The Villains Must Win

Chapter 365: Alistair Cain 25

Vampire hunters in league with the new-generation nobles—those fledgling monsters hungry for power and legitimacy.

The thought settled into Alistair’s mind like rot beneath stone.

They had been waiting for him. Their timing couldn’t be anymore perfect.

The ruins of the old chapel should have been silent, abandoned to ivy and ash, its bells long since fallen and swallowed by moss. Instead, the air had hummed with intention.

Sigils lay etched into broken flagstones, faintly glowing where moonlight brushed them—ancient warding circles, drawn not in chalk or blood, but carved deep enough to endure centuries. Silver-threaded nets had dropped from the rafters, soaked in consecrated oil that burned where it touched his skin.

Blades followed—short, efficient, humming with prayers older than the empire that once ruled this land.

They had known his name.

Worse—they had known he would be there.

Alistair had gone there on duty, as Lord of the Night Court, to eradicate newly turned vampires who had grown careless and cruel, feeding openly, stirring panic among the human settlements.

Reckless children wearing borrowed immortality. Cleaning up their mess was an obligation he had shouldered for decades.

But what awaited him was not disorder.

It was a trap.

A meticulous ambush, planned by minds that understood vampire movement, hierarchy, and weakness, and possibly sabotage within.

By those who knew that he traveled alone. That he preferred efficiency over spectacle. That he underestimated fledglings who fancied themselves clever.

They had nearly succeeded.

The memory of silver biting into his shoulder still burned.

Damn those brats, he thought grimly as the forest blurred past him on his return. Damn the new nobles and their delusions of grandeur.

He should have wiped them out the moment they began posturing. It would have spared him this humiliation—and spared blood.

Selene lay unconscious in his arms, her weight light but warm against his chest. Her breathing was slow, shallow, but steady enough to reassure him. She would live. She was out of danger now, at least from death.

From everything else... he was no longer certain.

Her blood still lingered on his tongue.

Alistair wiped it from his lips with the back of his hand, jaw tightening. Even no longer a virgin, her blood had been unnervingly sweet.

Not cloying. Not intoxicating in the vulgar way of young blood. It had depth—warmth layered with something sharp and bright that made his senses ache.

Odd.

She was no longer a virgin. He knew that much. Yet her blood tasted as though it carried an untouched purity that should not have existed.

As though something within her had awakened rather than diminished.

He pushed the thought away.

Inside the manor, silence greeted them—thick, respectful silence, as though the walls themselves knew better than to speak.

Alistair carried Selene to her chambers, careful to pull her robe closed, shielding her from the chill of the corridors and from eyes that might ask questions he was not prepared to answer.

He laid her gently upon the bed.

The morning light had begun to creep through the tall windows, pale and thin, washing her features in a softness that caught him off guard. Her hair—red as fire and copper—spilled across the pillows in a wild halo. Her skin was pale, paler still from blood loss, yet her lips remained flushed, the color of crushed roses.

She was beautiful.

The realization struck him harder than the silver ever had.

Not merely pretty, not merely desirable in the abstract way humans so often were—but striking, arresting, the sort of beauty that demanded attention even when she lay unconscious and vulnerable.

Alistair stood there longer than he should have.

The longer he looked, the more undeniable it became. Selene surpassed the others. Not just in appearance, but in presence. There was something about her stillness that felt... complete, as though she belonged in this world far more than she had any right to.

He reached out without thinking, brushing her hair back from her face.

His fingers lingered.

Before sense could reclaim him, he bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead—brief, reverent, achingly gentle.

The instant his lips touched her skin, it felt as though fire licked up his spine.

He recoiled, stepping back sharply, as if burned.

What was he doing?

Alistair wiped his mouth, his eyes blazing—not with hunger, but with fury. At himself. At the weakness coiling in his chest, unwelcome and insidious.

A woman. A human.

And yet there had been no disgust. No revulsion. No familiar hollow detachment.

Only want.

Grinding his teeth, he turned and left the room, shutting the door with more force than necessary. His mind was chaos as he strode down the corridor, grappling with the unsettling truth that he had nearly kissed her again—and not out of courtesy.

He dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard, willing the tension to dissipate.

"My lord?"

Alistair froze.

Caroline stood at the end of the corridor, already dressed, posture straight despite the early hour. Dawn crept through the windows behind her, catching the edges of her dark hair.

"You’re awake," he said flatly. He had not expected that.

"The sun was rising," she replied calmly. "I could not sleep."

Her gaze dropped briefly, then sharpened. "Is that blood, my lord?"

His eyebrow twitched.

"Don’t be daft, Caroline. Of course it’s blood."

The irritation in his voice surprised even him.

She bowed her head. "Forgive me. It is simply... rare to see you so thoroughly covered in it."

"Rare?" he snapped. "I am always covered in blood. Do you not know how I feed?"

Caroline said nothing, her silence taut.

The quiet pressed in on him, and a thought surfaced—cold, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.

"No one knew I went to the forest last night," Alistair said slowly. "Except the two of you."

Caroline’s head bowed lower. "My lord, you have known me the longest. I would never betray you. Betrayal means death—and I have nowhere else to go." She hesitated. "Have you questioned Selene?"