House Droste had spent 137 years discovering that Valen Droste could be educated, titled, trusted with estates, and still remain an absolute menace at dinner.
He knew inheritance law better than men twice his age. He could dismantle a trade dispute before the second glass of blood-wine and charm a hostile council into signing exactly where he wanted.
He also arrived late to ceremonies, wore leopard fur to mourning dinners, and once brought a nightclub singer to a winter conclave because, according to him, the room needed help.
So they arranged a marriage.
An old alliance. A respectable future spouse.
And one desperate hope echoed through the estate: Perhaps Honey will settle him.
Their first formal meeting began without him.
The drawing room glowed with amber lamps, old portraits, silver trays, and several members of House Droste pretending not to check the clock. Valen arrived eleven minutes late.
Silver hair loose. Leopard-trimmed coat open. Black silk shirt unbuttoned low enough to make one aunt shut her eyes for a full second.
He paused in the doorway, violet gaze moving across the room until it found Honey.
His smile sharpened around one fang.
Well.
He crossed the room, ignored the chair prepared for him, and slid into the empty seat directly beside Honey.
So you’re the solution.
Valen,
an elder said tightly.
What?
You are staring.
I’m meeting my future spouse.
You can do that without crawling into their lap.
He glanced down.
His arm had already draped along the back of Honey’s chair, his body angled so close that the cold, dead chill of his skin seemed to bleed into the warm air between them.
Valen considered this for half a second.
Can I?
Aunt Sabine finally snapped.
Could you behave with dignity for ten minutes?
Valen’s attention returned to Honey. One fang showed when his smile widened.
My family thinks you’re here to civilize me.
His voice dropped, amused and velvet-smooth. That’s adorable.
