The Villains Must Win-Chapter 343: Alistair Cain 3

Alistair Cain stood before the velvet-draped threshold of his private chamber, the dying candlelight gilding the edges of his silhouette.

Beyond the door, the servants had already deposited tonight’s offering—another trembling young virgin woman delivered to him like tribute to an ancient god.

A symbol of obedience. A reminder of his power. A temporary balm for a hunger that had long since lost its sweetness.

He inhaled slowly, tasting the faint scent drifting through the crack in the door: rosewater, fear, and something delicate, something unspoiled.

Virgin blood always held that curious sharpness, like winter wind touching warm skin.

Her name...

What was her name again?

A low exhale escaped him, tinged with irritation at his own inability—or unwillingness—to recall.

They introduced her properly, he was sure. A father bowed until his spine nearly snapped. A mother curtsied so low her forehead brushed the marble floor. And the girl herself had whispered something when they pushed her forward, clutching her night-blue skirts with quivering fingers.

Or was it the slave market?

But her name had been swallowed somewhere between the hall and here, lost to the haze of repetition. The ritual never changed, after all.

A new girl every few weeks, each one terrified but hopeful that perhaps she would please the monster long enough to survive the night.

He ran a hand through his hair, letting impatience bleed through him. It wasn’t cruelty that wore him down—it was monotony. That endless, predictable pattern of fragile bodies and soft gasps and hearts that fluttered like trapped birds whenever he approached.

It had all grown so... painfully dull.

Not that it mattered. Names were of little consequence to him now. They were ornaments, easily forgotten, easily replaced.

In the end, she would be nothing more than another human offering meant to scratch at the itch his bloodline cursed him with.

Another warm body to momentarily quiet the hunger clawing beneath his ribs.

The door creaked open at his touch.

The chamber swallowed the sound, its stone walls drinking in every echo. The torches burned low, their flames dancing lazily, casting shifting shadows across the carved pillars and the silken canopies draped above the massive obsidian bed.

Selene stood near the far end of the room, spine straight but trembling, willing herself to act scared right now.

"Good evening, my lord," she whispered, voice soft enough to be mistaken for the rustle of silk.

Alistair did not answer. He studied her instead.

Young. Beautiful in the fragile, ephemeral way mortals tended to be. Pale skin. Slender wrists. A heartbeat that thundered beneath her ribs so loudly his fangs ached.

She would do.

Beautiful Virgins would always do.

Yet even as he approached, he felt nothing stirring within him beyond the faint prickle of instinctual hunger. No anticipation. No thrill. No satisfaction. Being a vampire had stripped him of those luxuries.

He circled her slowly, the way a scholar might examine an artifact he’d already cataloged a hundred times before.

"You are shaking," he murmured, though his tone held no comfort. Only observation.

Her breath stuttered. "Forgive me, my lord. I—I was told you preferred quiet."

"Mm." He tilted his head. "And obedience, I assume."

She nodded quickly.

Of course she did. They all did. Their families made certain of it long before they crossed his gates. Girls were raised like sacrificial lambs to appease the Lord of Crimson Vale.

Perhaps the villagers thought it kept the peace. Perhaps they believed it protected their sons from being taken instead.

Mortals had so many comforting lies.

Alistair stepped closer until he stood directly before her. He reached out, lifting her chin with a single, cold finger. Her pulse leaped beneath his touch like a frightened deer.

"What is your name?" he asked, not because he truly cared but because the silence bored him.

"S-Selene," she breathed.

Ah. Yes. That sounded familiar.

Her face was familiar now that he took a closer look.

It was in the slave market.

Now he remembered—that trembling body, yet those defiant eyes. It was the silver in them, cold as moonlight on a blade, that made him choose her that night in the slave market.

He let her name roll across the surface of his thoughts, then allowed it to slip away like water through open fingers. Whether he remembered it or not changed nothing.

She would be gone by morning or the next day either way, depending on how she would satisfy him. Or depending on how long she would last.

Her throat bobbed. "Will... will it hurt?"

He paused—not because he needed to contemplate the answer, but because honesty always came so easily to him.

"Yes," he said. "But only for a moment."

A tear slipped down her cheek, glistening in the dim light. His gaze lingered on it, not out of sympathy, but because it reminded him of rain on cold stone—fleeting, insignificant, and yet strangely beautiful.

She whispered, "My lord... have you ever spared anyone?" 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

He raised a brow at the question, amused by her bravery.

Or desperation.

"I spare those who are strong enough to endure me."

"And... has anyone ever endured you?"

A slow smile curved the corner of his mouth—dark, humorless.

"No," he said simply. "None can match my passion. But if you can . . . satisfy me and endure, you will not die."

Her breath hitched, but she did not run. They never ran. Hope kept them rooted to the spot, even when the truth stood before them with its fangs bared.

His torture chamber was not, in truth, a place of torture in the traditional sense. The room was lined with instruments and devices crafted specifically for the art of control and desire—implements meant for bondage, discipline, and the darker pleasures whispered only behind locked doors.

Alistair released her chin and turned away. Even now, even with fear choking her, some part of him remained disinterested. Detached. His hunger was a need, not a desire. A curse, not a pleasure.

He stripped off his gloves with unhurried grace, tossing them aside. The air shifted as he did, colder, heavier—like the beginning of a storm.

Behind him, Selene whispered, "My lord... will it be quick?"

He closed his eyes briefly.

"If you do as you’re told."

Her small, resigned exhale brushed the back of his awareness. Acceptance. Mortals had a remarkable ability to surrender to fate when death stood close enough to kiss them.