My Vampire Beloved Husband
Chapter 82: The VVIP Treatment

Chapter 82: The VVIP Treatment

Inside a quiet yet luxurious room, the atmosphere was eerily still. The only sound that could be heard was the faint hum of the air conditioning, a soft drone that seemed to permeate the space like a constant, unsettling presence.

A man sat alone on a velvet sofa, his mouth bound, but his hands were free. His eyes fluttered open slowly, blinking in confusion as if struggling to adjust to the dim light. He wasn’t sure how he had ended up in this place, or even where he was.

All he knew was that the air around him felt heavy—oppressive—and he could taste the metallic tang of fear in the back of his throat.

He tried to rise, but his legs felt weak, shaking beneath him as if they had suddenly forgotten how to support his weight. The room spun around him as he attempted to gather his bearings. Where was he? How had he gotten here? Panic clawed at his chest, but he forced himself to focus, to steady his breathing. He scanned the room, his gaze landing on the large windows overlooking the night. The sky was dark, with only the faintest traces of moonlight illuminating the scene beyond the glass. Midnight—or perhaps the early hours of the morning—the hour seemed to slip away, the passage of time almost irrelevant. The moonlight cast an ethereal glow over everything, turning the opulent furnishings into cold, shadowed silhouettes.

The tremors in his body were not just from fear—they were a physical reaction to the confusion clouding his thoughts. His pulse pounded in his ears as he stood there, disoriented, trying to make sense of his surroundings. His feet moved on their own, shuffling aimlessly across the floor. But before he could fully comprehend where he was or what was happening, a deep, commanding voice rang out from the shadows, cutting through the silence with the force of a whip.

"Sit back down."

The words were cold, dangerous, a sharp command that sliced through the thick air. Immediately, his legs buckled beneath him, as though they no longer obeyed his commands. He found himself sitting back down on the velvet sofa, his body shaking uncontrollably. How had that happened? It was as if his legs had betrayed him, moving without his consent, and his mind couldn’t quite comprehend the sudden shift in power. His heart hammered in his chest, and he looked around, desperately trying to make sense of the situation.

A slow thud echoed from the darkness, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps—sharp, deliberate, each one a reminder that he was not alone. The click of well-polished shoes against the polished maple floor reverberated through the room, adding another layer of tension to the already stifling atmosphere. He couldn’t see who it was, but the sound alone filled him with a deep, primal fear. Who was that? What was going on? Was he being kidnapped?

But as the footsteps drew closer, a strange realization began to form in his mind—it didn’t feel like a typical kidnapping. His hands were free. He wasn’t tied up like a hostage, forced into submission. And the room... it was too luxurious. The furniture, the lighting, the fine details—it was all extravagant, more lavish than anything he had ever seen. The decor oozed wealth and power, and it struck him that he was no mere captive. This was something different, something far more dangerous.

His eyes scanned the room once more, trying to take in every detail, but his focus kept drifting to the shadows in the corner, where a figure seemed to emerge. A man, tall and imposing, draped in a black cloak. His body tensed instinctively. The air in the room grew heavier, thick with an almost tangible presence—something dangerous, something sinister. The figure moved with a predatory grace, each step measured and deliberate. And then, a low laugh cut through the tension, a sound so chilling that it froze the man’s blood in his veins.

"You don’t have to be scared," the figure said, his voice smooth, almost taunting. "It’s just me."

The man’s heart stopped. That voice. It sent a chill down his spine, every syllable dripping with something darker. Zylan Reed.

The man’s eyes widened in recognition. He hadn’t expected this. Zylan’s smile was devilish, dangerous—his eyes glinted with an unsettling darkness, the kind that could swallow you whole if you weren’t careful.

Zylan’s voice broke the silence again, cold and mocking, his words laced with a cruel amusement. "Stand up. You’re in the VVIP special treatment center."

The man’s body trembled at the words, his mind struggling to make sense of them. The VVIP special treatment center? What kind of place was that? He had never heard of anything like it, but it didn’t matter. Everything about this room, this man, screamed power and control. It was a place for the powerful, for those who ruled from the shadows, not for someone like him.

