The Craving

At the very least, Cass couldn't say he didn't warn her. 

Uriel had been so obvious; so open in his lustful appreciation of her that she could feel his gaze burning over her skin even long after he'd left the room, so convinced that she would come to him begging and that, when she did, he'd want something in return. He'd been clear about his intentions since day one. Honest. 

 'I want many things, Malen'kiy volk. Some of them… I think you'd be more than willing to give me, eventually.'

'I like the ones that come begging.'

She wasn't naive enough to think that help from him would come without a catch. But to be his submissive? That was what he wanted? It would have been absurd if it wasn't so very much like him. 

Uriel was a powerful man. It was clear that he was used to getting exactly what he wanted. Chërnaya Gidra, the black hydra, practically ruled the Russian underground. Their reach was unfathomable. It slithered across continents, ensnaring everyone in its way—powerful and elusive. 

When she'd bitched about Uriel being the most dangerous man alive, it wasn't because of some solid evidence. She didn't have the kind of proof that would ever make it into a report. It was office gossip, rumors passed around the precinct like cigarettes during smoke breaks.

Her old police buddies back in Chicago had loved to gossip about the world's most famous billionaire. They used to talk about how Uriel Serpov, the billionaire playboy, had ties to Chërnaya Gidra. Hayes, the head of narcotics, would go off on a rant about how every time they thought they'd cut off the head of the hydra, another faction of the Bratva would rise up, stronger than before. It was like the organization was invincible, just like the mythical hydra it was named after. 

The common consensus was that Uriel Serpov was just some bitch boy, a male slut to rich Bravta who got paid handsomely for sharing his nudies. Cass hadn't been surprised that they'd think that; some of their wives had copies of the very same People's Magazine covers that Uriel was on the cover of. Still, they always found new ways to keep the conversation interesting.

"I don't know, man," Hayes had said once, leaning back in his chair. "I don't buy that Serpov's just some rich idiot who lucked out. That kind of power doesn't come without some serious connections. Maybe he's the real leader—the shadow leader. Keeps himself off the radar by playing Mr. Model, letting all the others take the fall. Smart, if you ask me."

It was just office banter, back then. Hayes had gotten a kick out of imagining Uriel as some kind of untouchable crime boss while still taking the piss about him being the Bratva's "bitch boy." There'd been laughs about the billionaire model running drugs and weapons under everyone's noses while taking sexy selfies for magazine covers. No one had taken it seriously—except maybe Hayes, who'd spent a few too many nights staring at conspiracy boards and downing whiskey.

But now... now that she knew what Uriel was—that he wasn't just some playboy billionaire, but a vampire—those old jokes didn't seem so far-fetched anymore.

Cass stared at the computer screen, the documents in front of her nothing more than a blur. Uriel Serpov. Shadow leader of Chërnaya Gidra. It made sense in a way that felt too perfect, too clean. The mafia's constant resurrection, their ability to evade complete destruction, was exactly what you'd expect from an organization run by a vampire. A creature who'd lived for God-knows-how-long, manipulating everything from the shadows. 

It made sense that he could afford to play billionaire playboy while others lived, died and got arrested in his name. He was bulletproof. There was no bringing him down. Not by conventional means, anyway. Not by anything that existed in the mortal world.

That fact didn't change the other reality she was grappling with. The reality that he wanted her.

Her face burned at the thought, a heat blooming deep in her core that had no business being there. She was already swamped with work, drowning in media pressure as the town whispered about a possible serial killer. The media vultures were practically camping outside the station now, swooping in like predators every time she left the building.

And yet…

Goddammit, she thought, rubbing her temples. Why me? Why now?

Her brain was a mess. She was overworked, underpaid, and seriously underfucked.

Her fingers drummed on the edge of her desk, her leg bouncing anxiously. Uriel could take care of the last part, a treacherous little voice in her head whispered. Cass squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could somehow block out the persistent thought of him.

Her mind wandered back to their last conversation, his words replaying on a loop:

'I want you to be mine. My submissive.'

He did mention that she'd know what he wanted in time and now she knew exactly what it was. The control. The dominance. The power. That was what he got off on. Uriel could have anyone, anything he wanted, but he wanted to see her beg. To see her drop her guard and submit to him. The thought made her stomach twist in knots, her body heat with an ache she didn't want to acknowledge.

She leaned back in her office chair, rubbing her eyes, but it did nothing to dispel the exhaustion or the way her mind kept drifting to him.

Uriel, licking his lips. Uriel's intense, unblinking gaze, his smirk like he knew exactly what she was thinking. Knew exactly what he could do to her.

