Cass's eyes flicked over him, cataloging details—a deep scar tracing from brow to lip, an eyepatch covering one eye, and the way he radiated the confident ease of a man who had all the time in the world. Sneakers, baggy shorts, an amused gleam in his single red eye. The vampire in front of her was none other than…
"Uriel Serpov," his name left her lips in a hushed whisper.
Her mind spun, struggling to process it. Uriel Serpov—billionaire playboy, philanthropist, model. Uriel Serpov, speculated head of one of the biggest mafia families in Russia. The 'most dangerous man alive,' and he was standing in her town, staring her down with a wolfish grin.
"So, you know who I am," he murmured, his lips curling.
"Uriel fucking Serpov," she spat, gripping her gun reflexively. He laughed, low and mocking.
"Smart move," he said, glancing at her weapon. "It won't work, but I'll give you an E for effort."
Cass's pulse hammered as Uriel stepped toward her. Each click of his boots against the pavement was a heartbeat skipped. She backed away instinctively, her voice shaky as she warned, "Freeze! I'm warning you."
He ignored her, reaching out in a flash to grab her wrist, his grip like ice. "Come along, dear," he whispered, pulling her toward the shadows of a nearby building. "You're causing a scene."
He pulled her to an indent in the street, more alcove than alley, and tucked her into it, his body blocking her only way out. Once they were out of sight, he released her, and she yanked her hand back, rubbing her wrist where his fingers had pressed deep into her skin.
"Sorry," he offered, tone smooth. "I forget how… warm everyone else is."
His apology caught her off guard. Cass stared at him, unsure if she'd just heard correctly. Uriel leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms casually. "So… monochrome clothing, gun, general air of suspicion… Cop?"
Cass fought to keep her voice steady. "Annoying. Proud. Dead; Vampire."
The vampire's smirk widened, a pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Oh, don't act like I'm the only wolf in sheep's clothing here. No pun intended."
Her spine stiffened at the insinuation, and he chuckled. "You didn't think I wouldn't know what you are, did you?"
Cass tried to back away, but the brick wall blocked her. She reached for her gun again, voice firm this time. "Stand down."
He combed a hand through his inky hair, grinning as though she was a circus clown he'd paid good money to see. "Please be careful, Ofitser," he husked. "It's my first time."
His lack of fear infuriated her. His blatant dismissal of her authority made her blood boil. To him, she wasn't a threat—just a curiosity, the most entertaining part of his otherwise dull morning.
She gritted her teeth. "I'm warning you. Stand down."
Uriel chuckled. "Warning me? Malen'kiy volk, you can barely stand."
She tightened her grip on her gun. "Don't make me repeat myself."
Ignoring her, he leaned in, his voice softening into something dark and almost tender. "I get that you're afraid," he murmured. "I'd be afraid too. I can be… terrifying." His expression shifted in a flash, amusement bleeding into something far colder. "But it you reach for that gun again, I'll—"
"Kill me like you killed the man in the alley?" she cut in sharply.
He froze, then slowly, recognition dawned on his face, followed by a smirk. "So that's why it's been so noisy this morning."
Cass glared. He shrugged. "I didn't kill anyone. I think you know as much."
She hated to admit it, but he was right. If he'd been the murderer, she'd have caught his scent at the crime scene. Even now, as they stood breath to breath, he overwhelmed her senses. He smelled of midnight: smoky, with hints of leather and a touch of something ancient, like cedar smoldering in the dead of winter. Beneath it lingered a sweetness that whispered of blood, as if danger had a fragrance all its own.
It was distinct. There was no way she would have missed it. But Uriel was in town, and two murders in less than two month wasn't just coincidence.
"You're still suspicious of me," he noted.
"Problem?" she shot back dryly.
"No. It's practical. Smart. I'm the big, bad wolf here, right?" His grin flashed, teeth white against his lips. "The wolf puns just write themselves."
Cass didn't laugh.
"But relax, Ofitser. I'm not going to kill you," he continued, eyeing her with mild amusement. "Honestly, I should be insulted by the assumption."
Her voice was a near whisper. "You're Uriel Serpov. Pakhan of the Chërnaya Gidra."
"That's just a rumor," He chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "Most people would call me 'Uriel Serpov, three-time People's Magazine world's sexiest man.'"
Cass scoffed. Good thing she wasn't 'most people'. She'd seen those photos—Uriel lounging shirtless, smirking at the camera, eyepatch and scars adding to his savage allure. She didn't care. He was a parasite, nothing more.
"Cut the bullshit, Casanova," she snapped. "I know who you are. Now, I need to know what the hell you're doing in my town."
He moved in close, her back pressing against the wall. His scent wrapped around her, drowning her senses. His gaze pinned her in place as he tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him.
"Malen'kiy volk, I'm a businessman," he murmured. "If anything, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. You're the one out of place here."
"Me?"
Uriel hummed, his eye lighting up with interest. "Tell me, Ofitser—what are you doing here? I was told there are no wolf packs in this region."
"There aren't," she hissed through gritted teeth.
His lips curled in surprise. "You're a rogue? You? Really?"
The disbelief in his voice stung. She didn't look like the stereotype, didn't come battle-scarred and hardened. But she'd survived on her own, clawed her way through a broken childhood to adulthood with her own bare hands and he didn't seem impressed.
