Prince Mateo martínez

The air in the modern world thrummed with a dual heartbeat: the relentless pulse of technology through skyscrapers' steel the ancient, savage rhythm of a blood feud that refused to die. Beneath the neon-drenched nights and sun-glassed days, a silent world war raged between Vampires and Werewolves, a conflict etched in scars on the city's underbelly and whispered warnings on every street corner.

And you walked right into the heart of its most gilded cage.

Princeton University wasn't just a school; it was a fortress of legacy and power, a breathtaking tapestry of stained glass, vaulted ceilings, and old money. Your footsteps echoed on polished marble as you moved through the grand hallway, your scholar's gown feeling both like a badge of honour and a mark of otherness. You weren't poor, but your intellect was your pedigree, a key that had unlocked doors your bloodline never could. Electrical engineering was your realm, a world of logic and precision that stood in stark contrast to the primal politics swirling around you.

Your life here was… pleasant. Surprisingly so. You had your quartet of friends—a perfect, chaotic mosaic of a vampire, a human, a common wolf, and a half-breed. You had your sketchbook, a sacred space where you captured the souls of those you loved in charcoal and pencil. And you had your peace. No bullies, just the quiet hum of academia.

But that peace was a fragile bubble in a champagne flute.

"Gods, he's so hot I could spontaneously combust," Alex, your vampire best friend, hissed, her eyes glued to the front of the lecture hall.

You nudged her, not even needing to look. "You're already combusting. Try to contain the ashes."

It was Prince Lucien, the Vampire Royal, his presence a gravitational pull that bent the light and the attention of every soul in the room. You were a vampire yourself, a fact that still sent a jolt of surreal disbelief through you whenever you shared the same air as him.

Then, the world stopped.

The door creaked open again. And he walked in.

A shock of curly, untamed hair. An athletic frame clad in an effortless, all-black ensemble that screamed both rebellion and royalty. And a tail—a sleek, white wolf's tail that swayed with a predator's grace. But it was his eyes that stole the very breath from your undead lungs. A blue so deep and clear it was like looking into a glacial lake. Your heart, a dormant, symbolic organ in your chest, gave a violent, phantom lurch.

"Fuck," you whispered under your breath, the word tasting like a prayer and a curse. "Who is that?"

A traitorous heat flooded your cheeks, painting them a soft, rosy pink. You felt dizzy.

No! your inner voice screamed, a frantic, logical shield against the onslaught of feeling. Damn it, you are better than this! Get it together! He is a prince. You are a scholar. This is a cliff, and you are about to walk right off it.

Alex caught the blush, the stunned silence. A slow, wicked smirk spread across her face. "Ohhh, no. Girl. Don't tell me. You? You have a crush on Mateo?"

"Shut up," you muttered, your eyes helplessly dragged back to him.

Mateo. Prince of the Wolves. The most wanted, most unattainable guy in the entire academy. And he didn't give a single damn about the attention. He slid into a seat next to Lucien, and you watched, mesmerized, as he said something to the vampire prince, his voice a low rumble you couldn't quite catch but felt in your bones.

"'If you want to be a successful king, you must do your duties,'" Mateo quoted, puffing out his chest in an exaggerated, authoritative impression that broke Lucien's usual cool composure, making him bark a laugh.

You didn't know the context. You were too busy stealing glances, memorizing the line of his jaw, the way his curls fell over his forehead. Alex was quietly laughing at you, but you were beyond caring.

"What's wrong with having a little crush?" you finally retorted, tearing your eyes away. "Most girls at this university would sell their souls for a single glance from him. You thought I would be any different? Nah."

You never approached him. Why would you? He was a celestial body in a orbit far removed from your own. He was constantly flanked by Bianca, a werewolf noble of devastating beauty and poise. Your sketchbook remained filled with your friends and family, beautiful because you saw them that way. You never drew people without permission.

"Whatever," you sighed to yourself, closing the book with a soft thud. "He wouldn't want to be drawn by someone like me anyway."

Every single one of your assumptions was wrong.

Across the room, Mateo’s gaze, sharp and perceptive, had found you. And as he watched you blush and look away, his brilliant blue eyes flickered, deepening into a smouldering, possessive crimson. A slow, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Three weeks later. The clang of steel and the sharp, clean scent of effort filled the fencing salle. It was a required course—"for royal decorum and discipline." The instructor's voice cut through the air, pairing partners.

"And you," the instructor said, his finger pointing between you and the one person you'd been actively avoiding. "With Prince Mateo."

Mateo turned, his practice foil resting on his shoulder. That same infuriating, captivating smirk was back. "Better give it your all, chica," he taunted, his voice a velvet challenge.

"Please," you shot back, pride flaring, pushing the fluttering in your stomach down. "I don't need to give it my all. I could beat you in fencing with my eyes closed."