Zylan’s lips curled into a cold smile. "What a smart one you are. Playing with fire," he purred, his eyes narrowing, calculating. "So, tell me. Who sent you?"

The man’s breath hitched. Confusion and terror flooded his mind, but Zylan’s piercing gaze told him that there was no room for lies here. His mind raced, trying to come up with something, anything to explain why he was here. But his lips stayed silent, his throat too tight to speak. What did Zylan mean by that? Who sent him?

A sharp laugh from Zylan cut through the silence, a low, menacing sound that seemed to rattle the very air. "I see your mouth is covered," he remarked, his tone almost amused. Before the man could react, the cloth that had been tied around his mouth fell to the floor, leaving him momentarily speechless. His eyes widened as he realized what had just happened—Zylan hadn’t even touched him, yet the binding had fallen away as if by some unseen force.

His lips trembled. He wanted to speak, to deny the accusation, but the words wouldn’t come. His mind was still spinning, and he felt more helpless than ever.

The man attempted to play dumb, his voice shaking with fear. "W...who se...sent me?" he stammered, his eyes wide, full of terror.

But before he could finish his sentence, Zylan moved with a swiftness that left the man reeling. The sharp sting of pain exploded across his cheek, and he recoiled, his hands instinctively reaching up to touch his face. His fingers came away warm and sticky with blood. His eyes widened in shock, his breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps.

How had that happened? He hadn’t even seen Zylan move, hadn’t registered any change in his position. The pain was sudden, almost unreal, and the man was left reeling, his mind struggling to process what had just occurred.

Zylan stood still, his eyes cold and calculating as he regarded the man with a mixture of disdain and amusement. "Who sent you to drug my wife?" His voice was low, each word carefully measured, laced with the weight of the accusation.

The man’s eyes widened even more. His voice faltered, barely able to whisper, "Your wife?"

Zylan’s lips curled into a cold smile, his eyes gleaming with something dark, almost predatory. "It seems we’re playing games now," he mused, his gaze narrowing, calculating. "Alright then, how about we start with numbers?"

Zylan stepped toward a large, plush chair in the room, his movements slow and deliberate. He settled into the chair with the grace of a man used to commanding attention, his cloak billowing slightly as he did. The man couldn’t tear his eyes away from him, the overwhelming presence of the other man filling the room. Zylan’s words dripped with mock politeness, each one a subtle jab that only added to the tension. "As I said, this is the VVIP special treatment center. You’re free to sit with me." He gestured toward the sofa with a casual flick of his hand. "Feel at home."

The man’s body shook uncontrollably as his mind tried to process the situation. His stomach churned with fear, his instincts screaming at him to run, but he knew there was no escape. Despite the fact that his hands were free, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it would have been better to be tied to a chair. The aura in the room was suffocating, oppressive. He could feel it pressing in on him, closing in on his chest. The thought of angering Zylan in any way filled him with dread, but what other choice did he have?

"Sit down," Zylan repeated, his voice like a command that left no room for protest. "I have time."

The man hesitated, his heart hammering in his chest, but slowly, he lowered himself onto the nearby sofa. His body trembled as he did so, his gaze never leaving Zylan, who sat there watching him, as if savoring every moment of the man’s fear. What kind of place was this? What kind of man was Zylan?

Zylan’s gaze was unwavering, his expression unreadable. The man felt a chill sweep through him as he settled into the sofa, the luxurious fabric almost mocking him in the silence that followed. Zylan, still standing, tilted his head slightly. The weight of his presence was like a heavy shadow in the room, making it impossible to escape his gaze. There was no kindness in his eyes, no empathy—just cold, calculating authority.

"Now," Zylan began, his voice soft, but the underlying menace was unmistakable. "Let’s start with baby steps."

And the man had no choice but to listen.

One thing was very much clear to him now—this place would be the last place he would ever see.