The Collection

They came at midnight.

Of course they did. Vampires and their drama.

I was in my apartment, picking at leftover pasta I'd barely touched and half-watching a true crime documentary, when the knock came. Not a knock, really. More like a single, heavy impact that made the whole door shudder.

I already knew.

I'd known for twenty-six years that this moment would come. My father's debt. His father's debt. Three generations of Vance men who couldn't keep their hands off the gambling tables, who borrowed from the worst possible creditors.

The pasta went in the sink. I turned off the TV.

Opened the door.

Two of them. Male, pale, beautiful in that predatory way that made your hindbrain scream run. They wore expensive suits and expressions of bored professionalism.

"Mira Vance?" The taller one, dark hair slicked back.

"That's me."

"You're to come with us. The debt..."

"Has come due. I know." I grabbed my bag from the hook by the door. Prepacked. Had been for years. "Let me just..."

"Now."

I looked at my apartment. The half-eaten pasta. The true crime documentary paused on a detective's face. The life I'd been pretending was mine.

"Fine."

---

The car was black, tinted windows, smelled like leather and something older. Copper, maybe. I didn't ask.

My phone buzzed.

JADE You didn't show for drinks Hello?? Mira?

MIRA Something came up Family stuff I'll explain later

JADE You ok?

MIRA Define ok

JADE MIRA

MIRA I'm fine Promise Talk tomorrow

I wasn't fine. I probably wouldn't talk tomorrow. But Jade didn't need to know that yet.

---

The drive took an hour outside the city. Past suburbs, past farmland, into the kind of dark that cities forget exists.

The house appeared like something from a gothic novel. Manor, really. Stone and spires and windows that glowed with amber light.

My new cage.

"The Master will see you in the study," the taller vampire said as we pulled up. "Try not to..." He paused. "React."

"React to what?"

He didn't answer.

---

The study was all dark wood and older books and a fire that crackled in a massive stone hearth.

And him.

I'd expected old. Decrepit, maybe, or that fake-young that some of them had, stretched too tight over ancient bones.

He was neither.

Dark hair, gray eyes that caught the firelight and held it. A face that might have been carved from marble if marble could look at you like you were a puzzle it intended to solve.

He stood by the fire, one hand resting on the mantle, and watched me enter.

I didn't flinch. Didn't cry. Didn't beg.

I walked to the chair across from his desk and sat down.

"You're Mira Vance," he said. A low voice, layered with centuries of use.

"And you're Vincent Draven. Master of the city. The one my family owes." I set my bag on the floor. "I assume there's paperwork."

His brow creased. Surprise, maybe. Or confusion.

"Paperwork."

"A contract. Terms of service. Whatever you call it." I pulled my phone out and set it on the desk. "I'd like to read it before I sign anything."

He stared at me.

The fire crackled.

I waited.

"Most humans cry," he said finally. "Beg. Plead for their lives."

"Would any of that work?"

"No."

"Then I'd rather skip it." I crossed my legs, settled into the chair. "The contract?"

He moved toward the desk, and I tracked him without meaning to. Predator's grace. Every step deliberate. He pulled a drawer open and removed a leather folder.

Set it in front of me.

"One year of service," he said. "As outlined in the original agreement."

I opened the folder. Started reading.

His gaze was a weight on my skin the entire time.

---

The terms were straightforward, if medieval. One year in his household. Feeding duties as required. Household tasks at his discretion. No leaving the property without permission. No contact with outside parties without approval.

"Feeding duties," I said, not looking up. "How often?"

"As needed. Perhaps twice weekly."

"And 'household tasks'?"

"Cleaning. Organizing. Whatever I require."

I flipped to the next page. "It says here the debt is inherited through the male line. My father is dead. I'm the last Vance. After my year is up, the debt is cleared permanently?"

"That's correct."

I looked up. Met those gray eyes.

"Then I'll need a pen."

He handed me one. Sterling silver, heavy, probably worth more than my car.

I signed my name.

My year, signed away in ink.

At least I'd known it was coming.