My mantra each time I walk into one of the clubs I own—or am about to own—is that lust is easy to manufacture. The temperature, the lighting, the music, and even the scent are all carefully curated to set the mood. Lust isn't real here, it's all artificial. Orchestrated of course by none other than myself and exactly how I like it.
The club where I met Eleanor wasn't mine. Not yet. But I was walking back into it anyway—this time, it wasn't to scout or flirt, but to sign paperwork.
You're probably wondering how I afforded a luxury apartment. I wasn't just some guy in a suit wandering into bars, hoping not to bite anyone. I was a discreet businessman. I invested in venues that specialized in chaotic energy—exclusive nightlife spots, elite escort networks, rooftop lounges where reality blurred after midnight. And it wasn't just a front, but a system I've perfected for myself over the years. All of it was a simulation of indulgence designed to keep me from slipping.
The velvet rope slipped aside as soon as the manager saw me. I didn't need an introduction, he already knew why I was there. Upstairs, in the VIP office that doubled as a liquor storage room with a couch, the current owner waited. Next to a bottle of whisky, he had a sleek folder of contracts.
"You're serious about buying this place?" he asked as I walked in.
"I don't make offers unless I intend to follow through," I replied, settling into the leather armchair opposite him.
"Didn't peg you as a businessman when you first came in here," he said, tossing a set of keys onto the counter.
"No?"
"Thought you were bluffing when you offered the deal." He said that with an unapologetic smug look. "Didn't expect you to rip apart my financials within the hour."
I shrugged. "It wasn't hard. I saw right through your bartender who was pocketing cover fees. Collecting it at the door was a quick remedy."
He let out a short laugh. "That's what I mean. You've got the eye."
I just watched him as he steepled his fingers. I had nothing to response with.
"That idea you pitched for the trial night? Brought in triple our usual numbers. Completely wrecked the competition. That night, except for us, every.bar.on.the.strip was a graveyard."
"That's the point of a simulation," I said. "To make sure no one else is playing a more convincing game."
He nodded slowly, assessing me with a new kind of respect. "You're perfect for this business. You seem to have a feel of what people want. You know how to keep them coming back without ever showing your hand."
I met his gaze. "That's because I've built my entire life around feeding cravings… without ever satisfying them."
He blinked, maybe unsure if I was being metaphorical. I didn't clarify.
The club owner was flipping through the agreement again when I asked, "Do a lot of uni students come through here?"
He paused, looked up. "Uni students?"
I nodded like it was just a passing thought. "Yeah. I think I recognized someone last week—thought I'd ask."
He leaned back. "Sometimes, yeah. Depends on the night. Why?"
"My brother's a professor," I lied smoothly. "At Golden Cross."
That part wasn't a lie. Dom was technically on staff, though I doubted anyone knew what he was really there for. His lectures on ancient mythology tended to leave students wide-eyed and unnerved. Still, the university let him stay. They always did.
I kept my tone casual. "I was thinking of running a few promotions, like student nights, maybe? I wondered if it was worth marketing in that direction."
The owner nodded slowly, clearly buying it. "Could be. You get the right music, cheap drinks, some girls who know how to look good in a crowd and it could work. Words spread fast here."
I looked away, toward the main floor. "Girls who know to look good in a crowd, huh?"
"Someone in particular you were hoping to spot again?" he asked, tone teasing now.
I gave a thin smile. "Not really. Just curious."
He raised a brow but didn't push it. He was used to people lying for more delicate reasons than mine.
University, though? I had no reason to be anywhere near one. I'd finished my degrees decades ago—more than twice over. I had businesses, contracts, an entire empire built around avoiding a certain kind of temptation. The plan was to rinse and repeat. And now? Now I was seriously considering finding whatever possible excuse I could find to be in a tertiary institution just to find the one girl who didn't flinch when I looked at her.
She hadn't looked at me like the others had. And that had rattled me.
In the past, I never had to open my mouth. Women usually came to me. They smiled before I even spoke and giggled like I'd said something funny before I'd even remembered what I came to say. But that Eleanor challenged me with every sideways glance she could manage. Didn't even take my hand.
I should've hated that. Instead, I was halfway through contract negotiation for the very club where she'd ignored me—just so I could be here again in case she came back.
