Vengeance in His Bed novel Chapter 27

Chapter 27: Lethal Obsession

The private dressing room behind the grand stage was a stark contrast to the vibrant, sapphire-lit chaos of the town square. It was a secluded sanctuary lined with heavy, soundproof velvet drapes that muffled the distant roaring of the crowd into a faint, rhythmic thrum. The room was illuminated only by the warm, dim glow of a vanity mirror and a single overhead amber light, casting deep, dramatic shadows across the floor.

Dorrent sat in a plush, high-backed leather armchair, his long legs crossed elegantly at the ankle. He had discarded his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up to his forearms, exposing the powerful, corded muscles of his wrists. His massive, intimidating frame completely dominated the small space. Across from him, sitting on a stool near the dressing table, was Diva.

Dorrent didn’t speak. He simply leaned back, his silver-rimmed eyes tracking every rise and fall of her chest, every slight tilt of her head, completely absorbing the elegant, fragile lines of her silhouette beneath the midnight-black silk dress.

Diva sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes staring back at him through the narrow slits of the face mask. The air in the room was saturated with the sweet, elusive floral musk of her pheromones.

Finally, the singer broke the silence, her voice dropping into that low, bewitching register that had held thousands hostage just an hour prior.

"Five million credits," she murmured, a faint, mocking undertone brushing against her words. "Why would a man like you—pay an astronomical fortune just to see a face? A face you don’t even know, hidden behind a piece of silk."

Dorrent’s jaw clenched slightly, his expression remaining a flawless mask of cold, corporate detachment. He didn’t let her see the chaotic storm brewing beneath his skin, nor the memory of the possessive rage that had driven him to crush the bidding war.

"I am a businessman," Dorrent replied, his voice a deep, velvety purr that vibrated through the quiet room. "I appreciate rare commodities. I have heard the rumors in the high-society lounges—how people praise the breathtaking beauty hidden behind that mask. I simply wanted to see it for myself, to evaluate if the prize matches the legend."

Diva let out a short, soft breath that sounded dangerously close to a cynical laugh. She tilted her head, her eyes locking onto his with a piercing, analytical focus. "A viewing. Is that truly all you bought for five million credits? Men of your status rarely part with that kind of wealth without demanding a return on their investment. Do you have... alternative interests tonight, Sir? Other desires that you expect me to take care of?"

The implication hung heavily in the stagnant air, a direct challenge to the manhood Dorrent was desperately protecting. A flash of dark, defensive irritation flared in his eyes, but he quickly suppressed it, leaning forward until his shadow completely engulfed her low stool.

"Do not flatter yourself," Dorrent rasped, his tone dripping with forced condescension. "I don’t require your compliance in anything else. If you want to earn your keep tonight, I would like to hear you sing. Sing the song you performed on the stage."

Diva closed her eyes beneath the mask. She took a slow, deep breath, her slender collarbones rising sharply against the black silk. When she opened her eyes again, the professional distance had vanished, replaced by a deep, ancient melancholy that made the air feel instantly heavier.

She parted her hidden lips, and without the aid of a microphone, her voice filled the small dressing room like liquid velvet.

{The Song of the Solitary Blood}

The winter frost clings to the stone,

A golden crown upon a throne of bone.

The hearth is bright, the halls are wide,

But there is a phantom crawling deep inside.

Oh, the blood is ancient, the blood is deep,

A promise that the silent stars must keep.

To walk the garden in a shroud of gray,

To watch the bleeding dawn turn into day.

A single touch turns the marrow cold,

A toxic story that was never told.

The hands that reach for love will surely break,

A hollow ruin in the morning’s wake.

I yearn for the heat, I yearn for the flame,

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