Thy Kingdom Come: A Reverse Harem Vampire Paranormal Romance: Royal Blood, #1

By Rene Folsom

It's official. I am the world's worst stripper.

From the orphanage to the stage, I've always been the black sheep. People avoid me like the plague…

Until I meet Semion—the only purebred vampire in the Relic area of New York State. He is also the only man who has ever intrigued me and brings me back from the overwhelming darkness that is my life. So when I am introduced to others of his kind, I'm taken by surprise just how many of them speak to my soul.

But regardless of how much I finally fit in, I am still damaged. I still require the blood it takes to lead. It's not until I am presented to the purest of vampires that my path to destiny is set in stone.

Abandoned at birth and rescued as a stripper, I find myself forced into a position of worth—a reign I will make true on, or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rene Folsom
• Release date: Feb 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393332435

Book preview

1

It’s official. I am the world’s worst stripper.

Last night, I was just a lowly bartender in this joint, but the men came to see me over the other girls, and the manager noticed.

Still, even with plenty of stares following me across the stage as I dance—familiar eyes, eyes that have stalked me night after night as I worked the bar—none of them approach me.

Let’s just say, the dollars aren’t exactly tucking themselves into my g-string, and I know my lack of confidence has everything to do with it.

It doesn’t help that, while trying my hardest to move on in life, my gaze continues to land on the man I never wish to see again.

It’s really not that hard to notice the outright fear in a man’s eyes when he sees me. But for men to continually flock around me and still remain fearful makes no goddamn sense. While I never thought I’d be stuck in this line of business, I am well aware of the body I have and use it to my advantage. Still, I continue to see the war raging in their eyes, both fear and desire duking it out in their gazes as I bare my tits for the first time, degradation rapidly multiplying in my mind.

Regardless of morals, everyone has to eat—and damn if I’m not hungry every second of the day. I have to do my best, my body moving to the music as I hold onto the pole for dear life. I see their stares, I hear their whispers, yet I don’t bear any of the greenbacks. Money is essential to living. Even the most fucked up minds, like my own, know this.

The entire club stays dark during business hours… and for good reason. Red lights cast eerie shadows across the entire stage as we dance. It’s supposed to be alluring, although I honestly think it makes us look like we’re swimming in a sea of blood.

Maybe that’s attractive to some?

My mouth waters at the mere thought.

For the most part, even while tending bar, I’m friendly with the other girls who are featured dancers at the Crimson City Adult Club, but I wouldn’t call a single one of them a personal friend.

No one holds that title.

I’m a lone wolf.

Why do I continue to do this to myself, I wonder, climbing up the metal pole and allowing my body to spiral back down. While my stilettos land on hard ground, my heart still continues to float through space with nowhere to make purchase. Empty. Vacant.

Without faltering, I plaster a phony, sexy smile on my face, forever feeling like I have to fake it to make it. There’s a whole group of men upside down as I straddle the pole, gyrating against it, and I secretly hope one of them will shove a few bucks in my garter so I can walk off stage with my head held high.

None of them take the bait. I’d known as soon as the manager asked me to step foot on stage this would be a huge mistake.

Just as well. The last thing I needed was some dude’s creepy, slimy hand on me anyway.

But the first thing I did need was to be able to afford bread… and, on a good night, coffee.

My measly salary and tips from bartending are just enough to pay my rent. So I’m hopeful the additional money I might earn from dancing, if the manager ever asks me again, will help fund my goal to stock the refrigerator. I tried to work as a waitress or a hostess at some of the nearby restaurants, yet none of the patrons cared for me. Still don’t. So when I took on the job of bartending at this stellar adult club and saw tips coming to me automatically because patrons had it ingrained in their skulls that gratuity equaled stronger drinks, I grasped at the opportunity. Men still acted like they wanted me, needed me, but when it came time for me to finally get on stage… crickets. Rejection is always disheartening, and my track record doesn’t seem to be changing anytime soon. I still continue on though, enjoying the change of pace, even if it’s for only a few hours tonight.

My top is now gone, discarded somewhere on stage, and my leg muscles pump in rhythm with the music as I dance my way to the edge of the platform. A man sitting nearby must feel bad for me, because he smiles kindly and shoves a bill between the straps of my shoe, his hand lingering on my ankle before gliding up my calf.

