The Vampire Prince’s Bloodmate

POV ROWENA

The mud in the Black Jungle tasted like copper, rot, and impending death.

I pressed my cheek harder into the damp, black dirt, holding my breath until my lungs screamed for a single pocket of clean air. The ground beneath my chest was cold, slick with decaying leaves and the ancient, dark magic that leaked from the demon borders. Every muscle in my body was locked, vibrating with a terror so pure it made my teeth chatter against the soil. I had to stay still. If I moved even a fraction of an inch, the ferns covering my shallow ditch would rustle, and my life would end right here, miles away from anything resembling civilization.

Barely three inches from my head, the heavy, dragging footsteps of a demon scout vibrated through the earth.

The creature was a massive, grotesque thing of shadow and jagged bone, sent ahead of the main invasion clans to sniff out weaknesses in our kingdom’s perimeter. It wetly sniffed the air, its throat rattling with a sickening, wet gurgle that sent a wave of humid heat straight over my hiding spot. I could smell its stench—a foul combination of sulfur, stale sweat, and dried blood.

*One wrong move. One sharp exhale. That’s all it would take.*

I closed my eyes, forcing my mind to go blank. I wasn’t a fragile, helpless human. If a mortal were caught out here, they would have fainted from the sheer psychic pressure the demon radiated. The volatile, forbidden blood sleeping deep within my veins gave me senses that were sharper, faster, and much more resilient than any human could ever dream of. I could hear the nocturnal insects freezing in fear; I could feel the subtle shifts in the wind. But against a fully armored vanguard demon soldier, raw survival instincts told me that fighting was a death sentence. My mixed, filthy heritage wouldn't save me in a direct confrontation. I was a hybrid, an anomaly, an illegitimate ghost. If they discovered what I was, they wouldn't just kill me. They would hunt me slower, torturing me until they extracted every last drop of the dark power hiding beneath my skin.

The demon scout paused. The heavy thud of its clawed foot stopped right beside my shoulder. I felt the air shift as it leaned down, its snout hovering just above the ferns. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, so loud I was certain the monster could hear it. I gripped the handle of the small, rusted dagger tucked into my boot, knowing it would do nothing against demon hide, but refusing to die without tearing something apart first.

Suddenly, the suffocating heat of the jungle was violently sliced open.

The air grew freezing cold in a matter of seconds, so sharp it turned my shallow breaths into faint plumes of mist. The foul sulfur smell of the monster was instantly replaced by something entirely different—the heavy, intoxicating aroma of expensive cedarwood, cured leather, and fresh ash.

A shadow fell over my ditch. Not a clumsy, lumbering demon shadow, but a silhouette that was tall, broad, and terrifyingly elegant.

"You are a long way from home, filth," a voice echoed through the trees. It was smooth, dark, and carried the effortless, crushing authority of a natural-born tyrant.

Draven.

The crown prince. The executioner of the royal line.

Before the demon scout could even turn its grotesque head to face the intruder, a blade of pure midnight steel cut through the darkness with a clean, definitive whistle. The strike was blindingly fast, a display of raw, supernatural velocity. The midnight blade caught the demon right at the throat, decapitating the massive creature in a single, devastating movement.

The heavy, horned head thudded into the mud just inches from my face, its black eyes staring blankly into mine. A fountain of thick, steaming demon blood sprayed across the ferns, sizzling as it touched the soil. There would be no mystical healing for this beast, no blood truces, no narrow escapes back across the border. The ruthless, unyielding strength of the vampire prince had dragged it straight to hell without the right to appeal. The soldier of the invasion was officially dead.

As the metallic echo of the strike faded, a heavy, suffocating silence returned to the broken brush. The only sound left was the dripping of black gore from the leaves.

I stayed frozen in the mud, my fingers still white-knuckled around my useless dagger. I didn't dare to look up, but I could feel the sheer weight of his presence hovering over me.

