The Last Heir of the Forbidden Family

Unwelcome

Chapter 3: Unwelcome Guests

"Look, I'm telling you, I'm not worth the trouble," Dorian said, his voice jumping an octave as he backed away from the window. "I don't have a secret offshore account. I don't have a life insurance policy. I'm literally one bad week away from selling my plasma for bus fare!"

Seraphine tilted her head, her violet eyes tracking the way the golden light under his skin refused to die down. "Trust me, Dorian, your plasma is the most expensive thing on this planet right now. And unfortunately, word travels fast."

"What does that—"

Dorian was cut over by the sound of splintering wood. The door, already hanging by a single hinge after the Malphas scout's attempt, didn't just open—it exploded inward. Two men, if you could call them that, barrelled into the room. They were massive, their jackets straining against shoulders that seemed to be expanding by the second. They smelled of wet dog and cheap cigarettes.

"There he is," the larger one growled, his jaw lengthening as he spoke. "The little spark-plug."

"Hey! Doors cost money!" Dorian yelled, his panic manifesting as a frantic, high-pitched defense mechanism. "Who even are you guys? Is there a convention in town for people who hate my apartment?"

"We're the Iron Claw pack, kid," the second one said, a predatory grin revealing teeth that were definitely not human. "And House Fenris pays a lot better than whatever those Malphas blood-suckers were offering. Now, be a good boy and come with us before we have to break your legs to make you fit in the trunk."

Dorian glanced back at Seraphine, who was leaning against his kitchen counter with an expression of bored curiosity. "Are you going to do something? You've got the knives! Do the ninja thing!"

Seraphine just crossed her arms. "I want to see something first. Consider this an entrance exam."

"An exam? I'm going to die!" Dorian shrieked, turning back to the two hulking men. "Look, guys, I don't want any trouble. I’ve had a really long shift. I just want to sit down, eat my noodles, and pretend tonight never happened. Please, just leave me alone!"

"Not happening, meat," the first werewolf said, stepping forward. He reached out a massive, hairy hand to grab Dorian’s shirt. "You’re coming with—"

"I said leave me alone!" Dorian shouted, throwing his hands up. "Seriously! Get out of my business! Fix the mess you made and just... just go away!"

The air in the room didn't just vibrate; it solidified. A pulse of gold, thicker and more visceral than the one before, swept through the kitchen. It hit the two werewolves like a physical wall, but instead of throwing them back, it seemed to sink into their skin.

The transformation was instantaneous. The lead werewolf’s hand, inches from Dorian’s throat, didn't clench. It twitched. His eyes, previously a feral yellow, went wide and blank.

"I... I have to fix it," the werewolf muttered, his voice dropping from a growl to a weirdly polite monotone.

"What?" Dorian blinked, his hands still raised. "What did you say?"

"The mess," the second werewolf whispered, his body trembling as he fought against his own muscles. "He said fix the mess. My business... his business is my business."

To Dorian’s utter horror, the first werewolf turned around, looked at the shattered remains of the door, and began to pick up the splinters. He wasn't attacking. He was cleaning.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Dorian asked, his voice cracking.

"Repairing the structural integrity of the entrance," the werewolf said, his claws scraping against the floorboards as he meticulously gathered every piece of wood. "Must... must tidy. The Lord said fix the business."

The second one had already moved to the kitchenette. He grabbed a dirty sponge from the sink with a look of intense, focused agony. "The counters," he whimpered, tears streaming down his face as he began to scrub the grease stains near the stove with a speed that was blur-inducing. "The Lord’s business must be pristine. So much dust. Why is there so much dust?"

Dorian stared, his mouth hanging open. "Are they... are they doing my chores?"

"It’s not just chores, Dorian," Seraphine said, her voice sounding strangely distant. She had straightened up, her bored expression replaced by something much sharper, much more dangerous. "You gave a Command. You told them to 'get out of your business' and 'fix the mess.' Their blood doesn't see a metaphor. It sees an absolute law."

"I was just being sarcastic!" Dorian yelled at the werewolf currently trying to use his own saliva to buff a scuff mark off the linoleum. "Stop! You don't have to do that! It’s fine! The apartment is a dump anyway!"

"I can't stop!" the werewolf sobbed, his hands moving in a blur as he organized Dorian’s mismatched Tupperware. "The blood... it burns if I don't scrub! Please, my Lord! Tell me the floor is clean enough! I don't want to do the windows! Please don't make me do the windows!"

"This is insane," Dorian whispered, clutching his head. "I'm having a stroke. This is a stroke-induced fever dream."

