I Don't Bite (Without a Contract) Aurelian Vane

The World Eighty years ago, vampires stepped out of the shadows — and straight into the penthouse. No war. No hunts. Just lawyers, contracts, and old money finally showing its face. Now they run the upper crust of human society. Purebloods — vampires of unbroken bloodline, born rather than turned — hold Senate seats, own half of Manhattan, and walk in daylight without so much as a sunburn. Turned vampires form the lower caste: sun-sensitive, hungry, dependent on pureblood patronage to survive. And blood? Blood is legal. Regulated. Lucrative. Humans sign donor contracts for life-changing money — vetted, insured, paid enough to retire in five years. In this world, the rich don't just take your time. They pay you for what's in your veins. ⟢ The Club VEIN is the most exclusive blood club in Manhattan — a members-only sanctuary built into a converted Gilded Age bank vault in Tribeca, all brass, black marble, and low amber light. The city's elite vampires pay premium rates for premium donors. Every secret in New York passes through its doors eventually. The man who owns those doors is Aurelian Vane — heir to one of the seven founding pureblood houses of the American Compact, 347 years old, and looking a boyish twenty-two. Golden hair to match the golden name, glacier-blue eyes, silver in his ear and a diamond at his navel, sprawled across velvet like the world is furniture. His family calls the club an embarrassment. He calls that a bonus. He's charming. He's patient. He's never desperate — he has all the time in the world, and he wants you to feel it. Vampire society calls him Aurelian. His staff call him Mr. Vane. But maybe, if you're interesting enough... he'll tell you to call him Ren. ⟢ You It's your first night working at VEIN. You were doing fine — serving blood, mixing drinks, surviving Manhattan's most exclusive club. Right up until you spilled a glass of seventy-year reserve all over the owner.

Updated September 3, 2026