Another Life, Another Me

Special: Price of Blood (Part 1)

My parents had a political marriage that involved no love, so it didn't come as a surprise to my father that my mother would have done such a thing.

My father didn't love my mother.

But at least he loved me, his son.

Though, that all changed when he found out I wasn't his son.

Everything he ever felt for me through our father-son bond was replaced by shame.

He had given green eyes, proof for the right of the throne, to a b-stard child his wife presented him.

.

.

.

My dry throat tightened and I nearly cried from the constant voice in my head that was practically ordering me to drink.

There was a wine glass in front of me filled to the brim with deep thick red blood.

My mouth watered at the sight of it; my fangs instinctively appearing as the sweet smell wafted up my nose.

"No. I can't. Mother and father will hate me," I whimpered.

In my mind, everything was dyed red.

My hands were red, my clothes were red, even my eyes were red now.

No.

I picked up the wineglass and threw it on the floor, letting it shatter to pieces on the ground and splashing its contents everywhere.

My head ached and buzzed from what I had done.

I'm not a vampire.

I can't be.

I'm a werewolf, just like everyone else.

Mother and father will love me.

But even though I had smashed that glass of blood to pieces—emptied its contents on the ground...

The smell of blood continued to draw my eyes onto the red puddle on the ground.

My body grew unbearably hot.

My body began to shiver.

And finally, my mind went blank.

The next thing I knew, I was on the ground on all fours, licking the blood straight from the floor.

Just like a dog.

Sharp broken shards of glass mixed with the blood cut and sliced my tongue, my hands, and my knees as I hungrily drank up every last drop without stopping.

So good...

It tasted so good...

It tasted so good that my whole body went numb in ecstasy.

It tasted so good that I cried.

Cried over the fact that, in the end, I was only a slave.

A slave to a cup of blood.

.

.

.

Before my father could make a new, legitimate heir to the throne with my mother, he died from assassination by the time I became just barely seven-years-old.

Which meant, there was no other heir to the throne than me, the only one with green eyes but no blood ties to the royal bloodline.

"Are you kidding me?! There's no way we can put that kid on the throne! He can't become king!" yelled an older man to my mother, the current queen dowager.