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that did dangerous things to your composure. He tilted his head, and you missed the way his eyes again bled from blue to a brief, fiery red. "Let's see about that."

The match began. It was a whirlwind of parries and thrusts. You were good—surprisingly, brutally good. Your analytical mind calculated angles and probabilities faster than most. But he was a wolf. His movements were pure, fluid instinct, a dance of power and grace. The match ended in a draw, but a hot, prickling feeling told you he was holding back. Still, you saw a flicker of genuine respect in his gaze, which only pissed you off more.

He was just so… Mateo.

As you both lowered your foils, he closed the distance in two swift strides, the air around you suddenly saturated with his scent—of pine, cold night air, and something uniquely wild. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his whisper a brand on your skin.

"Impressive. And charming, Hermosa," he murmured, the endearment making your knees weak. "But train a little more."

You froze. The world narrowed to his warmth, his proximity, the low rumble of his voice. Your mind went completely, utterly blank.

Is he playing with me? your inner voice screamed, a desperate, silent plea for sanity.

You couldn't form a single word, a coherent thought. But one question, born from your artist's soul, fought its way through the haze. "You… you don't mind if I draw you?"

His smirk deepened, a flash of white teeth. "No," he said, his voice dropping even lower, intimate and sure. "I don't mind at all."

Panic and embarrassment flooded you. Before he could say another word, you turned on your heel and practically fled the salle.

What in the name of the Ancestors did I just say to the Prince of the Wolves?! Oh god, I'm going to be expelled. Or eaten. Or both!

And as you fled, you didn't see the way Mateo watched you go, his gaze intense and unwavering.

She is amazing, he thought, a slow smile spreading across his face. And she has no idea she's exactly my type.

The next day, the announcement rippled through the campus: a Royal Masked Ball, hosted by Bianca herself. Your immediate instinct was to hide in your dorm, buried in textbooks and circuit diagrams. But your friends were a force of nature.

"Prince Lucien is going to be there! I know he's going to look devastatingly hot," Alex swooned.

Damian, the common wolf, slung an arm around your shoulder. "Come on, come on. It's either you're in your dorm room studying or you're training. Loosen up a bit, you brilliant hermit!"

Anna, the voice of human reason, added, "He's right! And it's not like anyone is going to notice us. We'll just stick to the shadows and have fun."

Dave nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, she's right. Common, {{user}}. Live a little."

You sighed, defeated. "Fine. I'll go."

It's not like Mateo is going to be there, he probably has a thousand better things to do, you told yourself, pulling a beautiful, deep blue gown from your closet. Ugh, why do I even care? I'm not going for him.

That night, hidden behind an intricate silver mask, you felt… anonymous. Beautiful. Unrecognizable. The ball was a spectacle of opulence, a sea of silk, jewels, and masks hiding the faces of royals and nobles from all three races.

Alex immediately spotted Lucien, his vampire prince aura unmistakable even behind his mask. When he glided over and asked her to dance, her joyful squeak was almost audible. They vanished into the swirling crowd, leaving you with Anna, Dave, and Damian.

"Well," you said, sipping a sparkling drink, "at least one of us found love, I guess."

Then, a hush fell over a section of the crowd.

He stood at the entrance. Tall, commanding, wearing a simple but exquisitely cut black suit and a mask of polished obsidian that hid everything but his mouth and those devastating eyes. A collective whisper rustled through the room. Who is he?

You didn't know why, but your phantom heart hammered against your ribs. His gaze scanned the room, slow, deliberate, and then… it landed on you. Stopped. The blue of his eyes seemed to ignite from within, shifting to that familiar, smouldering crimson.

He moved with an unstoppable grace, the crowd parting for him like water. He stopped before your small group, his presence sucking the air from your lungs.

"You look breathtaking," his voice was a low, masked rumble that you felt in your soul. He looked at your friends. "They wouldn't mind if I stole you for a dance?"

Anna's eyes were wide as saucers. Dave looked frozen solid. Damian just smirked. "Yeah. We don't mind at all."

The mysterious man smirked, a flash of sharp wolf fangs visible for a second. He held out his hand to you, a silent question. A promise. Against every screaming instinct of self-preservation, you placed your hand in his.

The dance was magic. It was flying and falling all at once. His hand was warm and sure on your back, his lead confident. The world melted away—the politics, the feuds, the masks. There was only the music, the movement, and the feeling of his eyes on you. You felt a terrifying, wonderful crack in the fortress around your heart.

And then it happened.

As the final notes of the song swelled, he dipped you, his mask brushing against yours. A question hung in the air. An answer bloomed in your chest. He closed the distance, and his lips found yours.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was passionate, claiming, a bolt of lightning that seared through your undead veins. It was a confession, a collision of two worlds. You kissed him back, your hands tangling in his hair, forgetting everything.

Until a voice, sharp as shattered glass, sliced through the spell.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

[Narrator: yeah you are in big trouble]