Slowly, Draven turned around. The heavy silver accents on his dark armor clicked softly as he moved. He didn’t step carefully; he completely ignored the sharp briars and poisonous thorns tearing at his polished leather boots, his gaze locked entirely on the trench where I lay shivering.

"Get up," he commanded. When I didn't move, too paralyzed by the sudden shift in danger, he let out a low, impatient growl. "I know you are alive. A human would have died of fright, and you don't smell like a human."

With a swift, arrogant motion, he reached down into the ditch. His large, gloved hand gripped my waist, and with a terrifying, pasmous ease, he lifted my entire body out of the dirt as if I weighed absolutely nothing.

Before I could even find my footing, he hauled me flush against his massive frame, pinning me directly against the cold, blood-splattered metal of his breastplate.

I gasped sharply, my hands instinctively flying up to clutch the heavy, dark fabric of his cloak just to keep my balance. But the air that filled my lungs didn't belong to the jungle anymore. It belonged entirely to him. The burning, unnatural heat radiating from his chest and the overpowering scent of rich maderas, high-end tobacco, and raw, masculine dominance enveloped me like an impenetrable shield, instantly stealing the last remnants of my breath.

For a fraction of a second, my exhausted mind tricked me into feeling safe. The contrast was too sharp—the cold, terrifying jungle behind me, and this wall of solid, expensive heat holding me so securely against his chest.

Then, his grip tightened.

His large fingers dug into my hips through my thin, torn tunic, bruising the skin with an intensity that reminded me exactly what he was. A predator. The ultimate apex predator of this realm. Draven leaned his head down, his ragged, hot breath fanning against the sensitive skin of my exposed throat. I felt the sharp, unmistakable pressure of his elongated fangs brushing right over my pulsing jugular vein.

He wasn’t saving me. He was smelling me. He was tasting the air around my skin, reading my terror through the sweat and dirt.

"What a beautiful lie," Draven whispered against my neck, his deep, gravelly voice vibrating straight down to my core.

Suddenly, his entire body went completely rigid. The muscles in his arms turned to solid stone, his grip tightening into an inescapable iron vise as his fangs scraped my flesh, drawing a single, microscopic bead of blood. His chest heaved against mine, his breath hitching as if he had just been hit by a physical blow.

I knew that reaction. I had heard old stories whispered in the dark corners of the city. It was the frantic, violent awakening of a royal vampire recognizing his matching life force.

His *Bloodmate*.

His eyes, usually a cold, piercing gold, were now completely swallowed by a pitch-black abyss—the primal, terrifying sign of a royal vampire driven completely insane by the scent of his destined female.

"Your blood..." Draven growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register that made my knees go weak. "Your blood burns like fire. What are you?"

He tilted my head back with a cruel, possessive hand, his gloved fingers forcing my chin up so I had no choice but to look into the darkness of his eyes. He was searching my face, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled my scent over and over again, like a starving man who had just found water. But beneath the dark hunger in his expression, a deep, dangerous suspicion began to take root.

He recognized something else in my scent. Something familiar. Something royal.

"You smell like the high court, little thief," he snarled, his fangs baring in an aggressive, hungry display of dominance. He pressed me harder against his armor, stripping away my space until I could feel every line of his rigid body. "Who sent you? Are you a spy for my brothers? Speak, before I lose my mind and drain you right here in the dirt."

I clawed at his wrists, my own fingernails sharpening slightly as the fear pushed my hidden demon blood to the surface, making my skin flush with an unnatural, defensive heat.

"Let me go," I choked out, staring back into his black eyes with all the defiance I had left.

Draven’s gaze dropped to my lips, then back to the tiny smear of blood on my throat. A dark, wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained wild, entirely unhinged by the bond that was currently tearing his royal control to pieces.

"Let you go?" he chuckled, a low, terrifying sound that vibrated against my chest. "Never. You belong to me now. And we are going to find out exactly whose blood is running through your pretty little veins."

Without another word, he threw me over his broad shoulder, pinning my legs with one massive arm, and began walking through the dark jungle, carrying me straight toward his palace of vipers.