Chapter 1My Unborn Son Told Me Everything

The Sinclair clan has one ironclad rule: whoever produces the first male heir in over a century inherits the vampire family’s ten-billion-dollar empire and the title of Clan Lord.

In the immortal world, that kind of power doesn't just breed greed; it breeds monsters. My sisters-in-law had spent decades subtly sabotaging one another—tainted blood-wine, "accidental" exposure to sunlight, whispers in the Patriarch’s ear. Only Isabella, the wife of the eldest brother, Marcus, remained above the fray. She wore her immortal indifference like a Chanel suit.

"I am not a breeding mare for the Sinclair legacy," she’d say, her voice cold and practiced. "Marcus and I agreed long ago to be childless by choice. Our eternal lives are full enough."

I believed her. Until the morning my pregnancy test flashed a digital ‘+’ and she showed up at my bedside with a porcelain bowl of steaming, crimson-tinted tonic.

"Drink up, Nora," she said, her smile not quite reaching her pale, ageless eyes. "It’s an old clan recipe. It’ll settle your fragile human nerves."

I reached for the bowl, but the moment my fingers touched the warm ceramic, a small, frantic voice vibrated in my mind. It wasn't a thought. It was a telepathic warning—the awakening power of my half-vampire child.

“Mom, don’t drink it! If you do, she’ll use blood magic to swap me into her womb!”

I froze. My human heart hammered against my ribs.

“She’s lying about being childless by choice! She’s performed so many forbidden dark rituals that she can’t carry a child anymore. She wants to steal me to get the inheritance, and then she’ll frame you for a phantom pregnancy. She’ll cast you out into the streets, and then... then she’ll make sure you never come back. She’ll kill us both to cover her tracks!”

I looked up at Isabella. Her face was a mask of sisterly concern, but beneath it, I saw the immortal hunger. I looked past her, out the UV-tinted window toward the back of the Sinclair estate, where the family’s high-end heritage pig farm was located. Old Arthur Sinclair had built his empire on livestock to provide a discreet blood supply for the clan before moving into tech; he kept the farm as a reminder of his roots.

If Isabella wanted to play a game of musical chairs with my dhampir baby, I was happy to provide a different seat.

“What’s wrong, Nora?” Isabella’s smile thinned, her fangs barely grazing her lower lip. “Worried your big sister didn't season it right?”

I set the bowl back on the tray. “Did you make this yourself, Isabella?”

“Of course,” she said, pushing the tray a fraction closer. “You just found out you’re expecting. You need the vitality. I wouldn’t trust a human thrall with something this important.”

I tilted my head. “I thought you were ‘childless by choice.’ Since when did you become an expert on dhampir prenatal care?”

Her expression flickered—a brief twitch of her cold jaw—before the mask reset. “Just because I don’t want them doesn’t mean I’m ignorant. Besides, you’re carrying the first Sinclair grandchild in a century. As your sister-in-law, it’s my duty to care for you.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, slowly sliding the bowl further away. “But I’m a bit paranoid. New mother jitters, I guess. I’m careful about what I put in my body.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said. You know better than anyone how vicious this coven gets over an inheritance.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a sharp, predatory whisper. “Nora, don’t be cynical. Marcus and I are happy. We don’t need the stress of a child. You don’t need to guard your belly like I’m some villain in a gothic fairy tale.”

“Then why are you so tense?”

A flash of cold resentment crossed her crimson eyes. “I’m worried you’re too young and fragile to handle this blessing. You’re being ungrateful.”

I smiled, my hand resting protectively over my stomach. “My blessing is right here. It’s not in a bowl of blood-soup.”

“Nora Sinclair.” She used my full name for the first time, her voice hardening. “Arthur told me you’ve been struggling with morning sickness. That’s why I brewed this. If you refuse to take care of yourself, I’ll have to tell him you’re being reckless with the heir. He already questions a human's ability to carry our bloodline. Do you really want to be moved out of the main house?”

There it was. The threat. I lowered my eyes, acting as if she’d finally intimidated me. “I’m sorry, Isabella. You’re right. I’ll drink it.”

She beamed instantly. I lifted the bowl to my lips and took a large gulp, holding the thick, metallic-tasting liquid in my mouth without swallowing. It was nauseatingly sweet, reeking of old blood and ash.

My baby’s voice screamed in my head: “Mom! No! Stop!”

I used my tongue to block my throat, then made a deliberate swallowing motion. Isabella watched my neck with the intensity of a starving bat. I wiped my mouth with a napkin, hiding the liquid still pooled under my tongue.

“There,” she sighed, her icy shoulders relaxing. “Was that so hard? I only want what’s best for you.” She pushed the rest of the bowl toward me. “Finish it. Every drop.”

I took two more mouthfuls, holding them in my cheeks, then made a face. “It’s too rich. I think I’m going to be sick if I take more.”

She looked at the half-empty bowl, seemingly satisfied that enough had been "consumed." “It’s fine for a first try. But I’ll be bringing you a fresh batch every evening. The magic only works if you’re consistent.”

“Every evening?” I feigned surprise.

“Consistency is key to a healthy immortal pregnancy, Nora. Don’t miss a single night.”

Don’t miss a night, or the ritual will fail, I thought.

As soon as she clicked the door shut, I bolted to the bathroom and spat the dark liquid into a glass jar. I rinsed my mouth five times, but the cloying, iron-like taste of blood clung to my tongue.

I grabbed a heavy coat and slipped out the side door into the night. Behind the manor, the Sinclair Heritage Farm housed a prize sounder of Berkshire pigs, kept plump for the clan's "vegetarian" feedings. The familiar had just confirmed that the lead sow—a massive, black-spotted creature—was pregnant with a large litter.

I stood by the pen, watching the sow grunt in the mud under the moonlight. I poured the contents of the jar into her feeding trough and covered it with a handful of grain. The sow trotted over and gobbled it up in seconds.

“It’s working, Mom,” the telepathic voice whispered, calmer now. “The transfer has begun. But it’s not me she’s pulling anymore. She’s taking the piglets.”