Elizabeth, and slipped into the secret tunnel. It was built centuries ago for the royal family as a way to sneak humans in and out of the castle without them knowing where they were—or how to return.
Once bustling with human slaves and awash with their blood, the tunnel was now dark, damp, and reeked of rats. I could hear them scurrying around, their tiny claws clicking against the stone floor.
Wrinkling my nose in disgust, I glided through the tunnel. It led out the side of the manor, emerging a couple of miles farther up the mountain.
I pushed the trapdoor open with a soft creak, slipping out into the night like a phantom. The cool air greeted me—tinged with the smell of livestock, the ocean, and the sharp scent of gasoline.
I paused for a moment, inhaling deeply, the taste of freedom almost as biting as the night’s chill. My senses were heightened—every rustle in the bushes, every footstep in the distance made my blood stir.
I breathed deeply for a few seconds, savoring the smell of freedom. The manor smelled only of decaying tapestries, moldy furniture, and death.
It was the worst kind of prison—a place where we could do nothing but wallow in our loss and humiliation. Outside, I felt my strength returning, my mind buzzing with possibilities.
In the distance, I spotted the Mcnoxnoctis men making their rounds around the manor. They were hired, turned vampires who patrolled every night, keeping my family inside, quarantined, cut off from the rest of the world.
I watched them for a few minutes as they exchanged small talk and walked their patrols. When they disappeared from view, I launched myself down the mountainside and slipped into the nearby vineyards, staying low.
They were fledgling vampires—nowhere near as swift or as powerful as me. Their sense of smell was laughable, and their hearing wasn’t much better.
It’s no surprise they didn’t hear me slip away. The only thing that kept me from leaving for good was their nightly headcount.
I moved like a shadow through the vineyards, the moist soil pulling at my shoes with each step, the soft rustling of vines grazing my skin. Moonlight seeped through the leafy canopy, casting ever-changing shadows on my path.
I stayed low, knowing even the slightest noise could give me away. It took me no more than a few minutes to jog into the neighboring city.
The city was vibrant in a way I hadn’t been for years. Its clamor was a stark contrast to the ghostly silence of the manor.
Bright lights illuminated storefronts, and humans laughed without a care, their life force pulsating just beneath their skin. I pulled my hood down to cover my face and blended into the crowd boarding the subway.
I held a thick handkerchief to my nose and held my breath. The potent scent of fresh blood was overpowering.
My throat constricted and dried, urging me to quench my thirst. I blinked rapidly, soothing my thoughts—soothing my thirst until my eyes returned to their blue hue.
A child’s gaze met mine. I froze. For a split second, I thought she knew—knew what I was, knew what I was capable of.
But she just smiled, tugged at her mother’s coat, and the moment passed. Still, I remained vigilant. Humans were harmless, but vampires could be lurking anywhere.
I moved quickly through the bustling subway station, my footsteps swallowed by the hum of the crowd. Once outside, the night air hit me like a shot of adrenaline.
The bar wasn’t far, and as I neared, I could already hear the sound of music leaking from the entrance—a medley of human laughter, the smell of alcohol, and the unmistakable scent of blood just beneath the surface.
The local bar was famous for attracting foreign exchange students—the perfect modern prey. I pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
The room was dimly lit, rock music from the last century blared from the speakers, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and humans. There were no other vampires inside.
I wove through the crowd of dancing, inebriated humans and slid into an empty booth at the back of the bar.
I didn’t go unnoticed. I never did. I was easily taller than most of the men, wider too.
Despite the hood, I could still feel their eyes on me as I passed. I settled into the worn red polyester seat, pushed back my hood, ran my fingers through my hair, and leaned back, stretching my long legs out in front of me.
Now, all I had to do was wait. And it wasn’t long before a group of giggling girls approached me. I could hear their hearts pounding in their chests, smell their blood as it rushed to color their blushing cheeks, and sense their excitement.
Easy prey. They wore the tiniest dresses, stretched tight over their petite frames. I remembered, with a certain nostalgia, the women of the past—so covered up, so virtuous, so modest.