She'd been getting so little sleep, and not just because of the pressure. Every night, her dreams were filled with either horrific nightmares—David, that poor kid, torn apart in front of her. Sometimes, it was the woman— Sarah Gerrard, their investigations had uncovered— being ripped to shreds, smiling all the way through it while Cass stood and watched helplessly. Sometimes it was some faceless victim she couldn't remember when she woke up in a cold sweat. But, when she wasn't having debilitating nightmares, wet dreams about Uriel took their place. Dreams of him on his knees, his head buried between her legs, his mouth slick with her essence, his single red eye glowing as he looked up at her…

Without thinking, Cass's hand slipped beneath the waistband of her pants. Her fingers moved in slow, careful circles, tracing lightly around her clit as she let her mind drift back to the fantasy.

Uriel's husky voice whispering in her ear, making her beg for it. His hands gripping her waist, his mouth on her neck, his lips curling as he growled her name, his teeth grazing the skin as she whimpered his name…

Her fingers circled her clit, and she bit her lip, her breath coming in soft gasps as she imagined his hands pinning her down, his mouth teasing her until she—

The knock on her office door startled her so badly that she yanked her hand out of her pants like she'd been burned, her heart slamming against her ribs as she quickly sat up straight as if she hadn't just been about to cum.

"Come in," she called, trying to sound calm, though her voice was breathless, betraying her.

A junior officer stepped into the office, a stack of files in his hands. He didn't look up, didn't seem to notice anything off about her, thank God. "Chief Laughlin wanted these dropped off," he muttered, setting them down on her desk before quickly heading out. He didn't even shut the door properly on his way out.

Cass exhaled shakily, leaning back in her chair, but the heat didn't fade. She was still on edge, still so worked up, and it was taking every ounce of her self-control not to dive back into those thoughts. But she couldn't. Not now.

Instead, she picked up her phone, her fingers moving on autopilot as she opened the browser and typed in Uriel Serpov before she could talk herself out of it. She shouldn't do this, she knew that. She should have been looking at the files that just got tossed on her desk. But curiosity got the better of her.

She scrolled through the results, her finger hovering over a video thumbnail that featured Uriel looking impeccable as ever. Hair slicked back, a perfectly tailored suit accentuating his frame, the eyepatch— a striking gold to match the coffee brown of his suit— giving him that dangerous, mysterious look that only made him more infuriatingly attractive.

 She clicked on the video, the familiar chime of a evening talk show playing as Uriel's face filled the screen.

He was discussing his philanthropy, as usual, but the interviewer couldn't resist steering the conversation toward the more personal aspects of his life.

"So, tell me," the interviewer said, leaning forward with a cheeky smile. "What's it like being the world's sexiest man?"

Uriel laughed, a rich, velvety sound that made Cass's heart skip a beat. "It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it," he joked, his smile flashing white beneath the studio lights.

The interviewer chuckled a bit and returned, "Many say it's a shame that you're still a bachelor. What do you say to that?"

"Well, I do love working at my pace and I love the freedom that comes with being single but, if any beautiful lady out there tonight thinks they can handle me," he winked at the camera, "Feel free to send in wife applications."

Cass rolled her eyes. She could see that move turning a lot of women into human puddles and, whether or not it worked on her was besides the point. The point was Uriel knew he was hot shit and he acted like it. His smile never wavered, his cool, calm and collected poise never dropped as he matched the interviewers wit and humor beat for beat.

But it was the next question that caught her attention.

"And what about those rumors, hmm? You know the ones. The rumors about your...connections to the Russian Bratva?"

Uriel's smile didn't falter. In fact, it deepened, his voice smooth and casual as he responded.

"I don't expect the Bratva to be hiring models. I can't sell drugs, and I don't imagine any of those gentlemen would want to see me oiled up."

Goddammit, he was so fucking smooth. And he knew it. This was the man that wanted her to submit to him. To beg.

Her attention snapped back to the stack of files on her desk, the mundane weight of reality crashing back down on her. Her heart still beat hard in her chest, her hands slightly shaking from the tension. She had a job to do.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? She always had a job to do. Always chasing down leads, always filing paperwork, always poring through mountains of evidence and witness statements. When was the last time she did something for herself? When had she ever let someone else take the reins?

Cass couldn't remember.

And maybe that was the problem. She'd never allowed herself to relinquish control. She'd fought for it, fought so hard to build her life with her own hands. For years, she'd distanced herself from the part of her that made her vulnerable, that craved submission. She didn't want to give in to it—to that pull, that urge that always lurked beneath the surface.

Especially not to him.

But why? That treacherous little voice whispered again. Why not give in to him? He'd take care of you. He'd give you everything you need, everything you want...

Cass squeezed her eyes shut, trying to drown out the thoughts. She hated that voice, hated that part of herself. The part that was still, in some ways, Omega. The part that wanted to let go, to let someone else take care of her. She didn't want to feel that way. Not after everything she'd worked for. Everything she'd lost.

Letting go would feel like surrendering everything she'd built.

And yet...