"So, what did you get kicked out for?" he asked, smirking. "Did you murder an alpha or something? You lycans get so silly with your hierarchies."
"Fuck off," she muttered.
Uriel leaned in, voice lowering to a whisper by her ear. "Say that again, Malen'kiy volk," he husked. "I like the way that word sounds on your tongue."
Cass's resolve snapped. She shoved him back, scrambling to put distance between them, her skin tingling where he'd leaned in close. She hated how easily he unraveled her composure, exposing her fear, her vulnerability.
The vampire straightened, adjusting his eyepatch with a smirk. "Putting on quite the show, aren't you, werewolf? But we both know who's really in control here."
Cass tensed at the word. It'd been so long— decades that felt more like ages— since she'd heard that word used outside the context of smutty romance novels and blockbuster movies. It'd been even longer since the word had been directed at her. But, in all this time, the implication was still the same. He was fundamentally wrong about what she was.
She quickly composed herself, but he caught her reaction, his gaze sharpening. "You're afraid, aren't you, Pup?" he teased. "Of me, of yourself. All alone in Asscrack, USA, playing detective—"
"Havenfield," she snapped. "And I'm not playing. I am a detective."
"Sladosti, you're a werewolf," he retorted, eyeing her coolly. "And the Moonblinds you're running around with have no clue."
That word—Moonblind—seared her. It was a term for humans, one as derogatory a cuss. It reminded her too much of the secret world she was part of but would never truly belong to.
"You don't know shit," she growled.
"Is that so?" His gaze was hawk-like. "You know they'll turn on you the moment your little secret slips. They'll think you're the killer." He leaned closer, voice lowering to a murmur. "Do you even shift, Cass? Or are you just… broken?"
Cass had had enough. She stepped backward, straightening her clothes, and looked him dead in the eye. "I have nothing to say to you, Uriel Serpov."
He smirked, giving her a mock salute. "That's too bad. I was enjoying our little chat."
"I'm leaving."
"Fine, Ofitser. I don't think we'd have much fun with guests."
Guests?
Before she could question him, he leaned close one last time. "You're afraid," he said softly. "That's good. Fear can be healthy." There was a smile in his voice as he added, "You intrigue me, so… I'll spare you." He slipped something into her pocket with a dark chuckle. "Let's chat sometime. We can howl at the moon."
And with that, he swaggered away, the snake tattoos on his back catching the light as he disappeared into the crowd. Cass's anger and humiliation simmered, her fists clenching as she watched him go.
☼
Hours later, Cass sat alone in her car, the adrenaline finally fading. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the sleek black card he'd slipped there, her eyes narrowing at the bold gold lettering:
---
Uriel Serpov
Chairman. CEO.
Nightshade Sip House.
---
Cass immediately Googled the business—a gothic-themed coffee chain, popular with goths, punks, and vampire role-players. Fitting. She shook her head, her mind whirling as she looked up his name instead.
A billionaire, a philanthropist, a public sweetheart. Untouchable on paper, his reputation meticulously clean. But beneath the surface, she knew he was more dangerous than he'd ever let on.
The first, and only time, she'd ever seen a vampire before Uriel, she was five, hiding in a cabinet in the Big House of her former pack even though the Alpha had explicitly announced he was having guests. Through the cracks, she'd seen him; tall and ancient and beautiful in a ghastly way.
Uriel was nothing like that. Aside from his right eye that burned like a forest fire and his left that made him look like a pirate, he looked… normal. Human. Like the kind of guy she'd bump into at the park on her morning jog. It was eerie how seamlessly he blended in; truly like a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Sighing, she slumped against the steering wheel, exhaustion settling in. What the hell was she getting herself into?
She closed her eyes but the day's events refused to let her rest. The victim from earlier—David Hannaby, a 26-year-old student—haunted her thoughts, his throat slashed in a calculated, gruesome fashion, a sun-like symbol carved into his flesh. No fingerprints or footprints, no hair, no trace of the killer. Just a big fat question mark where evidence usually resided.
She groaned, slamming her head lightly against the wheel. She was exhausted, but her mind was racing too fast to consider sleep.
Finally, she forced herself to drive home. Her tiny bungalow sat dark and quiet, a haunted house vibe settling over it. As she stepped inside, Peppercorn, her calico cat, greeted her with a soft meow. Cass scooped her up, planting a kiss on the little head.
"Hey, Peppercorn," she murmured, finding comfort in the cat's purrs.
Then, from the kitchen, the sounds of rummaging reminded her she wasn't alone. Her father was there, as always, his head buried in the fridge, beer in hand, eyes distant. Cass's throat tightened as she looked at him—the ghost of the man he'd once been, lost in a fog he never came out of.
"I had a tough case today," she said, voice soft. "A murder investigation."
No response. He just walked out to the patio with his beer, leaving her alone in the dim kitchen, his silence stinging more than any words could.
As she stood there, staring at the closed door, Peppercorn rubbed against her legs, purring softly. Cass knelt down, burying her face in the soft fur, grateful for the simple, unconditional love of her cat. Still, the lump in her throat was hot and heavy. Tears pricked her sinuses.
Because, as much as it hurt her to look at him, he wouldn't look at her at all.