A/N: Enjoy <3

Rowan’s eyes trailed to the hand on the blade’s hilt, trailing into the shadows of the ornamental columns that lined the hall. He quickly recognized that blade and its owner’s distinct grip without seeing the person’s face. 

“Prince Solomon,” Rowan greeted with the cold blade pressed next to his Adam’s apple.

“Answer me.” Solomon emerged from the shadows, and the permanent scowl he wore deepened. “You work for them, don’t you?”

“I work for your family,” Rowan said, remaining as still as possible; it was likely that the prince had no interest in the conversation and merely wanted to slit his throat regardless.

Solomon’s eyes darkened as if attempting to nitpick the slightest indication that would indicate that Rowan had ill intentions for the Rosenthal clan. “Among others?”

“I’m neither mortal nor a dhampir,” Rowan stated dryly. “Why would I seek to tear down the clan that offered me a home and a job?”

Solomon let out an incredulous huff before stepping away from Rowan, retracting his blade from Rowan’s neck.

“Don’t you get it?” Solomon seethed. While he swung his blade wildly as he spoke, Rowan’s shoulders relaxed now that Rowan’s neck would be spared. “The perfect candidate! Someone with no ties, a clean, perfect record, and good standings with my father. The least suspicious out of all the guards to bring down the Rosenthals.”

Rowan blinked. “And wouldn’t I have attempted this by now? Why wait over twenty-five years to enact this so-called scheme?”

Solomon groaned. “You don’t get it. You’re a nobody! Someone who shows up to the estate without a formal background check gets to work and live here like any other person. And I wouldn’t be surprised that wherever the fuck you came from put you on this mission to infiltrate my family and wreak havoc. Plans like that take years to execute, and I’d bet everything I own that this is somehow tied to you.”

Though Rowan knew it was better to bite his tongue and let Solomon say what he would, Julien’s sass was rubbing off on him. “What makes you believe that?”

The prince held up his hand, counting off with his fingers. “First, you’ve stubbornly stuck by the worst of my siblings, and for what? It’s not like you two are sleeping with each other. Second, it seems my father has shown some favoritism over you as of late, including asking to speak with you privately. That doesn’t sound right. And third, you took Julien to the bar where Coalition members ambushed you.”

Rowan tilted his head. “I didn’t inform you about the attack.”

Solomon blinked. “People talk. Besides, this isn’t the first time you’ve jeopardized the safety of one of my siblings. Don’t think I forgot about what happened to the twins.”

It had been an unfortunate accident, yet it had been impeccable timing on Rowan’s part thirty years ago, accidentally thwarting a rogue dhampir’s attack on the twins on a popular trade route in their territory. Due to Rowan’s knife skills, Alexandria and Alexander escaped the ambush with only a torn ligament and minor scratches. While Rowan didn’t think much of why he had helped, it had been why Rowan found Ivan’s favor in employment. 

Solomon, evidently, didn’t share the same gratuitous sentiment.

Rowan couldn’t help but mutter, “you’ve never seemed to care about the youngest princes before.”

“Half-siblings,” Solomon sneered. “That has little idea of what it means to be a Rosenthal.”

“Still Rosenthals,” Rowan said. “Still your family.”

Solomon lunged forward with his knife wielded. But just as Rowan sidestepped the attack, the head of the Rosenthals emerged behind them, seemingly out of thin air. Another one of the high-ranking vampire’s sets of skills.

“Solomon,” Ivan’s thunderous voice echoed in the halls, halting both of them in their tracks. His piercing eyes looked between them. “I believe I’ve said returning to your homes was of utmost importance, not antagonizing our guards over whatever trivial matters you wish to discuss.”

Rowan placed his hands behind his back, bowing properly. Though he knew Ivan’s stern voice wasn’t directed at him, the air was stifling enough. “My lord.”

“Trivial?” The prince scoffed. “Is it not of utmost importance to find who’s working for the Coalition?”

