Poison

Chapter 2: Developments

Freen's pov
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"You know your efforts are useless." He said smugly before lifting the tumbler to his smirking mouth, sparkling slit eyes watching me over the rim. He had always been such a douch and for the life of me I could never stand him. How could anyone expect me to bond with this cold clown.

"I don't remember asking your opinion." I breathed heavily in return, my voice low and difficult to hear, except for a vampire's keen senses. I wanted him to understand that I was in no mood for his nonsense and was not planning on wasting my time.

"Come on, Sarocha. Why are we really here? You called the meeting. Perhaps to discuss our upcoming nuptials." I bared my teeth as he mentioned the nuptials. It was the last thing I wanted to think of. We were being pressed to settle on a date already and all I could do was to rebel repeatedly. That is exactly why I kept running before...

"You know I'll never join with you. I've made myself pretty damn clear, wouldn't you say?" I spat at him as I leaned back in my high chair at the bar we were seated at. The low sounds of the bass perfectly complemented the low lighting and neon accents. A few dozen people occupied the room, spread from the dancefloor to the lounge and bar. It was a human club, as Seng and I opted for privacy. It was funny how we could find privacy in the midst of a crowd.

"It doesn't matter what you want, Saro. What you're going to get is what the elders want." Seng tapped his empty tumbler on the countertop and was immediately served another round, the barman adding a cocktail for me. He was right and I knew it. Whoever the elders really are, I knew they were all to follow the rules or instructions that trickle down. They keep the coven in order and stable and worked in the best interest of the collective. If the collective rebel and become a liability, they are taken care of. Rebecca at least got off lightly. Others have never been seen again.

"And what you want. You're as transparent as a window. It's not about me." I smirked, showing my protruding canines as a fire flitted through my eyes. Seng was easily exposable as Dorian Gray. He lived a life of hedonism and aestheticism. He had left his mark over half of Bangkok and still no one knew who he was. He was ruthless when he wanted to be, with an impulsive streak to boot. He not only had a thirst for pleasure... He had a thirst for power too...

"Awww Saro, it's a little bit about you, but no. I must admit that it is mainly about the position." He swiveled in his bar stool and turned it towards me. With one arm he leaned onto the counter as the other brought his drink to his lips. I rolled my eyes. His narcissism was so obnoxious that I could barely stomach him so close to me. "Come on, Sarocha. You really won't admit that the power intrigues you? Queen of all vampire-kind in Bangkok!" He was trying to entice me, using his hands and expressions to emphasize his words. He needed me in order to become the Patriarch as I was the next Matriarch in the bloodline. If he doesn't bond with me, he would be nothing but another hybrid, the heir to the Patriarchy of his own little coven, the Saefants. Apparently that isn't enough for him. He wants a bigger empire, and he knows he can get it from the Chankimha coven. I, myself, I'd be lying if I said I do not enjoy the power, but I do not necessarily crave more. I enjoy my position as heir - all the power, far fewer responsibilities. I share a powerful bond with my sire, who gives me all the freedom I need.

"We're hybrids, Seng. Our wolves still count as part of us." I tried to swing the conversation away from the true blood coven talk. Being a wolf always seemed like an afterthought when you're a true blood, but I am proud of my wolf. I love the wild freedom it instills in me. I can't wait until Becky can experience it with me.

"Which is why the Armstrong pack needs to go." My dreamy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of every syllable falling from Seng's lips, sending waves of chills down my spine. All he does at my dire reaction is to shrug and take another sip of his liquor. I wanted to smack the glass from his hand.