A small call box waited at the front of the drive. It reminded her of the drive-thru microphones that mortals used when they ordered fast food.

She rolled down her window with the lever then pressed the small black button on the box.

A moment later a clear, male voice rang out. “Who’s calling?”

“It’s Felicity Shaw, the event planner.”

She waited for an answer but nothing came. Then a loud metal clang sounded and the black gates started swinging inward with a mechanical whirring.

Felicity laughed nervously, her stomach fluttering. It was all so dramatic, she felt like she was driving to her doom.

The great mansion stood at the top of the hill. If only the house was older and run down, it’d be the perfect house for children in the neighborhood to be afraid of come nightfall. But no one would ever say the Blackmoore house looked scary. It exuded luxury. From the fine, perfectly manicured lawn to the smooth blacktop that wound in an arch up the hill toward the house and circled back down the other side to exit.

She drove slowly to take it all in. A breathtaking fountain stood in front of the driveway. Where Felicity had a cute fat gnome with a red pointy hat wearing a blue sweater as a lawn decoration, the Blackmoore’s had a million dollar fountain. It looked like it was made from some kind of beautiful white stone that had just a bit of sparkle in it. She imagined that with the sun shining it would look quite stunning. Not that she could ever see it in the daylight.

From the fountain, two swans faced each other, wings folded back with elegant long necks outstretched to each other spurting water as if playing a silly game.

The house itself was something to be seen because of its incredible size. More than eight windows covered the front of the house, four on either side of the front door and they were floor to ceiling windows. It made her wonder how they dealt with the sun during the daytime. These people could afford any expense necessary. They probably had a specially-made blinds or window tinting that kept sunlight out.

Warmth grew in Felicity’s belly. She wished to find out. How she yearned to have something so nice, to have earned it with her own creative ideas and hard work. She could practically feel success within reach of her fingertips.

Just as she neared the house with what looked like marble steps leading to it to the front door, an older man with dark skin and a shiny baldhead stepped out. She could sense his age—he was older than her seventy-five years—but he’d been turned, not born. He had to have been turned at an older age for natural wrinkles were formed around his eyes and at the corner of his lips. He was a good-looking man with a lot of character. He also moved fast.

He swept open her door before she could shut her engine off.

“Ms. Shaw, if you’ll follow me. Mr. Blackmoore is impatient to meet with you.”

That flutter shot through her stomach again. Quickly, she snatched up her portfolio and stepped out of the car.

“Of course.” She put on a big smile but it faltered. God, she wished she would stop being so nervous. Be strong, confident, and smart she ordered herself. You’ve done this a dozen times before.

But not with a Blackmoore!

Okay, so that was true, but it didn’t change the premise. This was still just another job interview.

“I can do this,” she said to herself as she gazed up at the looming mansion.

“I’m sure you can, Ms. Shaw. Now if you’ll follow me.”

She was still blushing as she followed the man into the house. Just as she was about to ask what he was doing with her car, he let out a sharp whistle. A young man, looking hardly older than sixteen years seemingly hopped out of nowhere. He was in her car and pulling it away in a matter of seconds.

“Who was that and where’s he taking my car?” She couldn’t quite keep the edge out of her voice. That was her only mode of transportation, if anything happened to it…

“Ms. Shaw, I wouldn’t concern yourself. That is Yussef, the valet. I assure you he has seen much nicer cars and he did not steal those. Your car is well in hand.”

Snarky old man. Felicity smiled for the first time since she got the phone call.

He led her past a gorgeous white spiral staircase. Two smooth, square beams stood along either side of the lip of staircase. The dark wooden handrails looked smooth and freshly polished.

Her older shoes clicked along the polished white floor. Diagonally placed tiles of white and cream layered the floor. The touch was subtle but made the floors jump out. All Felicity could see, as she glanced at the waist-high vases, the hutch opposite the vases, the paintings on the walls, were dollar signs. The Blackmoores spared no expensive in having the best of the best.

The man, she suspected was Ian from the phone call, led her to a room. In here the floors were wooden planked and also layered diagonally. The room gave her the impression of woods, earthiness—a masculine room.

Ian bowed without a word then withdrew to leave her alone.

At the click of the door, she stood alone in the room, which instantly made her aware of how quiet it was. No radio played classical music in the background, certainly no kids ran around the house screaming. No television or secret arguments, just silence.

Felicity walked further into the room. It was a big enough to have two stories and did. Wooden beams layered the ceiling like the lattice on top of a pie. To her right, just inside the doorway, were wooden arches, six in all. On a platform up above was a small railing with another smaller room up there. Somewhere a staircase must go up there so you could look down on where she stood.

“Holy hell,” she said at the sight.

There was a fireplace but no fire had been lit. In fact, it looked impeccably clean as if it’d never been used. An intricate wooden frame was made around it that came halfway up the wall in pointed designs that reminded her of the tops of the gate outside. Pointy and sharp like a warning.

Felicity paced in front of a buttery brown leather couch in front of the cold fireplace.

Little did she know, she was being watched.

Not even ten minutes ago, if Dominic’s mother or any of his brother’s mentioned the phrase  sanguis vanculo again, he would have slit a throat. Blood bond, just the thought of what he was being forced into made him want to bash heads in. Not that that could ever happen being who he was.

All that anger at having his control taken away vanished though. Everything had changed in the last ten minutes. Because in the last ten minutes he’d watched his soon-to-be bruid, the woman who’d become his blood mate walk into his lounge. He’d never seen her before, just a fuzzy photograph taken in the newspaper from many years ago.

She had a gorgeous mane of champagne-colored hair that fell past her shoulders. He never cared before how a woman wore her hair, nor did he care about the color. Hair was just hair. However, she, his bruid, had hair curling in waves around her. They weren’t even and perfect which told him she wasn’t one to play with her hair for long as some women fancied. He liked that too.

Even from above he could see her eyes. Light blue eyes that were so captivating, so dazzling he could see them from the upper balcony in the shadows where he stood.

She looked tall for a woman, but nowhere near his six foot three. That meant she’d fit well against him, curled into his body as a woman was meant to be. She wore simple, cheap clothes. He didn’t have a fashion sense but even he could see they weren’t up to par with what people of his breed wore. It was a nice change, albeit confusing since her family came from money. Maybe they weren’t as well off as suspected.