Yet, you keep thinking about him, don't you? her mind taunted. You keep thinking about how good it would feel to just... let go.

Damn it, no. She wasn't that person anymore.

She had her work. Her life. She didn't need anyone else.

But as her eyes scanned the files on her desk, her frustration mounted. These murders—the symbols, the eerie nature of them—none of it fit into the realm of normal investigation. No matter how many hours she poured into it, no matter how methodically she reviewed the evidence, there were no answers.

She was in over her head, wasn't she?

With a sigh, Cass reached for the first file on the stack, flipping it open to the witness reports. She scanned through the details, barely registering the written statements—neighbors talking about Sarah Gerrard's late-night walks, her bouts with insomnia, how she liked to clear her head with trips to the park.

But something caught her attention.

One of the neighbors had mentioned seeing a shadow near the park, a figure standing by the tree line. It was just a fleeting glimpse, something they chalked up to a trick of the light, but... what if it wasn't?

As she kept reading, her gut twisted. The witness couldn't explain it, but they'd felt something strange that night. A chill in the air, a sense of being watched. It was nothing concrete, nothing a jury would believe. But that shadow... It was enough to make her stomach drop. She could almost feel it, the cold gaze watching, waiting.

Vorvolak, she thought, her pulse quickening.

Her stomach turned, the tension rising in her chest as she pushed the witness reports aside and opened the next file—the one from the crypto analyst. Her eyes narrowed as she read the page, picking out key details.

The symbol, a jagged, blackened sun with uneven rays, was like nothing they'd seen before. "Unknown origin," the report said, "possibly dating back to arcane rituals of the pre-Christian era. Similar glyphs have been found in old European witch covens." 

They didn't know what it meant and there was no explanation as to why the killer would use it as his calling mark. But the analyst's final words haunted her: "The symbol gives an impression of… hunger. Pressed into the skins of the victims, it somehow feels alive."

Her hand stilled on the page, her throat dry. Hunger. The Vorvolak wasn't just real. It was here.

She'd walked onto the first murder scene convinced it was a random act of violence caused by some sick bastard. She'd assured the reporters that there was no evidence that pointed to a serial killer. In a way, she was right. In many ways, she was screwed. These murders were part of something far darker, something she couldn't hope to stop on her own.

The reality of it settled over her like a weight, crushing her.

'I'm here to warn you… more accurately, I've come to offer my condolences.' Uriel's voice echoed in her mind, a dark whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. 'No one ever wants anything to do with me, until they do.'

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into the soft leather of her office chair. She didn't want to admit it. She didn't want to need him. But she wasn't foolish enough to deny the truth staring her in the face.

She needed him. She needed him to help her stop the Vorvolak. She needed him to sate the hunger that'd been festering in her since the day she locked eyes with him by the side of the street. She needed him.

With trembling hands, she picked up her phone and dialed his number.

It barely rang once before he answered. "Malen'kiy volk," Uriel's smooth voice slid through the receiver like silk. "I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

Cass swallowed, her throat dry. "We need to talk. In person."

There was a brief pause, and she could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke again. "I'll send a car for you."

"No," she shot back quickly, unwilling to give him that much control. "Just tell me where you are. I'll come to you."

His chuckle was low, dangerous. "Very well. I'm in Minneapolis, at the Atlas building. Come to the top floor."

She hung up without another word, her heart racing as she grabbed her coat and keys. She ignored the reporters as she did the walk of shame to her car. Their questions were like hot needles to her already pin-cushion soft skin. 

"Detective Pratt, how come there have been no updates to the three murder cases that took place in this town in the past few weeks?"

"Detective Pratt, does the Havenfield Police Department still deny that this is the work of a serial killer?"

"Detective Pratt, how long will law enforcement continue to hide important details from the public?"

Cass muttered a fierce, "No comment," before she shut the door, started up her car and sped the hell out of the parking lot. The two-hour drive felt like a lifetime. Minneapolis loomed ahead, but her mind was already in his office, already running through all the ways this could go wrong. What the hell was she doing? Going to him—knowing what he wanted, knowing how badly he could wreck her resolve.

But what other choice did she have?

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. The town needed her. And she... she needed answers. Not just about the murders, but about herself. About why the thought of submitting to him, of letting him take control, sent a surge of heat through her she couldn't ignore.

This was a bad idea. He was a bad idea.  But she couldn't stop herself from wanting him, or rather, wanting what he could give her.

The car radio remained switched off, her conflicting thoughts providing enough of a distraction to make the journey go by quicker.

The Atlas building towered over her as she stepped out of her car, the valet's raised eyebrow barely registering as she handed him the keys to her old Honda Fit. She was aware, in the back of her mind, how out of place she looked among the sleek luxury cars and marble entrances, but she pushed the thought aside as she made her way through the bustling lobby.

Sharp suits, polished shoes, expensive watches... the hustle of the city buzzed around her, people too busy to notice the small town detective making her way to the belly of the beast.