"It's not a dream," Seraphine said. She walked toward the werewolves, her boots clicking softly. She looked at the one scrubbing the floor as if he were a particularly interesting insect. "They're Iron Claw elites. Their willpower is supposed to be legendary. And here they are, crying over a stained backsplash because you felt a little stressed."

"I didn't mean to!" Dorian defended himself. "I just wanted them to go away!"

"The problem is, they can't go away until the 'business' is 'fixed,'" Seraphine noted, a small, dark smile playing on her lips. "And given the state of this place, they might be here until next Christmas."

Suddenly, the air in the room shifted again. The temperature dropped twenty degrees in a heartbeat. The two werewolves froze, their bodies locking into place—one holding a broom, the other mid-scrub. They didn't even breathe. A sense of overwhelming, ancient pressure rolled into the room, far heavier than the thugs' presence.

Seraphine’s smile vanished. She spun toward the door, her hand flying to the hilt of the silver dagger at her waist.

"Enough of this theater," a voice said.

It wasn't a loud voice, but it carried the weight of a mountain. A man stepped through the ruined doorway, stepping over the werewolf who was still clutching a pile of wood splinters. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than Dorian’s entire apartment building, his hair perfectly slicked back, his eyes a deep, swirling amber that seemed to swallow the light.

"Father," Seraphine breathed, her posture shifting into something defensive yet respectful.

"Augustin Voss?" Dorian whispered, recognizing the face from the news. The billionaire philanthropist. The man who practically owned the Upper District. "Wait, you're the guy who owns the hospitals? Are you here to fix my door? Because your employees are currently having a breakdown in my kitchen."

Augustin didn't look at the werewolves. He didn't even look at his daughter. His gaze was fixed entirely on Dorian. The intensity of it was like being stared at by a sun. Dorian felt the golden hum in his chest flare up in response, a low growl of energy that made his hair stand on end.

"Get out," Augustin said, his voice a low vibration directed at the werewolves.

They didn't wait. The Command from Dorian was absolute, but the sheer terror of Augustin Voss provided a loophole. They scrambled out of the apartment, one of them still clutching Dorian’s dish soap, disappearing into the rainy night without a backward glance.

The room fell into a suffocating silence. Dorian looked at Augustin, then at Seraphine, then back at his surprisingly clean counters.

"Look, Mr. Voss, or whoever you are," Dorian said, his voice trembling but determined. "I don't know what's going on. I don't know why everyone is breaking into my house. I just want to be a normal guy who works at a warehouse. I don't want to be a 'Beacon' or a 'Lord' or whatever. Can we just pretend I didn't do the... the light thing? I’ll move. I’ll leave the city. You’ll never see me again."

Augustin took a step forward. Seraphine moved to block him, but he raised a hand, and she immediately stepped aside, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and caution.

"You think this is a choice, Dorian Ashford?" Augustin asked. He was now standing only a few feet away. "You think you can just turn off the sun because you find the heat inconvenient?"

"I'm not the sun!" Dorian yelled. "I'm a guy named Dorian! I have a library card and a collection of vintage soda cans! That’s it!"

"You are the end of an era," Augustin said. He reached out, and for a second, Dorian thought he was going to be strangled like he was in the alley.

Instead, Augustin stopped. He looked at Dorian’s hands, which were still shimmering with that faint, impossible gold. The vampire’s expression shifted—the cold, aristocratic mask cracked, revealing a raw, terrifying hunger, followed immediately by something that looked remarkably like fear.

Augustin Voss, the man who ruled the city’s shadows for five centuries, did something Dorian never expected.

He didn't attack. He didn't grab him.

He stepped back, his eyes never leaving Dorian’s, and slowly sank to one knee.

Beside him, Seraphine gasped, her face turning pale. "Father? What are you—"

"Quiet, Seraphine," Augustin commanded, his voice thick with an emotion Dorian couldn't identify. He bowed his head, his expensive suit trousers pressing into the dirty linoleum.

Seraphine looked at her father, then at Dorian. Her violet eyes searched Dorian’s face, looking for a trick, for a weapon, for anything that explained why the most powerful predator in the district was groveling. She saw the gold in his veins, the way the light seemed to respond to his pulse, and her knees buckled.

She dropped into a deep, courtly curtsy, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders as she lowered her gaze to the floor.

"The blood recognizes its master," Augustin whispered into the silence of the room. "The True King has returned. And we are but shadows in his wake."

Dorian stood in his kitchen, a half-empty box of ramen on the counter and two ancient vampires kneeling at his feet.

"Okay," Dorian said, hi

s voice a tiny, fragile thread. "So... I'm guessing this means I'm definitely not going to work tomorrow?"