The revelation of what I was—a creature whose very blood held the secret to cellular
regeneration—hung in the sterile air between us. Marcus looked at me not as a woman, not even
as an asset, but as a living god, a biological holy grail.
"The applications are limitless," he said, his mind clearly racing through a thousand different
possibilities, a thousand different patents and profits. "Genetic diseases, incurable wounds, the
very concept of aging... all could be rewritten, controlled." He stopped before me, his presence a
vortex of power and ambition. "Your bloodline is the most valuable substance on the planet."
He now knew my true, quantifiable value. And it was time to finalize the terms of his
acquisition.
"My offer of protection is no longer just an offer," he stated, his voice a low, resonant declaration
that was both a promise and a threat. "It is an absolute necessity. The world will tear you apart to
get what you carry. I will give you everything, Angelique. All my resources, my wealth, my
power. I will be your shield against the darkness. And I will be your sword in the hunt for Silas."
He paused, letting the weight of his promise settle, a promise of a gilded, inescapable fortress.
"In return," he continued, his voice dropping, becoming softer, more intimate, "you will work
with me. Here. In this lab. You will give me your time, your cooperation, and your blood,
voluntarily. Together, we will unlock the secrets you carry. It is a contract. A true partnership."
The unspoken alternative was as clear as the glass walls of the lab. I could be his willing partner,
or I could be his unwilling lab rat. The choice was an illusion.
Before I could answer, before I could even process the full, terrifying weight of his offer, a shrill
alarm blared through the penthouse. It was not an intruder alert. It was a priority-one notification
on Marcus's global intelligence network, an alert reserved for events that could shift the balance
of world power.
He turned to the main screen in the war room, which was visible from the lab. His face hardened.
A live news feed from Amaranth had automatically taken over the display. The scene was
chaotic—police cars, their lights painting the night in strobing reds and blues, a crowd gathered
around the grand entrance to the opulent Orpheum Hotel.
The headline, stark and brutal, scrolled across the bottom of the screen:
CITY COUNCILMAN DAVIES FOUND MURDERED; AUTHORITIES BAFFLED BY
UNUSUAL WOUNDS
It was the councilman from the gala. The man in Vincent's pocket.
The news camera zoomed in on a body being carried out on a stretcher. Even through the low
resolution feed, I could see it clearly. The two small, precise puncture wounds on his neck, and
the deathly, bloodless pallor of his skin.
Silas had just made his first public move in Amaranth. He had just declared war. And he had
done it right under our noses.