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

In the immortal world, that kind of power doesn't just breed greed; it breeds monsters. My sistersinlaw had spent decades subtly sabotaging one another—tainted bloodwine, "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, crimsontinted 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 halfvampire 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 UVtinted window toward the back of the Sinclair estate, where the family’s highend 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 sisterinlaw, 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 bloodsoup.”

“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, metallictasting 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 halfempty 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, ironlike 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, blackspotted 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.”

2 The next evening, Isabella was back, her eyes scanning my face for signs of "the change."

“How did you sleep through the day, honey?” she asked, setting a new thermos on the nightstand.

I leaned back against the pillows, having applied a layer of pale concealer to make my human skin look haggard and drained. “A bit nauseous. My stomach feels… heavy.”

A spark of triumph lit up her eyes. “That’s normal. The tonic is just doing its job.”

I took the thermos, the scent of copper and decay even more pungent today. “It smells stronger, Isabella.”

“I added more concentrated bloodherbs. For the baby,” she said, pulling up a chair. She wasn't leaving until she saw me "drink."

I repeated the performance—mouthfuls held, fake swallows, then spitting it into a hidden container the moment she left. I spent my midnights at the pig farm, feeding the sow the dark "blessing" Isabella intended for me.

On the third night, I overheard the farm manager talking to the clan's bloodwitch near the stables.

“It’s the strangest thing,” the manager said, scratching his head. “That sow was showing all the signs. Big litter, you said. But tonight? She’s acting like she’s not carrying anything at all. It’s like she just… emptied out.”

The witch frowned. “That shouldn’t be possible without a hex. Let’s run another magical scan tomorrow.”

I rubbed my belly. “The piglets are gone, Mom,” the voice said. “She’s collected them all.”

I began to play the part of the fading human waif. I walked slower, leaned against walls for support, and faked dizzy spells whenever Isabella was near. She was practically vibrating with joy, her own undead skin taking on an unnatural, flushed glow.

By the fifth night, the entire clan gathered for the Midnight Banquet. My other sisterinlaw, Penelope, eyed Isabella with suspicion.

“You’ve been awfully busy lately, Isabella,” Penelope said, swirling her goblet of Onegative. “I thought you ‘loathed’ the idea of being a nursery maid, yet you’re at the human’s beck and call every evening.”

Isabella didn't look up from her raw steak. “It’s a matter of clan duty. Nora is carrying the future of the Sinclairs. I’ve put my personal feelings aside for the sake of the bloodline.”

“How noble,” Penelope sneered, flashing her fangs.

Isabella turned to me, her voice dripping with fake honey. “You have to be so careful in the first trimester, Nora. One wrong move, one bit of bad luck, and everything changes. Right?”

I kept my head down, my fingers tracing the rim of my water glass. “Thank you for the reminder, Isabella.”

My husband, Ethan, reached over and squeezed my hand. His skin was icecold, but his touch was gentle. He looked at Isabella, his crimson eyes glowing with quiet menace. “Maybe you should focus on your own eternal life, Isabella. Nora has me to look after her.”

Marcus, the eldest, let out a harsh laugh. “She’s just being kind, Ethan. Don’t be so defensive. Unless, of course, the youngest branch of the family is getting greedy about the Clan Lord title.”

Halfway through the main course, Isabella suddenly gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She scrambled up with unnatural speed and ran toward the restroom. We all heard the sound of her retching.

The grand dining hall went silent.

Penelope was the first to speak, her voice sharp as a blade. “Isabella? Don’t tell me you’ve caught what the human has.”

Isabella emerged a moment later, dabbing her lips with a silk handkerchief. She tried to look distressed, but she couldn't hide the smug gleam in her eyes. “It’s probably just a bad batch of blood. I haven’t been feeling myself lately.”

Marcus was at her side in an instant. “Call Dr. Miller. Now.”

The clan’s physician arrived within the hour. He took a dark, viscous blood sample from Isabella and asked a series of pointed questions. Isabella kept glancing at me, her hand resting firmly on her own flat stomach. I just took a slow sip of water.

At 3:00 AM, Dr. Miller returned to the gothic drawing room where the Patriarch, Lord Arthur Sinclair, was waiting. The air was thick with tension.

Miller cleared his throat, his expression a mix of professional confusion and awe. “Well, my Lord, this is… unprecedented.”

3 “Isabella is pregnant,” Dr. Miller announced.

Isabella let out a choked sob, burying her face in her hands. Marcus pulled her into his arms, his voice cracking. “We’re having a baby. A pureblood Sinclair heir.”

Penelope stood up, her face livid. “I thought you were ‘childless by choice,’ Isabella! How convenient that your dead womb suddenly conceives the moment Nora does.”

Isabella looked up, her eyes watery and innocent. “We weren't trying, Penelope. But if the dark mother grants a miracle, who are we to turn it away?”

I watched her performance, my human stomach churning for a very different reason.

Over the next week, Isabella became the queen of the manor. She demanded the kitchens be restructured because the smell of my cooked human food "triggered her." She claimed that my evening walks by the lake disturbed her heightened senses. Finally, she sent the estate manager to my door with a set of heavy iron keys.

“Nora,” she told me, standing in the grand foyer. “The doctor says I’m extremely highrisk. I need absolute silence. Your room is too close to the stairs, and the sound of your human heartbeat at night is giving me palpitations. I’ve had the West Wing prepared for you.”

The West Wing. It was the oldest part of the estate—drafty, damp, heavily shielded from the sun, and completely isolated. It sat directly downwind from the pig farm.

Ethan slammed the keys onto the marble table, his fangs descending. “Nora is carrying my child too! You don’t get to exile her because you’ve got a headache.”

Marcus stepped forward, his eyes flashing red. “Isabella is carrying the eldest son’s pureblood child. Her comfort is the priority.”

Isabella began to cry on cue. “Ethan, please. I’m just so sensitive right now. I don’t want to cause trouble. Maybe I should just leave. Maybe I should just… give up on this miracle so everyone can be happy.”

Lord Arthur stepped into the room. He hated clan squabbles, but he loved the idea of a pureblood heir even more. He looked at me, then at Isabella’s tearstreaked immortal face.

“Nora,” Arthur said, his voice echoing with centuries of authority. “Move to the West Wing. Just until Isabella’s first trimester is stable.”

Ethan started to protest, his aura flaring darkly, but I caught his cold arm and shook my head.

Let her have the main house, I thought. The higher she climbs, the further she has to fall.

One week later, Isabella went in for her first detailed magical ultrasound. She insisted the entire clan be present in the private clinic wing of the manor. “I’m so nervous,” she whispered. “I need my coven here for support.”

I sat in the corner, quiet as a shadow.

The enchanted monitor flickered to life. Dr. Miller was smiling as he moved the crystal wand over Isabella’s stomach. But as the mystical image materialized, his smile died. He froze, his brow furrowing as he stared at the screen.

“What is it?” Marcus demanded.

Miller didn't answer. He adjusted the magical frequencies, his pale hands shaking. He tried to tilt the screen away, but Arthur was already standing.

“Move,” Arthur commanded.

He looked at the monitor. And then, the little color that existed drained from the ancient vampire’s face.