Taken By The Vampire True Blood

I thought being rescued from the kidnapper's basement after eight years was the end of my hell, but it was just the beginning.

My father, the powerful Underboss Derek McCall, looked at my twelve-year-old face and saw only the monster who had held us captive. He was convinced I was the byproduct of his wife's assault, calling me "pollution" in his pristine bloodline.

Life at the estate was a nightmare. I was forced to scrub floors while his stepdaughter, Kylie, lived like a princess.

When I was starving, Derek caught me eating from the garbage and mocked me.

When Kylie ordered a Doberman to maul me, tearing my leg apart on the manicured lawn, he just watched and told the guards to stitch me up without anesthesia.

Yet, when he was dying from a gunshot wound and the hospital was out of blood, I was the one who stepped up.

I gave two pints of my blood to save him, hoping he would finally see me.

He didn't.

The moment he was stable, his mother kicked me out of the house, handing me over to social services like unwanted trash.

They didn't realize until the car drove away that the medical file on the table held a secret.

My blood wasn't dirty. The DNA was a 99.9% match.

I wasn't the kidnapper's child. I was his.

When they finally came begging for forgiveness years later, I didn't offer a hug.

I handed them an eviction notice.

Chapter 1

Eliza McCall POV

I realized my mother didn't love me the moment the muzzle of a suppressed rifle pressed against my forehead, and she didn't scream for my life—she screamed for the man holding the gun.

For eight years, we had rotted in a basement in Appalachia, a cage that smelled of mildew and Burt’s cheap whiskey.

I thought the explosion that blew the steel door off its hinges was the end.

Dust swirled in the heavy air, choking the dim light of the single bulb swaying above us. Men in black tactical gear flooded the room, silent and lethal.

They weren't police.

Police shout warnings.

These men moved with the synchronized efficiency of reapers.

Burt, the monster who had kept us in a cage since I was four, didn't even have time to reach for his shotgun. One of the soldiers struck him with the butt of a rifle, the wet crack of bone echoing off the concrete walls.

Burt crumpled to the floor, unconscious or dead. I didn't care.

I scrambled backward, pressing my spine against the damp cinder blocks, clutching the silver pendant I had stolen from Burt’s stash months ago. It was my only bargaining chip.

"Mama," I whispered, reaching for her hand.

She slapped it away.

It wasn't a panic reaction. It was a dismissal.

She was already scrambling to her feet, her eyes fixed on the silhouette filling the doorway.

He stepped into the room, and the atmosphere instantly shifted, sucking the oxygen from the air.

Derek McCall.

I knew his face from the crumpled newspaper clippings Burt had taunted us with. The Underboss. The Dark Prince of the McCall Crime Family.

My father.

He wore a suit that cost more than the house we were trapped in, tailored to fit broad shoulders that carried the weight of a criminal empire.

He didn't look at the blood on the floor. He didn't look at the squalor.

He only looked at her.

"Eleanora," he said. His voice was deep, a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.

"Derek!"

My mother threw herself at him. She didn't look back at me. Not once.

She buried her face in his chest, sobbing, melting into him as if he were the only solid thing in the universe. He wrapped his arms around her, his expression shifting from cold granite to something possessive, something fierce.

He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent, reclaiming his property.

I stood up, my legs shaking. I was twelve years old, malnourished, wearing a stained t-shirt that was three sizes too big.

I took a step forward. "Dad?"

The word hung in the air, fragile as glass.

Derek McCall lifted his head.

His eyes locked onto mine.

I expected tears. I expected relief. I expected a father.

Instead, I saw a void.

His eyes were the color of steel, and just as hard. He looked at me with the same expression one might look at a roach crawling across a wedding cake.

Disgust. Pure, unadulterated disgust.