Even with Rowan’s eyes trained on the floor, he could almost feel the intensity of Ivan’s glare at Solomon. The gall of the fifth son to speak against a lord of Ivan’s standing, let alone your father, was something even Julien knew better. Ivan said coldly, “in your own territory, Solomon. Unless you’re implying that your two youngest siblings, our finest guards, and your father cannot sniff them out here at the estate, then I do not see any reason for you to be in my presence any longer. Leave unless you’d like me to make you.”

There wasn’t a snarky response from his son this time, but Solomon was clearly affected by Ivan’s harsh dismissal, evident as he practically rammed into Rowan’s shoulder as he walked past him. 

Once he was out of earshot, Ivan placed a hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “Marlowe. You wished to see me?”

Rowan gulped before glancing up at him. The ferocity had all but vanished from his face, but that didn’t make Ivan’s presence any less intimidating. “Prince Julien and I had a run-in with the Coalition not long ago.”

“So I’ve heard,” Ivan said. He crossed his arms and gave it some thought. “They’ve gotten bolder than before. To attack in a predominantly supernatural neighborhood is concerning, especially with many vampires and dhampirs in the area.”

Rowan thought of the other members that stood in the bar. “It’s as if they were expecting us there, targeting the princes. Waiting to ambush us once we caught on to their presence.”

When Ivan didn’t respond, Rowan added, “it’s likely they were aware prince Julien, and prince Felix frequented the Blue Vein. While it could be coincidence, we cannot rule out that someone from within the estate tipped them off or is a member of the Coalition themselves.”

“A spy.”

Rowan nodded. “Prince Solomon does have a point. Someone unassuming, like a guard or groundskeeper, could easily obtain and spread information to the Coalition.”

Ivan glanced out the window that looked over the estate’s garden. “And potentially Marlon.”

While they were alone in the corridor, Rowan spoke quietly, “you think he works for them?”

“If not with them, then they have the same mission.” Ivan turned back to Rowan. “Remain vigilant. If you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to attend to.”

Rowan bowed as Ivan headed down the corridor to the throne room. Rowan knew that finding the spy wouldn’t be easy, but he wasn’t sure where to start. There were hundreds of workers at the estate, thousands if he counted the people Ivan worked with in the businesses he owned or the humans that frequented the estate to offer their blood. With no leads, it could be anyone, even someone right under their noses. 

It was easy to let the paranoia fester as he traced his steps back to Julien and Felix’s wing of the estate, but Rowan couldn’t let it affect his primary job. Protecting the tenth prince came first, and until the mystery spy or spies revealed themselves as a threat, Rowan already had a lot on his plate regarding dealing with Julien.

He scanned the halls as he approached the prince’s room, glancing at the shaded and more obscure hiding points that a foolish staff member—or foolish prince—could have used to stalk and potentially maim a royal family member. Rowan hoped that no one was foolish enough to attack their territory, but the possibility was still there.

But he knew there was never a dull moment in the Rosenthal estate.

From outside Julien’s door, he could smell the faint trace of blood, the smells of humans—two—he determined as he got closer, and the familiar sounds often associated with Julien and his nightly feeding and sexual partners. In the first few years of being Julien’s guard, the smell of blood had alarmed him, but it took a keen nose to differentiate between whose blood he was smelling. 

Julien’s blood was sweet, borderline potent, yet incredibly intoxicating; human blood smelled sour, like the taste of old wine or chemicals.

While Rowan favored the taste of B+ blood of the humans that Julien often fed from, the sweet scent of Julien’s blood was far more appealing than the putrid smell of a human’s blood. 

Rowan didn’t understand why his preference in taste versus smell was any different, but the distinction aided Rowan’s sense of judgment in times like this when Julien sought partners without his guard nearby. 

