His Blood Mate
Author
Amelia Storm
Reads
15.8K
Chapters
27
Nicolai Dracul has walked the earth for over six centuries, prince of a vampire dynasty, master of restraint, and prisoner of his own immortality. The years have dulled everything but his hunger, and the company of humans has long since lost its thrill. Until her. Princess Alisa Petrov, heir to a powerful human empire, is celebrating her eighteenth birthday when Nicolai sees her for the first time. She’s sharp, guarded, and utterly unaware of the ancient bond that flares to life between them. To Nicolai, she is unmistakable: his blood mate. But Alisa doesn’t feel it. Not yet. Bound by politics, legacy, Nicolai must keep his distance while the bond simmers beneath the surface. As Alisa begins to unravel the truth of who she is, and what she means to him, their connection deepens into something dangerous, intimate, and impossible to ignore.
Chapter 1: A Command, Not a Request
NICOLAI
I sit in the dim haze of the underground club, a haven for the supernatural and the damned. Here, politics and prejudice are checked at the door—at least in theory. In practice, it’s just another pit of posturing and desperation.
I wouldn’t be caught dead in this place if not for Sergei—an old friend—who insists I show face.
Appearances, he says. As if I give a damn.
Over six centuries on this earth, and I’ve long since lost my taste for the nightlife. The music grates, the blood is stale, and the company? Predictable.
Tatiana coils around the pole like smoke, eyes locked on me with that same hungry gleam she’s worn for a century. She’s trying too hard, hips swaying, lips parted, gaze pleading. I turned her a hundred years ago, after Sergei left her half-drained in a back alley like discarded prey.
She’s been chasing me ever since, convinced that act meant something more than mercy.
My father rules as king among vampires, our bloodline traced directly to the First—ancient, unbroken, and revered. Sergei never tires of reminding me that the prince must be seen, must prove that the highborn are willing to descend from their pedestals and mingle with the common brood.
As if centuries of power can be softened by a few public appearances and forced smiles.
Tatiana slides into my lap like she owns it, reeking of cheap perfume and the copper tang of stale blood. The scent clings to the back of my throat, sour and cloying, and I’m already regretting not leaving sooner. I shoot Sergei a look—sharp, final.
I’m done.
“I’m ready to go if you are, Nicolai,” she purrs, voice dipped in hope and desperation. She’s angling for my bed again, convinced tonight might be the night she wins me over.
It won’t be. It never will.
I’ve grown numb to their advances over the decades—each one thinking she might claw her way into the crown, dreaming of becoming queen. But that title isn’t earned through seduction or flattery.
It’s sealed in blood.
For us, it’s not like the wolves with their moon-blessed soulmates and divine fate. They speak of destiny, of one true mate chosen by their goddess. Romantic nonsense.
Our bond is genetic. Brutal. Binding. When it happens, it’s absolute—no room for anyone else. Only then can we reproduce, only then does the bloodline continue.
Until that match is found, the rest are just noise.
“Tatiana, I’m not in the mood,” I say, voice flat as stone. No warmth. No invitation. Just the hope she’ll take the hint without forcing me to compel her.
She doesn’t.
“You’re never in the mood, baby,” she purrs, sliding closer. “I could make you feel so good.”
I doubt it. It’s been centuries since any touch stirred anything in me. My father claims it’s the blood, mine searching for its match. He says I’ll know her by scent, that my blood will recognize hers and respond.
What a load of nonsense.
Her hand drifts toward my crotch.
“If you don’t remove your hands,” I snap, eyes like ice, “I’ll remove them from your body.”
She jerks back like I’d branded her with fire, scrambling off my lap in silence. She should count herself lucky. Being turned by a highborn is the only reason she walks in sunlight.
That gift alone should’ve taught her respect.
I rise from my seat, cutting through the club like a blade through smoke. Eyes follow me—hungry, desperate, clinging to hope. Pathetic. They don’t see a prince. They see a prize.
Outside, I slide into my car. The door barely clicks shut before Tatiana slips into the passenger seat, uninvited. She still doesn’t understand.
I turn to her, grip her chin hard enough to make her flinch. Pain flickers in her eyes, but she doesn’t look away. She should.
I let my aura bleed into the space between us, cold and suffocating. “You will leave me alone,” I say, voice low and lethal. “Touch me again, and I’ll end your miserable existence.”
She’s out of the car before the last word finishes, scrambling like prey that’s just realized it’s been cornered.
I exhale, slow and sharp. Finally, silence.
I don’t head to the penthouse tonight. The thought of glass walls, city lights, and the constant hum of human life makes my skin crawl. Instead, I turn the wheel toward my parents’ estate, a stretch of land untouched by time, hidden behind iron gates and ancient trees.
It’s private. Isolated. A place where the world forgets to intrude.
The estate is quiet, carved out of the old world and left to breathe in its own silence. No surveillance drones buzzing overhead. No digital eyes watching my every move. Just stone corridors, candlelight, and the scent of earth and memory.
Here, I can exist without pretending.
I miss the Middle Ages. Back then, the world was darker, yes—but simpler. No blaring sirens. No choking smog. No endless streams of data cataloging our every breath. We fed in silence, vanished into shadow. No one questioned a missing villager. No one tracked blood trails.
It was cleaner, in its own way. More honest.
Now we sip from sterile bags, pretending it’s enough. Pretending it satisfies. It doesn’t. The blood is cold, lifeless, stripped of the pulse, the fear, the fire. We’ve traded instinct for convenience, hunger for protocol.
All in the name of peace.