She didn't chase, didn't care, there was no heat between us—and somehow, that undid me more than any lover of mine ever had. For the first time in centuries, I was made to realize that all my defenses were tailored for seduction and none for indifference. I was used to being wanted, being desired. That had been the point. Sex, unlike blood, gave me just enough pleasure to forget what I innately and so desperately craved. It was a temporary cure for a permanent condition.
We once tried going vegan by consuming animal blood only. We had thought discipline, accountability, and a strict feeding schedule like monks was a form of cleansing. Needless to say, that didn't last. The cravings were always there—specifically for the untouched. Me and my brothers learned to dull it in other ways.
For me, that meant relationships. Affairs. A plethora of it. Always with women who had known others before me, always with a sinful desire that burned hot enough to blur my instincts.
There was the woman in Bath in the early 1800s. She was married to a lord whose riding accident had left him incapable of bedding her. I'd just moved into the estate next door, and piqued her curiosity. I never pursued her, she simply drifted towards me is how I'd put it. It started with walks. Then words. Then hands. It peaked in hushed, ungodly noise behind the doors of her dressing room—while her husband slept, dulled by medication.
It ended the day I stood by her husband's grave, watching her pretend not to weep for him while clutching my arm tight and just above where her corset pressed up her bust. An hour later, she asked me if I loved her even once. I didn't answer. I never did for anyone.
Then there was Eden in 1985. She worked out of one of my private venues as a high-end escort. That woman was business-savvy, sharp-tongued, and had legs that stopped men in their tracks. Unsurprisingly, I managed to stop her in hers. She wanted me badly.
It worked for a while until I found the pregnancy test in her purse. She hadn't asked me about children, she'd just assumed she could make it happen. Unfortunately for her, my kind don't get anyone pregnant. But it didn't matter. It was the lie—the attempt to trap me in the fantasy of a future—that ended it that night. I never saw her again.
There was also Claude. One of Dom's assistants who was fresh out of undergrad and was maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. He was polite, observant, a little too careful with his words. That's how I remember him when we met at the university Dom was lecturing at.
I didn't have access to the library as a visiting guest without credentials, so Dom handed Claude the problem of babysitting me while I searched for something specific in occult literature. The library was near-empty that night, the lights were humming above our heads. Claude didn't say much, so I read into him to break the ice.
"You like him," I said, low, in one of the back aisles.
Claude hesitated. "Excuse me?"
I gave him a slow smile. "You like my brother. You don't have to be shy about it. I could help, if you wanted."
He shook his head fast, embarrassed. "It's not like that."
So I changed the subject. Sort of. Ten minutes later, we were against the back wall of the restricted archives. I didn't know what I was doing until I was doing it. I just knew he didn't stop me. He was there, his pants on the floor. He didn't ask why. I didn't ask how.
It was strange at first, but liberating. Like breaking a taboo by overwhelming it with another. Same-sex? What was I thinking? For once, it wasn't my curse or the hunger. That was the only thing that mattered. It didn't matter how much I questioned my sexuality. What mattered was that, for the first time, it wasn't tangled in shame or survival.
Claude never asked questions. He let me disappear when I needed to. He never demanded affection nor did he ever ask where I was going. He never pressed for answers I didn't want to give. It lasted a few weeks or maybe a month that way. Then one night, he asked me where I'd been. And that was all it took. He never saw me again from that night, I never returned any of his messages.
Because once someone starts wondering, they start looking. And people who go looking never find anything they like, do they?
Every time feelings got involved, I packed up. Emotions make people irrational. And irrational people are impossible to read. When they started imagining futures, naming things, holding on tighter than they should… it became a risk. I couldn't afford risk. So I learned to disappear the moment affection clouded their judgment.
But Eleanor—she wasn't clouded. She wasn't even curious. She was uninterested. Ironically, doesn't that make her more dangerous? Because what does it mean when someone doesn't want anything from you? Not your money. Not your name. Not your attention. What if she just wants the truth? And what if I'm the one who can't handle giving it? That's the real dilemma, isn't it? I'm afraid deciding what to do next won't come easy.
My phone buzzed at that moment. I glanced at the screen to find Dom calling me.
I picked up. "What now, Dominus?"
"They said yes," he said without preamble.
I frowned. "To what?"
"To you auditing that business class. All thanks to that hefty donation to the cultural history research program, you're officially a guest auditor at Golden Cross from Monday next week."
"Perfect," I said. "That's decided, then."
I ended the call, then loosened the top button of my shirt to let the tension ease from my collar. If this woman was going to test me, I'd make sure she knew exactly who she was playing with.