But the wary concern never truly faded, especially when Rowan hadn’t been present for the entirety of it. He had witnessed many men attempt to take advantage of Julien in the earlier years when his powers were not nearly as controlled and potent. And while his coercion skills were near perfect when used on mortals, there were times Rowan did need to step in and prevent serious injury. 

So while nothing seemed out of the ordinary behind the closed door, Rowan knocked anyway, opening the door before Julien could even acknowledge the sound. 

The stench was overwhelming but not nearly as potent as the sight before him. 

Both humans were taller and more muscular than the prince, arguably more built than Rowan. The one with the buzzcut was behind Julien, gripping his tender hips with a grip that would definitely leave a bruise. The male with a man-bun—which Julien had to explain to him—had his back turned to Rowan. He was still clothed at least, though, with the amount of blood that drenched his shirt from Julien’s fangs, the clothes were a total loss.

While Buzzcut still clearly had enough vigor to deliver the pleasure Julien was looking for, he was also not spared from the fangs. The two marks against the base of his neck still oozed blood but in a less messy ordeal. Man-bun, on the other hand, wasn’t looking too good. 

Julien, however, was lost in his own world. It wasn’t until Rowan crossed half the room to station at his usual spot near the ottoman, did Julien unlatch himself from Man-bun.

“Here to join the party?” Julien smirked, blood dripping from his fangs and pooling atop the divet of the man’s collarbone. “Or just going to stand and watch?”

Julien already knew the answer but couldn’t help but ask it anyway, watching as his guard averted eye contact.

“You left me alone for too long; what did you expect?” Julien added. “I was getting bored of waiting and was starving since before the club.”

Rowan pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed, watching every little action the men did, discerning if there were any suspicion between them. He couldn’t imagine Coalition members willingly making their way into the bed of a Rosenthal—let alone Julien’s bed—but it would’ve been an efficient yet, unusual way of getting intel.

“Yes, I vetted them,” Julien said, rolling his eyes, noticing that look in Rowan’s eyes. “A little coercion to get the truth shows their harmless. Mostly.”

Rowan watched as Buzzcut’s grip on Julien tightened, whether from the pleasure he was receiving or from the high being fed from did. In Julien’s book, being rough in bed clearly wasn’t harmless, which Rowan couldn’t fathom. While he had never fully understood the glory of experiencing pleasure from pain or sex in general, he always imagined that the act of sex was supposed to be a gentle act of vulnerability, not some brutish and primal display of dominance or power.

But who was Rowan to judge? He was just some guard. There was no time off to explore any of these things; even if he did, Rowan wasn’t sure he’d enjoy it either way. 

Buzzcut eventually changed his tempo, with hard thrusts instead of in quick succession, grunting as his hands wound up toward Julien’s exposed chest and shoulders with a forceful grip. Julien’s eyes rolled back as waves of pleasure hit him, completely unaware of the death glare Buzzcut was sending Rowan.

Rowan was used to the jealous and often competitive game Julien’s bed partners would one-sidedly play, assuming they needed to prove themselves the superior male against Julien’s bodyguard. Rowan initially found it disturbing, naively assuming they wanted to take their frustrations out on Julien, but now found it amusing. The only competition Julien’s partners needed to worry about was outlasting Julien’s long list of kinks and never-ending stamina for sex and blood.

But that didn’t mean Rowan would hesitate to throw them out if they took it too far; it wouldn’t have been the first time. The last man that didn’t respect Julien’s safe word, Jean, had to physically separate Rowan from tearing the man apart. 

But Julien was clearly enjoying the company of the two men—or what was the company of two; Man-bun was clearly struggling to remain conscious after being heavily fed from. He’d given Buzzcut the benefit of the doubt and said he’d last maybe another hour; Man-bun, on the other hand, probably only had a few minutes before passing out completely. 

If Rowan were lucky, Buzzcut would tire himself out soon enough, and Rowan could actually get some rest for once.

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Looking for a quick read? Check out Skipping Stones! Link in Bio.