I recognize him, and his face makes me shiver.

My mouth waters with both hunger and anger, the latter almost making me sick. I don’t even bother to pay any mind to the fear snaking its way around my spine.

It can’t be him. No way would he come near me after our history.

I continue to smile and keep my sexy swagger while I dance some more, hoping other, less creepy guys will take pity on me.

And that’s a no go.

After my set is over, I make a show of bending to pick up my outfit, giving the men a good show of my ass, and saunter backstage. Though my tips totally sucked, even from tending bar before I took the stage, I am still beyond thankful that I’m finally done with work for the night.

Since I’m usually in charge of bringing the girls water after their sets, the dressing room lighting is a constant sore spot for me because of the contrasting dark to light once I step over the threshold.

No matter how I attempt to prepare myself, brightness still assaults my vision, blinding me as soon as I cross through the doorway, and my eyes take a few minutes to adjust.

You landed a hundy? a shrill voice asks right next to me, the words echoing in my head.

Whipping my head around, I find Candy standing next to me with a huge grin on her face, a face overly plastered with makeup. And yes, her name is in fact Candy… her real name. She tells me since she has a name so sweet, she was born to strip. If I wasn’t forever trying to keep my sarcastic mouth shut around these ladies, I would be gagging on my own finger more often than not.

A what? My face must’ve shown my naivety because she simply smiles like a mother does to placate her child.

I flinch as she bends over and pulls the single bill from my shoe, her hair flinging wildly before showing her crooked teeth in an even wider grin—teeth that are too big for her mouth. She waves the flimsy, green piece of paper in front of my face, and it takes me a second to realize it’s a one-hundred-dollar bill.

This will feed me for a month! I squeal, snatching it from her in an instant. Immediately, I cringe at the words spewing from my mouth. Never in the past, nor the present, have I let my coworkers know how badly I need cash… never. Because they would look at me just like Candy is in this moment.

Pity.

I hate it when pity shines through the expression of others.

I spent my entire childhood being pitied. Commiseration is the pure definition of my adolescence, and to see it in my adulthood makes me queasy. Numero dos on the rapidly growing list of why it’s not a good idea for me to be stripping.

Congrats, kiddo! Candy says, walking away from me and flicking her frizzy blonde hair over her shoulder.

She has dollar bills nearly stretching out her garters, yet she’s so gaudy and unattractive in my mind. Then again, maybe that’s what men want? Easy, breezy blondes who wear too much makeup and smell like they smashed their too-large breasts into a perfume shop? Plus, it bothers me to no end when someone calls me kiddo. I’m far from a kid at twenty-two years of age. I blanch at the mention of my age flashing through my head. I’ve been dealing with this scummy life of bartending, and now stripping, for over six years. Only Satan knows why the owner let me lie on my application.

Numbers scare me.

I don’t dare let anyone around me know just how uncomfortable I am in my own skin, so I hide it with disdain, whether they like it or not.

So as Candy disappears around a corner, I narrow my eyes at her, my mood now sour. Given my shitty lot in life, I’ve never been the kind of girl who holds back her distaste for someone, no matter what their intentions are. But I know I need to step up and at least give the perception I’m able to play nice, especially since the manager has given me a new opportunity to make some cash.

I think about calling out and trying to thank her. Maybe I need to pretend to be friendly and tell her I am appreciative of the extra tip from the random Joe out on the floor. But even with my good intentions, my throat catches at the dark thoughts swirling through my mind.

I can’t pretend to be someone I am not when memories continue to haunt me. To even hold the large bill in my hand feels unnatural. Did the man know what he was doing by shoving it in my shoe? The man, who I believe just slipped me the hundy, looked so much like someone I’d never thought I’d see again in my lifetime. I physically shake my head, trying to rid it of memories and chalk it up to my fucked-up brain.

Most men drink while watching girls shimmy their breasts in their face. I should know. I’ve spent the last several years serving them. Maybe the man was completely plastered and this will come back to haunt me?

With the thought that he can cause a stink over losing so much money, or come after me for it, I quickly dress and grab my large coat, the hem landing just above my knees, and haul ass out the back door and into the night. I make sure no one is nearby as I shove the large bill into my pocket along with the few other bills I made earlier in the night.

