Chapter 27 Silk Sheets, Steel Lies
Chapter 27 Silk Sheets, Steel Lies
The air in Eric Vance’s apartment, usually thick with humidity and despair, vibrated with a different energy tonight. It was 1:30 AM, and Eric lay on his couch, staring at the ceiling. But he wasn’t tracing the usual cracks. His senses, now razor-sharp, picked up every molecule of air with terrifying clarity.
Just hours ago, he was “little Vance,” a civilian struggling to pay the bills. Now, he could feel Catherine Draven’s blood running through his veins — a river of icy mercury that had fused with the Vance legacy, turning every fiber of his being into a lethal weapon.
\[System: Royal Blood (Draven) integration stabilized at 3%. Your metabolism is rewriting your bone and muscle structure. Vitality Gain: +20%.\]
“An ‘Alpha Ascendant’...” he murmured. The words felt foreign on his tongue. Not prey anymore. A predator. The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it left him cold.
He sat up. The silk of his new Ventura Elite pajamas slid against his skin. The room around him no longer resembled the squalid kitchen of his childhood. Alexis from Obsidian Luxury had worked miracles in a few hours. A massive bed now dominated his old room, and Gilbert’s had been converted into a state-of-the-art medical suite, ready for him. The worn Formica table had been replaced by a black marble island.
Everything was perfect. Everything was ready for Gilbert’s return. And that was the most terrifying part.
Eric stood and walked to the new refrigerator. He pulled out a clear glass flask containing an amber liquid: the high-grade synthetic blood Catherine had sent him. “For emergencies,” she’d written. The note smelled like roses and threats. He poured the liquid into a cold porcelain cup. Took a sip. The taste was sweet, metallic, stripped of the brutality of the blood he’d taken directly from Naya. But it was enough to calm the fire burning in his chest.
\[System: Blood Hunger reduced to 15/100. You are operational.\]
“Thank you, Catherine,” he thought. No nicknames. No games. Just tired gratitude. The blood bond with her was a tangible reality, a constant resonance at the back of his mind. He could feel her anger, her boredom, her fear. But above all, her possessive curiosity toward him. It made him feel claustrophobic.
Brrr! Brrr!
Eric’s phone vibrated on the marble counter. Gilbert.
\[DAD — 01:43\]
You don’t hide behind silk sheets, Eric. You’ve become what your mother sacrificed her life to destroy. I’m coming. You have two minutes to remember why I raised you.
Eric put the flask away and washed the cup. The message was clear. Gilbert knew. About the fight with Laurent, about the contract, and probably about the blood bond. Gilbert hadn’t just been bedridden for five years. He was a fallen legend of the Black Fang. And Eric knew the confrontation would be brutal.
He sat on the Italian leather couch, waiting for the sound of the key. But the door didn’t open. Instead, Eric felt a sudden drop in atmospheric pressure. The air turned ice-cold, saturated with an aura of pure Vance authority — a resonance his own blood recognized instantly.
Gilbert wasn’t using the key. He wasn’t using the door.
A massive silhouette appeared in the center of the kitchen, emerging from the shadows like a war specter. Gilbert. He was no longer the broken man chained to an oxygen machine. He stood straight, six-foot-four carved by a lifetime of violence, his silver eyes blazing with an intensity that froze the air.
He wasn’t wearing his hospital clothes, but a Vance Clan combat outfit — a tactical leather and Kevlar jacket, and a belt of silver blades. His scars, usually hidden, were exposed. A map of his warrior past.
Gilbert glanced at the luxury furniture. He said nothing. He stepped forward, his aura crushing the room, forcing Eric to activate his own Blood Authority just to stay upright. Gilbert circled the island and placed a heavy hand on Eric’s shoulder. Eric felt his father’s power, a raw force that seemed to want to rip the Draven blood from his veins.
Then, Gilbert did something Eric hadn’t seen in ten years. He pulled a silver flask from his tactical jacket and took a sip. “It’s Diabolus blood, isn’t it? From Clifford Lane?”
Eric froze. How could Gilbert know that name?
\[System: Gilbert Vance perceives your Diabolus lineage (5%). His aura intensifies. Danger.\]
“Who is Clifford, Dad? Eva never talks about him...” The question came out smaller than he wanted.
Gilbert smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of affection. It was the smile of a man about to demolish your world. “As you know, I’m not your biological father. And the Clifford everyone talks about... he’s your real father. I don’t think you made the connection.”
The air left the room. Eric stood there, unable to move. The man he called father, the man he’d sold his soul to Catherine Draven for, was the one who’d orchestrated the death of his actual biological father.
“And you don’t hide a Progenitor behind silk sheets, Eric.” Gilbert sat on the new couch, pulling Eunice’s urn from his jacket. He set it on the black marble table, the gesture strangely gentle. “Your secrets are our sins, and Noctaria is about to burn. Laurent was just a messenger. The Council of Progenitors felt your awakening.”
Eric looked at the urn. Then at Gilbert. Then at his hands, which weren’t shaking. Not yet. The anger would come later. For now, there was only a vast emptiness, and the weight of twenty-four years of lies crashing down on his chest.
“So tell me,” he finally said, his voice low, rough. No sarcasm. Just exhaustion, and something more dangerous underneath. “Tell me everything. And this time, don’t leave anything out.”
The marble was cold under his fingers. The silence was colder.
Want me to continue with Gilbert’s confession, or do we stay on Eric processing this?