The Vampire King's Pet-Chapter 271: Don’t lie to Me
"You look surprised—but you clearly wanted me to kill him," the butler said calmly, his tone as smooth and cold as the blood still glistening faintly on his hand.
Rymora’s breath hitched, her eyes widening in shock. Every word he spoke was true, painfully so. She had wanted Gregory dead, had wanted the torment and betrayal to end—but she had never voiced it. What startled her more than the act itself was how the butler knew. How could he have known what she hadn’t dared to say aloud?
The vampire butler said nothing further as he reached into his pocket and drew out a crisp, white handkerchief. His movements were methodical—almost eerily so—as he wiped the blood from his hand, slow deliberate strokes until not a trace of red remained. The cloth, once pure white, was now stained with faint streaks of crimson. He folded it neatly before slipping it back into his coat, his composure as flawless as ever.
The scent of death hung in the air, iron-heavy and thick. Gregory’s body lay crumpled where it had fallen, lifeless eyes still open as if frozen in disbelief. Rymora’s grip on her coat tightened, her fingers digging into the fabric until her knuckles whitened.
When the butler turned to leave, she hesitated before following him. Her boots crunched softly against the straw-covered floor, every step echoing faintly in the silent barn. She trailed him to the entrance, stopping just as he stepped outside. The cold air hit her face, sharp and grounding, as she finally found her voice.
"I need to head back to my quarters to change—" she began, her tone steady though her chest felt tight.
The butler didn’t even slow his pace. He simply shook his head, continuing down the path that stretched toward the faint outline of a carriage waiting in the distance.
"The Lord gave orders to fetch you immediately," he said flatly. "You can change in the villa."
His tone was devoid of empathy, so calm it almost felt like mockery. It carried the unspoken message that there was no point in worrying about her dress—after all, she wouldn’t be wearing it for long.
Rymora swallowed hard, a dozen retorts rising and dying in her throat. Arguing was pointless. The memory of Gregory’s sudden death, the speed of the butler’s strike—so fast her awakened wolf senses had barely registered it—was more than enough to make her wary.
This butler is powerful... frighteningly powerful, she thought, keeping her expression neutral as she followed him. The night was cold, the faint scent of blood and hay lingering on her clothes.
The carriage was sleek, painted black with silver trim, the kind favored by Drehk’s household. She climbed in without protest, her movements stiff. The butler entered after her, giving the driver a curt nod before sitting opposite her in silence.
The journey was wordless. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the cobblestone road filled the carriage, punctuated only by the occasional creak of the leather seats. Rymora’s thoughts spiraled.
Gregory’s death should have brought relief—but instead, all she felt was dread. There was no telling what Drehk knew, or how much his butler had already reported.
When the carriage finally halted before Lord Drehk’s villa, the butler stepped out first, his movements precise, almost mechanical. Rymora followed.
The villa’s grand facade loomed under the moonlight, the tall marble pillars and wrought-iron gates glinting faintly. As she walked up the steps, two maids caught sight of her disheveled state. Their eyes widened, and they immediately scurried off, no doubt to fetch a change of clothes.
Usually, the butler would have left her at the entrance—but this time, he didn’t. Instead, he continued leading her through the dimly lit hallways, his steps soundless on the polished floor.
Rymora’s unease grew with every step. The corridors were lined with paintings of pale ancestors, their eyes seeming to follow her as she passed. Each flicker of candlelight cast shifting shadows on the walls, turning the place into a silent gallery of dread.
When the butler stopped before the double doors of Drehk’s private wing, Rymora’s heart began to race.
Why is he taking me to him directly? she thought nervously.
Her anxiety sharpened when the butler entered ahead of her, leaving her waiting alone outside. She stood still, trying to breathe quietly, aware that he was likely reporting everything—her meeting, her words, her fear.
She clasped her trembling hands before her, fingers cold and clammy. Her pulse was a wild rhythm in her ears.
Moments later, the butler reemerged. "He will see you now," he said simply, stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter.
Rymora forced down the lump in her throat and nodded, stepping inside.
The door closed softly behind her. The room was warm, well lit by golden lamps, a contrast to the chill in her bones. Lord Drehk sat behind his heavy desk, quill in hand, writing with a calm precision that filled the silence. He didn’t look up immediately, and Rymora didn’t dare to speak.
Usually, she would find him lounging on the bed, waiting for her like a predator with time to kill. But tonight, his demeanor was colder—detached, as though whatever patience he once had was wearing thin.
Rymora stood still, feeling the weight of his silence. She knew better than to interrupt. Now that Drehk had heard her voice before, she could no longer pretend to be mute. The secret was out—and that made her all the more vulnerable.
After a long pause, Drehk finally glanced up. His crimson eyes met hers for a fleeting moment before he rose from his chair, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around him. Leaving behind whatever it was in the sheet he had been writing and scribbling on without a second thought.
Each step he took toward her made her heart beat faster. The air in the room seemed to tighten, heavy with unspoken tension.
When he stopped directly in front of her, she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. The look in his eyes was unreadable—part curiosity, part anger, part something darker.
Without warning, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her effortlessly off the ground holding her against him with utmost ease.
"You spoke with him," Drehk said quietly, his voice a low rumble that made her shiver. "He knew you could speak." indirectly telling her that the butler had told him everything.
Rymora’s breath hitched. She couldn’t meet his eyes, her gaze darting everywhere else—the ornate desk behind him, the polished floor, anywhere that wasn’t his piercing stare.
But Drehk wasn’t one to tolerate avoidance. His hand came up, fingers curling around her jaw with an unsettling gentleness as he tilted her face toward his until she was forced to look right into the depths of his red eyes unable to look away even if she wanted to.
"I forbid you from keeping any more secrets from me," he said. The crimson glow in his eyes deepened, searing into her. His lips brushed the corner of her mouth as he spoke, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down her spine.
"I don’t care if you’re a spy for the werewolves," he continued, his tone darkening. "You could try and kill the king himself, and I still wouldn’t care."
Rymora’s eyes widened in disbelief. She could hardly process what she was hearing.
"But lying to me..." his voice dropped lower, dangerous, "...will piss me off." making it clear that he meant every word that came out of his mouth and no part of it was a joke.
A nervous laugh almost escaped her—half fear, half bitter amusement.
Telling you who I am would get me killed, she thought grimly. If anyone found out that a werewolf and a vampire had been sleeping together, neither of us would survive it.
Even if Drehk cared for her in his own twisted way, the revelation would destroy them both. The werewolves would tear her apart, and the vampires would strip him of his title, his power—everything.
And the king... the king already knew. He had allowed it, tolerated it—for now.
"I won’t lie to you," Rymora said softly, forcing herself to meet his gaze. Her voice trembled despite her effort to steady it. "But..." she hesitated, biting back the rest. But I can’t tell you the truth either.
Drehk’s eyes searched hers for a moment before he gave a slow nod, the tension in his grip easing slightly. Then, with a single fluid motion, he pulled her closer and pressed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was rough—claiming—and her half-torn clothes fell apart under his hands as he ripped them away, piece by piece, until nothing stood between them but the heat of their skin and the dangerous silence that bound them together.
And though her mind screamed with fear and confusion, her body trembled in his hold—caught between terror and the strange, unrelenting pull that always dragged her back to him.
