Blood Bound

In a world where art starves and blood sustains — what price would you pay just to survive?
Ivory Marwood has nothing left. Unpaid rent. Canvases nobody wants. A city that swallowed her whole without noticing.
Then the whispers find her.
Luné Devain. An underground auction where the wealthiest, darkest people bid on things that should never have a price tag.
She becomes one of them.
Marketed as a living artwork — a muse, a thing — Ivory stands beneath the lights while powerful men decide her worth.
One doesn't raise his paddle. He doesn't have to.
Bidder Number 24. Rage Lenoir.
A smile that feels like a warning. Eyes shifting from sapphire to amber. And something underneath older than wealth, older than power, older than anything she has a word for.
The last of something the supernatural world buried and prayed would never resurface. A vampire who was once a wolf. Two bloods. Two hungers. A predator even ancient councils refuse to name.
He just bought her.
The deal: three drops of blood a week. Every debt cleared. Every dream funded. A Blood Bound Contract sealed not in ink — but in crimson.
She should run. She signs instead.
Just business, she tells herself.
But nothing about Rage is simple. Not the amber burn when someone gets too close. Not the growl that sounds less like a threat and more like a claim.
In a world where immortality comes at the cost of humanity and love is the most dangerous indulgence of all — can a bond forged in blood, and sealed in something far more ancient, survive?
Or when the final drop falls, will the very agreement that brought them together be the thing that tears them apart?