Maybe Star really had underestimated those two women. The green veins crawling beneath the dead one's pale skin looked like glow-in-the-dark snakes playing tag under her flesh, while the white foam on her lips trembled like it was nervous about being caught. She'd taken the poison too.
The plan itself? Evil genius. The kind of thing that made him proud and horrified at the same time, which, ironically, was how most of his readers used to describe his plot twists.
If he refused the poisoned shot of alcohol, he'd still end up taking it, intravenously. The girl would pump it straight into him through her blood, since she had intentionally taken it, and later sip down the antidote that now winked up at him from the tiny vial in his hand like a smug ruby thief caught in the act.
He blinked at the bottle. "Okay, first of all, rude. Second, who the hell gave these side characters this much IQ?"
Because, hold on, the only poison that could actually harm a vampire was vervain. Which meant they hadn't just tried to kill him; they'd done their homework. That meant one thing: Aurelia Morris.
Ah yes, the Ruby Regent herself. His own beautiful, psychotic brainchild. Daddy's first daughter and proud owner of all the vampire-slaying toys in the royal garage. She was probably out there right now, sipping wine from a goblet carved out of betrayal.
Star groaned. "Of course it's her. My own creation trying to un-create me. How poetic."
Judging by the desperation frozen on the woman's face, just before he'd snapped her neck, she'd clearly accepted Aurelia's contract with both hands, and possibly her whole soul.
He exhaled sharply, turning to Skull, his eternally calm human fridge of a butler. "Dispose of her body after you hammer it into bits. And make sure her blood doesn't touch anything edible. She's… stained."
Skull, being Skull, nodded silently, the kind of nod that said "I have definitely done this before", and dragged the corpse away. Star sighed again. He was sighing a lot lately. Honestly, it was becoming his new cardio.
He picked his phone from the bed, scrolled through the contacts until Leon popped up, and tapped call.
Each digital beep felt weirdly dramatic, like the universe was scoring this moment. Even the phone screen seemed to glow with judgment. The signal bars stood at attention, saluting like tiny soldiers, while the dial tone buzzed in his ear like a very persistent mosquito.
Finally, Leon answered. His voice came through the speaker all thin and ghostly, like a ghost who'd picked up part-time work as a telemarketer.
"Hey man, c'mon over… I've been waiting for your call."
Star frowned and pulled the phone away, staring at it like it had just insulted his intelligence."Couldn't you have called me yourself, dumbass?"
A stunned pause followed.
"Did you just call me dumbass, Steve?"
Star smiled thinly. "I'll be there, Leon." Click.
He hung up before Leon could start another episode of 'When Best Friends Overshare.'
Calmly, he turned to the wall and double-clicked a hidden button. Within seconds, two maids burst in like synchronized swans.
They were dressed in the standard royal-mansion maid uniform, which, according to every anime he'd ever binged at 2 a.m., meant dangerously short skirts and buttons fighting for their lives.
Clara, the first one, moved like she owned the floor, sharp hips, sharper gaze. Sophie, the second, looked softer, sweeter… the kind of girl who could make you confess your sins before realizing she was one of them.
The uniforms themselves were an architectural wonder, black and white, strategically tight, and somehow designed by someone who clearly hated self-control. Every button looked like a martyr. The skirts? A public hazard.
They were scandalously short, hugging the tempting curve of their hips before ending high on their thighs, offering him a breathtaking view of toned legs and a hint of the delicious, shadowed divide at the very base of their asses with every step they took.
"Young Master," they said together, bowing just enough to weaponize gravity.
Star blinked. Did I write this scene? Because it sure felt like his past self was trying to troll him.
He cleared his throat, doing his best to sound like a composed aristocrat and not a flustered reincarnated anime maker.
"Prepare my bath," he commanded, voice a shade too husky. "I have somewhere to go."
They nodded in perfect sync; trained, elegant, mildly terrifying. As they walked away, the air itself seemed to pause to watch their hips leave the room.