Cass approached the receptionist desk, feeling eyes on her as she walked in. The polished floors, the gleaming walls, the subtle hum of power radiating from every corner of the building made her feel like she'd stepped into another world. Uriel's world.

"I'm here to see Uriel Serpov," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.

The receptionist, a woman in a sleek black suit with perfectly manicured nails, glanced up at her, a polite smile masking her irritated expression. "Do you have an appointment?" She asked, her voice pinched.

Cass faltered. "Uh… I don't know. He asked me to go to the top floor, my name is Cassandra Pratt."

The woman gave her a once over before she proceeded to click-clack at her desktop. Her face somehow looked even more pinched when she looked up at Cass again. 

"Take the elevator at your left to the top floor," She said. "Have a nice day!" But it somehow sounded like 'I hope you fall and break your neck.'

Cass shook off the cold stare following her and stepped into the chrome-lined elevator, pressing the button to the top floor. The elevator rose silently, but her pulse hammered in her chest. She caught her reflection in the chrome walls, her face pale beneath the dim lighting, hair strawberry locks disheveled. No wonder the receptionist kept giving her the stink eye; she looked a mess! And, as the floor numbers ticked higher, with each passing second, she felt her grip on control slipping further. She hated this. Hated that she was here, about to walk into the lion's den with no guarantee of coming out unscathed.

By the time the doors slid open, revealing the pristine waiting area, she could feel the tension coiling tight in her chest when a boa constrictor. Tight and unforgiving.

She took a seat in one of the perfect white settees, sitting up straight under the marble gaze of the secretary. The environment was clean. Too clean. All the polished whites, cold greys and perfect modern artwork hanging on the walls made her worry that even blinking might dislodge one of her middle-class eyelashes and mar the pristine floors.

She realized how out of place she must look. Her fitted pantsuit was fine enough for Havenfield, but here, among the perfect white walls and polished marble floors, it felt cheap. Out of place. She felt out of place.

She shifted in her seat, the pristine environment suffocating her. This wasn't her world. This was his. And in his world, she'd always be at a disadvantage. It was evident by the way the secretary looked at her like she was dog shit beneath an old shoe that she didn't belong there. The waiting itself was killing her.

Luckily, she didn't have to wait long.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, drawing her attention. Uriel strode down the corridor, running his fingers through his hair with one hand, loosening the tie around his neck with the other.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece suit, the dark fabric hugging his frame and accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He looked devastatingly sexy, but this was Uriel Serpov she was talking about. He always looked devastatingly sexy.

Without acknowledging Cass, he spoke to his secretary. "Reschedule my two o'clock and move the three o'clock to tomorrow. Also, call my sister and let her know I'll be late for dinner."

Cass didn't say anything. She had a feeling he didn't want her to. He was making her wait. His complete disregard only fuelled her desire.

When he was done speaking to the secretary, Uriel walked to the large wooden doors at the end of the room and pushed one open. Just as Cass thought he'd enter without acknowledging her, he glanced over his shoulder.

The look was an invitation.

She stood, her pulse quickening as she followed him inside.

The door shut behind her with a heavy, decisive thud. Like the gates of Eden closing behind two sinners who had the audacity to listen to a snake.

Uriel walked over to the mini-bar in his office and poured himself a thin sliver of bourbon. "I must admit, Malen'kiy volk," he said, his voice laced with amusement, "I was surprised when you called. Given the nature of our last meeting, I didn't think you'd be so eager to see me again."

His smirk told her everything she needed to know. He knew. He knew she was desperate, that the Vorvolak could kill again at any moment. She wasn't in control here. He was.

Instead of replying directly, she let her eyes wander around the room. "Nice office," she commented dryly. "It's an upgrade from a gaudy pastry shop."

He chuckled, taking a sip of his bourbon. "Nightshade Sip is a personal project. More Lyra's than mine. I just bankroll it."

He said it lightly, but Cass caught the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed against the glass of bourbon. Casual, yes, but even Uriel had tells. He was always calculating, always three steps ahead. Maybe that's why she hated how easily he made her feel two steps behind.

She was still standing, looking around the office, at the beautiful view of Minneapolis visible from the floor to ceiling windows, at the large, polished red oak desk covered in neatly arranged files and knickknacks. At the paintings on the wall her disjointed mind couldn't fully process.

"Sit," The word hit her like a wave. It wasn't loud, wasn't forceful. But there was something in his tone, something that made her muscles lock, made her pulse throb at her throat.

She should refuse—should stand her ground, sit at her own time—but her legs felt weak, the command threading through her resolve. Her knees bent before she could think, her body moving against her will, betraying her need, her craving for that control only he could offer. That commanding undertone that hinted at how good he'd be as a dom. How easily he could have her on her knees with just a word.

So she sat.