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... partment store with Leah, who was on a mission to find the perfect new bra.

The store's ambient music hummed softly in the background, punctuated by Leah's voice as she sifted through the racks.

"I need a new bra," Leah announced dramatically. "I'm going over to Tyler's tonight, and I'm hoping we make out bad. Ugh, I need a good d*cking, and I know he can give it to me."

Frida nearly choked on her gum, coughing as Leah held up a lacy black bra with a grin. "Well, I'm sure ...

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As the war between the two races continues, the Alpha Princess falls for the Vampire King. Their fated bond will be tested by their past and origins. Will the two be able to break the loop of revenge and hatred between their clans?

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“You. Are. Not. Going. Anywhere!” His scarlet eyes settled on her face, blazing in a raging fury.

“No way! You just want me for your revenge,” she responded mockingly while meeting his intense gaze. “Just leave me alone!”

In a flash, he closed their gaps, pushing her down on the bed while trapping her in his arms. “I can't... because my kind of revenge means... Trapping you here…” he brought her hand into his chest, pointing to his heart.

“and by enslaving you here… in my bed,” his mouth moved over hers in a sensuous exploration, traveling down her throat to her neck. His hand was already caressing her soft flesh.

“I will get what I want by making you mine!” Before she could complain, a ripping sound was heard as he tore her clothes apart.

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“Coming live to you, from Cerou Street, this is MBP News, and we have an unfolding situation to report. Late last night, at approximately 3:00 AM, an explosive-like sound reverberated through this area, disrupting the sleep of residents and instilling fear in their hearts,” the news anchor, a striking figure, delivered the report with poise, standing before the camera amidst a bustling scene.

In the background, the blaring horns of ambulances and police vehicles disturbed the serenity of the beautiful morning light. Two individuals wearing protective suits, presumably forensic experts, held a stretcher carrying a charred body.

The news anchor, who had been reporting earlier, placed a hand on her ear, fitted with an earpiece, and looked visibly surprised. Her voice filled with urgency as she continued, “We have just received an update from our headquarters regarding the sole fatality in this unexpected incident. The victim of this tragic event is none other than Norman, the famous gigolo of Night palace.”

“My colleague, who was set to cover an event today at Nightplace, obtained this information firsthand from Countess Maria, who held a special place for Norman in her heart. Our focus this morning is on this breaking news,” the female news reporter continued amidst the chaotic scene, while Norman's charred body lay alone in the ambulance.

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“Hello...” he mumbled in his drowsy voice, which carried a hint of depth.

“Hey, Pissed-up Prat, where are you?” a voice laced with disdain emanated from the slab.

The boy, referred to as the “Pissed-up Prat” by the irritating female voice, recognized it as a voice he heard frequently but couldn't recall its owner. With his eyes still closed, he inquired, “Who is this?”

“What do you mean, 'who is this'? Wake up, come home, or eat shit for breakfast if you prefer!” the voice behind the transparent slab retorted before falling silent.

The boy, still not fully awakened, gazed at the half-opened glass slab with a mixture of confusion and surprise. As his eyes darted around the room, he became increasingly shocked.

As he recollected the fragmented memories from the night before he lost consciousness, his gaze fell upon the entrance of the shop. Once old and damp, it now bore a different appearance. While not transformed into a luxurious space, it had undergone improvements compared to its previously dilapidated state.

The shop took on a rectangular shape, with one longer side adorned with wooden shelves intricately patterned. Rows of empty glass jars lined these shelves. On the opposite side, there was another wooden shelf, also displaying empty jars. Towards the beginning of the counter, where the boy had been sleeping, there stood a peculiar machine.

Confusion etched across his face, he murmured to himself, “Whose shop is this?”

In response to his question, a mechanical voice resonated in his mind.

[The Omnistore belongs to you, host.]

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