A few minutes later, they returned, faces flushed and glances suspiciously knowing.
"Young Master," Clara purred, her tone a slow velvet ribbon. "The bath is ready."Sophie, blushing furiously, added in a whisper, "…and we are ready too."
Star blinked. Once. Twice. "Ready… for what?"
They shared a glance, the kind that made it clear that whatever manual trained them came with bonus episodes.
"To give you your bath, Young Master," they said in perfect harmony.
Star stared at them. "Oh."Then, after a pause, "Ohhh."
He chuckled, scratching his chin. "Right, yeah… maybe next time. I, uh, like to… bathe solo."
They curtsied and slipped out, probably judging him for wasting premium fan-service potential.
After a long soak that was more therapy than hygiene, Star dressed himself. He didn't need help for that. Fashion was basically foreplay for confidence.
He slipped into a black suit so perfectly tailored it might have been cursed to fit only him. The fabric shimmered faintly under the chandelier, wealth couture. His golden watch winked like it was flirting. His cologne hit the air like a rich man's signature.
By the time he checked his reflection, he looked like a sin that just got promoted. Sharp jawline, confident smirk, and the kind of aura that said, "I eat lesser men for breakfast... with champagne."
He wasn't dressing for Leon. Oh no. He was dressing for her.
The Red Queen.The Killer of Men.The Crimson Empress. Otherwise known as Aurelia's deadlier rival, and his next problem, or conquest, depending on mood.
If he wanted to face her, or flirt with her, or both, he had to look like money wrapped in arrogance.
He strolled out into the sitting room, and dear god, the place was a fever dream of luxury. Velvet drapes lazed by tall windows, chandeliers hung like frozen rain, and every piece of furniture looked like it had an ego.
His admiring gaze was interrupted by a scream.
He turned just in time to see two guards dragging in a woman wearing nothing but a blue G-string and regret.
"Let me go!" she yelled, thrashing. Her breast was performing its own gravity experiment.
Star's eyes narrowed. The other whore. The one from last night. He'd let her go, assuming innocence. Big mistake.
"Young Master," said one guard, holding up a black-and-red bottle swirling with angry fumes.
"We found her in the kitchen with this."
The bottle looked furious, honestly, the liquid inside churned like molten garnet.
"It's vervain, sir," the guard continued. "She wanted to poison you. Meaning she knows you're a vampire."
Star froze, then grinned. "Well, somebody did their homework."
He tilted his head. "Lock her up until I get back. I have a lady to bend."
The guards obeyed immediately. Star didn't clarify which lady, because, really, mystery was half the seduction.
He strode toward the elevator at the end of the hall. Two guards stepped aside as he pressed the button. The doors parted with a smooth metallic sigh.
"Ding."
As the elevator carried him downward, he let out a reverent whisper. "Pinch my ass."
Because when the doors opened, oh, sweet gasoline glory, it was paradise on wheels.
A cherry-red Lamborghini Aventador crouched like a jungle cat ready to pounce.
A Rolls-Royce Phantom gleamed in royal silver. A Bugatti Chiron shimmered cobalt blue, looking fast even at rest.
A black-and-gold Maybach radiated boss energy.
A Porsche 911 Turbo, a classic Jaguar E-Type, and even a Tesla Roadster lined up like obedient luxury soldiers.
The entire garage sparkled. The pillars stood like marble guards; the floor was so polished it could file a reflection lawsuit. Even the stacked tires looked rich.
Near the cars, a bald man sat, polishing tools with meditative focus. His head gleamed like divine lighting. This was Mr. Fred, the driver; fifty-five in appearance, forty in reality, loyal like an old retriever with combat experience.
When he saw Star, he stood and bowed slightly. "Young Master."
"Fred," Star greeted, running his fingers along the Lambo's hood like it was a lover he couldn't afford.
"Man, I still can't believe Steve turned this down."
Fred gave a polite smile, the kind that said he'd seen too much and wanted no part in his employer's existential crisis.
"Pick a car, sir," he said simply.