But peace is a lie. It’s just silence with rules.
The human king rules this continent with a velvet leash, his influence stretched across borders like shadow. He keeps our existence buried beneath myth and silence, ensuring the supernatural remains nothing more than folklore to the masses.
When one of us slips, when blood spills too publicly or a body turns up too mangled, it’s swept away with a whisper and a headline: Act of God.
And the humans believe it. Gullible creatures, eager to swallow whatever fiction we feed them. They cling to their illusions like lifelines, never questioning the cost.
So, what does the king gain in return for his loyalty? Power. Legacy. His bloodline has worn the crown since my father claimed dominion over the vampires nearly eight centuries ago. A quiet arrangement, sealed in blood and silence. We rule from the shadows. He rules in the light.
And together, we keep the world blind.
I pull up to the gate and punch in the code. The iron groans as it opens, slow and deliberate, the creak slicing through the stillness like a warning. The estate looms ahead, wrapped in silence and shadow.
“Niki!” Valentina bursts through the front door, barefoot and wild-eyed, her voice shattering the quiet.
She’s ten now—an unexpected miracle in our bloodline that had all but given up. My parents stopped hoping centuries ago. Highborn vampires rarely reproduce anymore. Blood mates are rare, and without that bond, conception is impossible.
Some settle for turning humans to fill the void with something close enough.
But Valentina is no substitute. She was born, not made. Flesh of our flesh. Proof that the old magic still flickers in our veins.
I step out of the car and sweep her into my arms, spinning her until her laughter echoes through the courtyard. She clings to me, giggling, radiant.
She looks just like our mother—green eyes sharp as glass, raven-black hair cascading down her back, high cheekbones carved with elegance and danger. Beautiful. Lethal. A true heir.
“Hello, little one,” I say, voice low as I crouch to meet her eyes. “Been keeping out of trouble?”
“Always, Niki,” she chirps, mischief dancing behind her smile. She’s the only one who calls me that. The name would sound foolish from anyone else—soft, familiar, undeserved.
But from her, it fits.
She grabs my hand and tugs me toward the house, breathless. “Papa got me a puppy,” she announces, eyes gleaming. “Come see.”
Valentina pulls me through the grand foyer, her small hand warm in mine, her excitement vibrating through every step. The estate is quiet, cloaked in its usual hush, but her laughter fills the halls like sunlight—rare, golden, impossible to ignore.
“He’s in the solarium,” she says. “Papa said he’s mine, all mine.”
We round the corner, and there he is, curled in a patch of light on the marble floor, a tiny creature with oversized paws and fur the color of ash and moonlight. His ears twitch at our approach, and he lifts his head, blinking up at me with eyes too wise for something so young.
Valentina drops to her knees beside him, arms wrapping around his soft body. “Isn’t he perfect?” she whispers, as if afraid the moment might vanish.
I crouch beside them, studying the pup. He’s trembling slightly, unsure, but he doesn’t pull away. I reach out, let him sniff my hand. He leans into it.
“He’s brave,” I murmur. “Or foolish.”
Valentina giggles. “He’s mine.”
I glance at her, green eyes gleaming, raven hair falling over her shoulders like a crown.
The puppy licks her cheek, and she squeals with delight. For a moment, the centuries fall away. No politics. No bloodlines. Just my little sister and her dog, and the quiet miracle of something new.
My father steps into the room, and the puppy growls, a low, uncertain sound that earns a dark chuckle from the king. He’s dressed in black from collar to cuff, his raven hair slicked back with precision, blue eyes gleaming like frost as they settle on me.
“What do we owe this pleasure, Nicolai?” he asks, voice smooth but edged with something sharper.
I rise and take his hand, the gesture formal, practiced. “I’ve found the city grating lately.”
He smirks. “Finally decided the noise isn’t worth it?”
“My patience for it wears thin.”
“Come,” he says, turning on his heel. A command, not a suggestion. There’s no room for refusal.
As he walks away, he tosses a glance over his shoulder. “Vivi, feed your pet.”
“You’ve saved me a phone call, son,” my father begins, voice smooth but weighted.
I arch an eyebrow, waiting.
“Dimitri’s daughter turns eighteen next week. They’re hosting a celebration, and we’ve been cordially invited.”
Of course we have. I suppress a sigh.
King Dimitri, always eager to parade his bloodline, always grasping for relevance. I loathe the man. His smile is too polished, his ambition too loud.
But his son…he’s different. Quiet. Detached from the circus of their title. He doesn’t crave the spotlight, which makes him tolerable. Almost.
“Let me guess,” I say, the bitterness sharp on my tongue. “I’m expected to attend this gathering.”
“You are,” my father replies, voice clipped and final. “And you will look like you’re enjoying every moment of it.”
A command, not a request. As always.
The thought of attending Dimitri’s party curdles in my gut. Eighteen years old, barely out of childhood, and already they’ll dress her up like a prize, parade her in front of the old families, hoping to catch the eye of someone with status.
It’s not a celebration. It’s a transaction wrapped in silk and smiles.
I can already hear the music, too loud, too modern. The scent of blood masked by perfume and desperation. The endless parade of sycophants, each one eager to remind me of their lineage, their ambitions, their daughters.
I hate these human gatherings. The forced laughter. The hollow toasts. My father expects me to smile. To charm. To play the role of heir with grace and poise.
But I feel none of it. No warmth. No interest. Just the weight of centuries pressing down on my shoulders, and the bitter taste of obligation.
Let them celebrate. Let them dance. I’ll be there, as commanded. But I won’t enjoy it. Not for a moment.
