CHAPTER 151: STRIP!

Clay’s fingernails sharpened—long, black, and curved at the tips—as rage surged in him like acid. They weren’t just fingernails anymore. They were claws—deadly ones—and in that moment, he considered ending Lady Vivian right there. She stood in his doorway with her long, fur-lined coat sweeping the floor behind her, completely unaware of just how close she had come to being torn to ribbons.

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

"Oh! Are you talking about the monster?" she asked, her tone much lower than before, pretending as though her voice carried comfort rather than calculated disregard. She stepped inside with deliberate poise, closing the distance between them. Her eyes were locked on him, lips curled in a cold, knowing smile as she walked in, slow and confident. Then she sat down on his bed, crossed her legs, and tilted her head—like she owned it. Like she owned him.

Clay didn’t look up. His head remained lowered, fists clenched tightly at his sides as he fought the primal urge to strike. Rage churned in his gut. It was all he could do not to leap across the room and silence her forever.

"You have nothing to be worried about! The beast has been killed and gotten rid of!" she explained lightly, as though the memory of blood dripping across fine silverware and noble silk was nothing more than a rumor. "I don’t know what kind of monster it is, but it doesn’t matter!"

It did matter. It mattered a lot. Clay’s stomach twisted.

She was still talking. Still smiling. Still unaware of the bloodlust barely restrained behind his eyes.

"Come here," she called to him softly, her voice silkier now—dangerous, commanding. A flicker of a smirk played on her lips as she noticed the slight tremble in his hands. It pleased her.

Clay swallowed back his hate and moved. He obeyed, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. His body moved with fluid grace, masking the storm inside him. She loved that. The obedience. The illusion of control.

"You’re human, so I understand. With me protecting you, you have nothing to worry about," she said, so smugly sure of her superiority. So proud of the cage she thought she’d put him in. And Clay—master actor that he was—nodded fervently, eyes lowered.

"Thank you, Lady Vivian," he replied with perfect gratitude, his voice even and humble. Inside, he wanted to scream.

She had no idea what she was talking about. No idea that the monster in the hall wasn’t some isolated freak accident. She didn’t know what a Zygon really was—how deeply rooted they could be, how long they could wait before striking again.

’Maybe none of them know we exist,’ Clay thought with flickering hope. ’Maybe they think it was just a cursed anomaly.’

But if Zyren suspected—even a little—Clay was finished.

He needed to be careful. Perfectly careful.

Clay stood with the intention of brewing her favorite tea—her usual ritual after visiting him. But her hand darted out like a whip and yanked him back down onto the bed. Her grip was cold and possessive.

"I’m not here for tea," she said flatly, her voice low and heated. "Those sweet seeds. Where are they?"

Clay paled.

He hesitated only a second, but it was enough to confirm her suspicion. "Finished, my lady. I will have to plant new ones," he lied quickly.

He couldn’t risk giving her any more that could cause a mutation in her body.

Clay’s jaw clenched as the thought settled over him like a lead weight. She was a vampire—which was the only reason the process had been so slow. But even that would not protect her for long. He had no doubt, none at all, that it was just a matter of time before the seeds inside her took hold. Time was running out, and he knew it.

"Are—are you rejecting me?" she gasped, her voice cracked by disbelief and affront. The tone was sharp, wounded, but still laced with that desperate entitlement that made his blood simmer.

Clay again considered killing her. Just once. A clean, sharp end to this growing problem. He could snap her neck so quickly she wouldn’t even know what happened. His claws could end it in a second.

It would be so easy.

So tempting.

And yet, he didn’t. He couldn’t—not yet. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t afford the risk. If she died now, in this room, there would be an investigation. A trail. A thousand questions. And eventually, those questions would lead back to him.

So he kept it in.

’What else does it look like I’m doing!’ he thought bitterly to himself. His eyes darkened, a flicker of fury crossing his face before he swallowed it down and forced his voice steady.

"I don’t feel well, my lady. Maybe... maybe some other time," he said, the lie smooth but brittle.

He barely got the words out before she flew into a full-blown fit of rage.

The slap landed hard—so hard it forced his head to jerk sideways with a dull, cracking sound. Pain bloomed across his cheek in a hot line of fire, already swelling. Her nails had scraped his skin. There would be a mark.

"I’m your master! You do as you are told! You don’t dictate terms!" she screamed at him, eyes wide with manic fury. She was trembling—not with fear, but with a kind of prideful wrath. The kind that comes from someone who thought their toy had suddenly tried to bite back.

Clay stood there, unmoving. No emotion showed on his face. Not yet. Not while her eyes were on him.

Inside, he burned.

He could feel his claws itching to extend again, to rip into her throat and silence her shrill, arrogant voice. But again—he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not here. Not yet.

"STRIP!" she snapped at him. The command cracked through the room like a whip.

Clay frowned, but slowly obeyed. His body moved with cold precision as he went ahead and did as he was asked. He understood this wasn’t desire. This wasn’t affection.

This was a power trip.