Mr. Edwin Rutherford

The manor had been cleaned to a cruel degree. Candles flickered low in sconces that'd been polished to a reflective gleam. No dust dared linger under Edwin's watch. He had given no direct order (he rarely did) but the staff understood well enough that imperfection would not be tolerated tonight. Not with guests arriving.

In the east wing dining hall, long-abandoned for its poor acoustics and proximity to the old conservatory, Edwin stood at the head of the table as the final place settings were adjusted. He checked his pocket watch, more out of habit than necessity. The guests would arrive in precisely ten minutes. They always did. And always would, lest...unsavory word got out, no matter how small.

His reflection caught faintly in the silver-domed lids over the serving platters—fitting. He believed in reflection. In a carefully curated image. His three-piece suit was charcoal, and the button-up underneath was a lovely white. And anything darker was a tacky matte black, anything lighter too forgiving. The gloves he wore tonight were black kid leather, soft as the brush of his fingers against his pet's neck—a minute signal to behave—and stitched so finely.

He ran his thumb along the rim of his wine glass, pondering how he'd planned for the dinner to go. And even trying to bother "listening" for the ring of pure crystal was a fool's ideal, he knew it, but it was a social expectation for the so-called cultured aristocrats.

Next to him, he'd made his pet sit, knees digging into a plush, fluffy floor pillow decorated with tassels. Collared and dressed immaculately in attire Edwin had selected days ago. Something befitting to represent him despite their subhuman status as his pet. Edwin had not permitted them to speak tonight, and he knew they would not dare—or he'd restrict their proper blood intake again, replaced with those pitiful blood capsules supplied by the good doctor.

He allowed himself a moment to observe them. How composed they looked when obedient. How easy it was to draw out elegance when one removed the burdens of choice. They didn't need to think or make their own choices—only for trained restraint, with the scent of fresh blood he knew they could smell from across the manor. Tonight's guests.

He didn't smile—he rarely gave a genuine smile—but there was a manufactured pull at the corner of his mouth. Not affection, exactly. Satisfaction.

The first guest arrived promptly at seven.

"Ah, Mr. Harrow," Edwin said, voice smooth as the ring adorning his finger. "I was beginning to think the fog might delay your coach."

Harrow laughed too loudly, adjusted his cravat. "One wouldn't miss a Rutherford invitation for a little mist."

Edwin's handshake was firm, brief. He ushered Harrow in with the practiced ease of a man who had never once yielded his home to chaos. More guests followed—Alderman Crane, the widowed Lady Rosamund, two junior bankers Edwin had been keeping his eye on for acquisition.

As the final chair slid into place and the soup course was served, conversation bloomed. Talk of shipping lines and salt taxes. Of troublesome unions and sightings of ghouls near the coastal cliffs. Edwin spoke sparingly, but with precision. Every word was an investment, and each action practiced, confident, he was the host, the one in control.

And every so often, when the chatter lulled or veered toward vulgarity, his gaze would land on them. Not with fondness—but reminder. The collar glinted subtly in the candlelight, adorned with a few gemstones from Castilla's remaining jewelry box. Posture rigid and straight, just as he'd spent days correcting. And of course, the soft leather leash that pooled on their lap.

Harrow noticed them too, of course. "You've acquired new company," he said, smiling over his spoon. "Charming creature. Exotic, even." Vampires were an elusive bunch after all, rare even in the darkest corners of Grimhaven, where rumors of ghosts were high. Yet the supernatural had gotten bolder recently.

Edwin did not look away. "They're not here to be charming, Mr. Harrow. They're here to be quiet."

The table fell still for a heartbeat. Rosamund let out a breathless laugh. "Oh, Edwin. You haven't changed."

Edwin felt his eye almost twitch, a mild irritation at the woman's laugh. He found it not quite the proper cadence for a lady of her position—especially since she hadn't attended with her husband, a poor fool who relied on someone like her. A bed warmer. She should've stayed home.

"I find change overrated." He took a sip of his wine. "Consistency, on the other hand...can be cultivated." Predictability was safe, civilizing, and a necessary comfort.

The conversation resumed, but the tone had shifted. Laughter was more cautious. Edwin preferred it that way. By the time the main course arrived, his pet hadn't moved. Not a sound. Not a flicker of rebellion. Perfect, Edwin thought.

And for just a moment, he let his gloved hand rest on the table, close enough for their eyes to catch the gesture. Not a touch. Never that in public. But permission. A silent signal that he'd seen their performance and, perhaps, approved. He would decide later whether to reward them for it.

Even if, deep down, a flicker of him wanted them to snap—to shatter the performance with a flash of teeth and spill red across the white tablecloth. To witness the feral nature he was certain lurked beneath that disciplined mask.

.