The hunt had been so much more thrilling then, the unwrapping and unraveling so much more satisfying. Women today decided who and when they wanted to be with. With that came a certain arrogance, a certain confidence, which was undeniably attractive—but it did mean the chase ended much quicker.
And I am a predator. I relish the chase. A change in the song cut through the hum of the club.
A waitress walked by with a tray of beers, and a human girl seized the opportunity to pretend to fall, landing squarely in my lap. Her face was flushed, her blood smelled intoxicating, and behind her, her friend giggled at the stunt.
Too damn easy. I smirked at her. Her heart skipped a beat as she looked up at me, her hand resting on my chest.
I heard her breath hitch. She was a petite thing, with thick, curly brown hair, a long face, and big, brown doe eyes.
“Oh, scusa. Sono così maldestra,” she murmured when she finally found her words.
I smiled, tracing my fingers down her cheek and along her jaw. She froze, staring at me with wide eyes, unable to believe I wasn’t pushing her off my lap.
“Non preoccuparti,” I said softly. “Are you feeling okay? Maybe you’ve had too much to drink. Would you like to sit next to me?”
She nodded, casting a quick glance at her friends, who stood nearby, watching with wide eyes. I shifted over, making room for her to slide into the booth next to me.
My arm found its way around her shoulders, and I inhaled her potent, blood-rich scent. I was eager. She was going to be a treat.
We spent a good two hours side by side, chatting about her family, her education, and her dreams of seeing the world. Her eyes widened in awe as I shared tales of my own journeys across Africa, Asia, and the Americas.
She happily downed every beer I ordered for her. Eventually, her friends came to fetch her, insisting it was time to head home.
But she resisted, expressing her desire to stay with me. I assured them I’d look after her. They giggled and departed.
Such irresponsible friends. Not long after, I steered the tipsy girl out of the bar and along the cobblestone streets.
She filled me in on her awful ex-boyfriend as we walked. I grunted in agreement when it seemed fitting and placed a hand on her lower back, gently guiding her along.
She hardly noticed when I led her away from the city and deep into the vineyards. She twirled under the moonlight, beaming at me as if I were her savior.
Little did she know, I was more of a demon. And I was growing weary of her chatter.
“Come here,” I beckoned, gesturing for her to come closer. She complied, albeit with a hint of hesitation.
Once I had her face cradled in my hands, I tilted her head to the side, brushing her hair out of my path. As my lips met her soft skin, I heard her sharp intake of breath.
She was shaking now, though she tried to hide it behind a smile. I could hear her pulse racing, her breaths shallow and quick. She tried to cover it up with nervous laughter.
When I swept her hair aside, she froze. “W-what are you doing?” she stuttered, but she didn’t pull away. They never do.
Without a second thought, I bit into her, the warm, heady rush of blood filling my mouth. A low growl of satisfaction slipped from me as my arms held her in place, her delicate body pressed against mine.
She squirmed, attempting to scream or moan, but my hand muffled her cries. Slowly, hungrily, I savored the rich, intoxicating blood.
Her struggles grew weaker, each attempt futile against my hold, and I drank deeply. Her life force surged through my starved system. It had been weeks since I’d fed on a human.
I could feel the warmth and vitality restoring me, filling me. Her heartbeat wavered. Reluctantly, I pulled back, licking my lips and looking down at her with fiery crimson eyes.
She was a sight to behold in her vulnerability, a picture of deathly grace. She squinted up at me, completely spent. Her head lolled to one side.
Swiftly, I bit into my wrist, tearing through my own skin before it could mend, and pressed it to her lips. She instinctively tried to push me away, but I forced her to drink.
Her eyes rolled back, her small tongue lapping at the wound on my wrist. Once it healed, I returned to the wound on her throat, draining every last drop of her blood until she crumpled lifelessly at my feet.
I settled down beside her, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, grinning at the stars, and smacking my lips contentedly. In that moment, I didn’t care if she survived the transformation—draining her completely had already satisfied me.
Then, six hours later, I heard a faint moan.