Nerves rattle around beneath my skin with the mere idea of carrying so much money, but I’m still relieved that my manager told me to leave once my first set was over. I am beyond grateful to get the hell out of that place.

I’m starving… that’s for sure. And I know I don’t have a ton of food at home. But stopping for food between the club and my apartment isn’t in the cards for me.

I’ll eat tomorrow, I mutter. After all, that’s usually the mantra I tell myself each and every time my stomach growls. If my hunger didn’t make my mouth water and stomach turn, I wouldn’t care if I ate another day in my life.

If I die tomorrow, no one will even notice. I still can’t come up with a good reason why I should keep fighting. Nothing good has happened in my life, and every day continues to be a struggle.

Thankfully, my apartment is only a few blocks from the club—the seedy neighborhood a painful reminder that I’m not going anywhere in this life. I am forever looking over my shoulder with fear that someone will ultimately take me down, which pulls me from my maudlin thoughts. Shadows linger in corners, nasty smells assault my nose, grime sticks to my skin… all reminders of my lot in this life.

Tess! a male voice calls from the distance.

I speed up, my heeled feet clomping loudly on the cracked concrete of the sidewalk. It never matters if the boogeyman knows your name or not, you still don’t stop.

Plus, the man clearly doesn’t know the real me if he calls me that. Just the mere mention of the nickname has my nerves jumbling around in my throat.

He used to call me that.

Oh, c’mon, gorgeous. I just wanna talk, the male shouts, his sinister voice echoing off the dingy walls of apartments around us. Even though it was years ago, I can tell it isn’t the voice of the man I feared.

Still, I have no intention of stopping and hurry my way up the stairs, taking them two at a time in my insanely high heels. I didn’t want to ruin them, even though I was lucky enough to find them at a thrift store for only ten dollars. But losing my life over cheap shoes sounds insane… even to me, the weirdo who has zero quality of life.

A sigh of relief attacks my lungs when I see my door—the chipped, purple paint suddenly soothing to me.

My sanctuary.

While the neighbors might know my name, I never socialize with them and have never bothered to in the past. For them to think I will change my tune and stop to chitchat at two in the morning is insane. I’m not stupid. Nothing is important enough to flag me down at this time of night. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.

As I close my door, the hinges protesting with the movement, I hear the hiss of the word bitch echoing around the courtyard below.

Thank Christ I’m smart enough to make it to safety, never stopping just because someone demands my attention.

Before I can grasp what’s happening, my stomach growls and my mind spirals, questioning once again why I really care whether I lose my life or not. Regardless of how miserable my life is, I still don’t want to satisfy some rapist. It’s the principal of the matter.

If I die, it’ll be on my own terms.

2

My decision to leave the orphanage assaults my mind with memories, even though it cemented a turning point in my life that has since altered who I am as a person.

Capturing the full understanding of exactly what I am and why everyone fears me is going to be the challenge of the century.

To this day, I remember how my heart didn’t beat… didn’t even flutter or get trapped in my throat as I got caught fleeing the concrete prison that was St. Patrick’s.

Where are you running to, Wednesday? a snotty voice asked behind me.

I hated when people called me Wednesday. Stopping in my tracks, I turned my head and looked over the curve of my backpack at the scowling redhead. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her eyes glaring at me in question.

I didn’t respond and just kept on walking. My straight, black hair whipped around in my face, and I knew if I didn’t get the fuck away from this place, I’d seriously lose my mind.

I had just turned sixteen a few hours before, and the laughter from the nuns as I mentioned the idea of cake still echoed in my mind.

Sister Frances! Red hollered. Her voice was loud… too loud… echoing off the cold stone walls that surrounded us.

I didn’t stop. I’d die before I’d stop. Instead, I ran for dear life, mentally preparing to scale the seven-foot iron fence in a matter of seconds. I was already tired… my heaving breaths coming in waves. It wasn’t like the nuns of St. Patrick’s made sure we exercised unless you counted scrubbing floors a kind of workout.

Still, my heartbeat was nearly nonexistent. I’d lost my heart a long time ago.

With a huff, I swung the backpack off my shoulders and threw it over the spiked iron of the fence with a loud thunk. I looked at the long, black poles that made up the barrier to separate the real world from my soul. The shrill hollering from behind me told me I had no time to hesitate.

