The Thrall (Seven Sins MC 3)

Fucking with the wolves or other shifters wasn't that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. They could die somewhat easily.

Vampires, though, they could make us miserable until the end of time. And, no, none of us could die. But we could all feel pain. It just wasn't worth it.

It had been easy never to get involved with the bloodsuckers, though, since we didn't tend to run in the same circles.

We'd all decided on doing the human biker club a while back, which meant we tended to rub shoulders with other bikers.

The vampires, though, they ran with a fancier sort.

You could tell just by looking at them.

Where me and mine tended to wear casual shit—jeans, tees, boots, our leather cuts if we were going out—the vampires were always dressed in suits with expensive watches and pocket squares and shit.

They were a big party this time, too. It looked like seven vamps as well as several of their drinks.

Thralls, they called them.

Because of whatever vampire mojo existed to make those chicks become enthralled with them.

I wasn't sure of how all their shit worked, but I did know that you didn't touch a thrall, that you were supposed to see them as an extension of the bloodsuckers themselves. And, yeah, that was about all I needed to know.

It was such an engrained rule over the years that I never usually even glanced at their women.

I wasn't a glutton for punishment.

If I looked and liked what I saw, I wanted to be able to touch. It was pointless to look if you didn't get the perk of physical contact.

So I kept my eyes to myself.

That was my plan as they moved through the club.

I likely would have stuck with it, if I hadn't been caught off-guard by the ancient vamp. In general, they were the somewhat youthful and beautiful sort. Those were the ones who survived since those were the ones who could get men and women to willingly sign over their lives to them.

But this man was ancient with thin, stringy hair, beady eyes, and, let's face it, the old fucker was probably sporting wrinkling, sagging-ass balls.

That was why my gaze slid past him toward the woman he was yanking along with him, curious what type of thrall you could snag at his age.

One look at her was like a dropkick to my system.

I tried to convince myself it was the shock of her condition, not her beauty.

And, to be fair, it might have been both.

Thralls were always known for being beautiful. Bloodsuckers could have anyone they wanted. So, of course, they would pick the knockouts. But they always kept them plump and healthy, round in the ass, tits, hips, and thighs. It did no good to have an unhealthy thrall to feed from.

But this woman with her midnight hair and bright eyes, with her stunning bone structure, and full lips, was not plump. No. She looked like she was moments away from crumbling to dust. A strong wind could snap her wrists. Through her bright red dress, you could see how concave her stomach was, how her hipbones jutted out. Above the neckline, her collarbones looked sharp enough to cut glass. As if that all wasn't bad enough, she looked practically translucent.

She looked like she barely had any blood in her.

What use was she to the bloodsuckers?

But maybe the wrinkled old vamp didn't have as big an appetite as a younger one.

"You can't touch her," Thysa reminded me as she wiped down the counter.

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Then maybe you should tell your face to stop eye-fucking her so hard."

That was fair.

I was probably doing more eye-banging than was appropriate, even in this venue.

Forcing my gaze away, I went and found an open seat near the stages.

I didn't do scenes myself. Not in public, anyway. I liked my kinks to go down in private, where no one could learn them, then possibly use them against me.

Though, to be honest, everyone knew demons got their kicks torturing people in hell. It wasn't much of a stretch that they might be into power play in the human realm.

Only it was a very different thing at its core.

What we did in hell, we did it because it was our job, because people deserved to pay for the evil shit they'd done.

It wasn't like that on the human plane.

I didn't want to punish the women for being wicked. I just needed the outlet. And so did they. We all had our damage. We all played it out with and on one another.

It was therapeutic, in a way.

I didn't like the idea of all the parts of me slipping away with each passing year. This kink helped me hold onto shit I felt like we were all slowly but surely forgetting.

About two hours and a bottle of whiskey that did fuckall for me aside from warm me up inside, a movement in my peripheral caught my eye.