Using the worn tread of my tennis shoes, I took a running start and struggled my way up the side of the fence, my hands digging into the spikes at the top of the cold metal. The grunt of pain that left my lips didn’t even sound like me as I kicked my legs over and dropped to the sidewalk on the other side.

Long, spindly fingers reached for me, grabbing a handful of my hair through the gaps in the fence and holding on tight. I screamed in pain and clutched at the nun’s wrist. Regardless of the agony that radiated from the hair pulling out of my scalp, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast of her pale skin against my raven hair. The difference was oddly calming to me.

Without effort, my blood-covered palms made just enough purchase to wrench her arm the wrong way, causing her to let go and grind out a rather unholy curse from her lips.

I backed away, my breath coming out unnaturally slow considering how far I’d just pushed my body. Sister Frances was still reaching for me, strands of my black hair dangling from her white fingers.

Evil reflected back at me, and I was damn near sure she would’ve ripped out a chunk of my throat with her gnashing teeth if I hadn’t struggled away.

Tesla! she screamed. Get back here!

I didn’t bother to hide my grin of triumph—triumph that I’d escaped the hands of the devil—as I scooped up my bag and sauntered away from that orphanage, never to return.

To this day, I consider my escape to be the happiest moment of my life. My happiness was short-lived at the time, but I still wouldn’t have it any other way. I would never take my actions back. Leaving was, and still is, the best decision I’ve ever made. I still remember just how miserable I was living with those people and the misery that continued to stem from being rejected by countless foster homes across the city.

Of course, all it takes is a few weeks sleeping under bridges and bathing in gas station sinks to move from one nightmare to another.

Earlier today, I chucked fifteen dollars of the hundred I’d made the previous night on a glorious steak from the nearby grocery store. Yes, it’s pretty stupid of me to spend so much money on a hunk of meat, but I’m hungry and my stomach isn’t having it any other way. The small tabletop grill I have on my porch was perfect to sear the outside of the meat just to my liking.

I can’t satiate my hunger anymore with ramen noodles and frozen pizzas. The ravenous feeling pumping through me as the steak sizzles on the grill’s grate is enough to make me want to lunge into the fire after it while still raw. But here I stand, waiting rather impatiently, because I know how very good it’s going to taste once it’s tough on the outside and so very juicy and moist on the inside. My teeth clamp down on my tongue, my mouth filling with saliva as I wait.

Watching the flames lick through the slats of the grill has my mind wandering before I can stop it. I spend many of my waking hours avoiding my past, trying to forget and not reminisce about my childhood.

I have no memories of my parents. They’d abandoned me shortly after I was born—at least that’s what all the caseworkers have told me. The only fond memory I have of one of my foster homes is a woman who made a career of fostering children. She always insisted on pairing meat with a side of some sort… most of the time pasta or potatoes. Still, no matter how thankful I was for her home-cooked meals, she grew sick of me within a matter of weeks, shipping me back to the orphanage without a second glance in my direction.

Fuck sides.

A nicely cooked steak is plenty for me.

As I am pulling my steak off the grill, shutting the small gas tank off and practically drooling over the smell before I can bother to sit, I look down into the parking lot and see a man. He is slender, his teeth almost glowing in the moonlight as he smiles up at me.

I have a strong suspicion it’s the same man who was calling my name the night before. He doesn’t look familiar to me, and I can’t help but wonder how he knows my name.

Not sure why you’re avoiding me, sugar. His voice is just above a normal tone, and I can’t help but glance around the area to make sure no one else can hear him. But you should let me come up and enjoy that lovely dinner with you. You’re too pretty to eat alone.

The glare I shoot his way should be enough to chase off a child, but I am unsure of its potency on an adult until I see the fear in his eyes—the same fear that was reflected in that nun’s face so many years before.

Fuck, he mutters. Never mind then.

Without another glance in my direction, he walks away, shoving his hands into his pockets as he meanders into the shadows around the corner of the building.

At least my scare tactics are good for something.

Good riddance, I mumble.

I honestly don’t need losers hanging around. Hell, I’m not even happy with my own company. So having others I don’t like hanging around and bleeding me dry isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.

Then again, I can’t think of anything I would consider a fun activity. I don’t have friends. I don’t have family. I don’t have a life outside of work.

But, what I do have is my life. For so long, I lived a life that wasn’t my own. Now, I can confidently say I own me… no