Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It had been twenty-three years since the Warrior Priest laid a vampire’s head at the feet of the Clergy. Since the train bound for the Capital, stuffed with monsters, had jumped the tracks and burned under the midday sun, its wreckage left to bleach and rust as a warning for anyone with eyes to see.

Vampires had returned. That much was undeniable. And with them, the Priests and Priestesses rose again, dragged from solitude to meet the threat. Towns that had once whispered in isolation now traded information in frantic bursts. Protocols were rewritten. UV barricades were hammered into place. Awareness spread like wildfire across the Wasteland until it seemed even the dust knew what stalked the edges of civilisation.

Most believed themselves safe during the day. You knew better—at least, you should have. A drifter with nothing but dust on your boots and a pack light enough to shoulder for days at a time, you lived by your feet and your instincts. No family waiting, no hearth fire to return to. Just a string of temporary roofs, traded favours, and a silence you’d never quite shaken. You’d heard the stories. Everyone had. The infamous Priest-turned-vampire. Black Hat, they called him. Said he died with the train. Said no one, not even the Clergy, would speak his real name.

So you walked. In daylight. Because daylight was supposed to be safe. Because every town said so. Because the Order said so.

News flash: it isn’t.

You’re not sure when you first feel it. Not the wind—the air is dead still, heavy as ash. Not the heat, though it clings, sun high and bold. This is something else. Quieter than footfall, colder than shadow. A prickle that creeps up the spine the way a knife draws a line under skin. The sense you’ve been watched before, but never like this.

You glance over your shoulder. Nothing. Just the street behind you, pale dust curling in lazy spirals. Storefronts shuttered. Crosses long since faded from the wood. The kind of silence that masquerades as safety, thin as paper, ready to tear. You keep walking, boots scuffing on cracked stone. Broad daylight. Everyone said it was safe during the day. The city isn’t what it used to be, sure, but no one’s seen anything out of place for weeks. The Order promised the threats were nocturnal. You wanted to believe them. You still want to believe them.

But your shadow isn’t the only one following you anymore.

“Out alone,” comes a voice. Low. Measured. Amused. It rolls over the quiet like black water over salt, soft but corrosive. “That’s brave.”

You freeze.

A man stands at the mouth of an alleyway like a figure pulled whole from a nightmare — too dark for the daylight, too composed for the ruin around him. The brim of his hat angles low, cutting across his face, shadowing the eyes but not the smile. That, you can see. A line of white far too sharp for ease, too calm to belong to any man alive.

The heat gnaws at you. Sweat trickles down your back. But he is untouched. Black coat heavy, dusted at the hem, buttoned as if he’s standing in winter’s chill instead of noon’s blaze. The fabric drinks the light, swallows it whole, lets nothing return. You want to blame the shade for why he looks carved out of bone and iron until he lifts his head.

Gold. His eyes catch the sun and burn with it, unnatural, molten, steady as a furnace. The colour doesn’t flicker. It stares, and the longer it stares the more you feel yourself reduced beneath it, nothing but tinder waiting for a spark.

Your instincts don’t scream. They whisper. And somehow, that’s worse. “I’m not looking for trouble,” you force out, words brittle, but steady enough to pass.

The smile widens by the smallest fraction. “But trouble finds you anyhow.” The vowels roll long, stretched thin, his drawl dragging slow across your skin like a blade honed on patience. “How very unlucky.”

You step back. He doesn’t. Still, the air between you shrinks, like distance itself is bending to him.

“I’ve read about you,” you try, throwing the words like stones at a beast too big to notice. “You’re one of them.”

His head tilts, brim cutting the sunlight into a cruel slash across his mouth. “Oh?” he drawls, soft, lazy, dangerous. “And what d’they say ’bout me?”

“That you’re supposed to be dead.”

A sound stirs in his chest, laughter, but low, unhurried, dragging heat and ice together until your spine locks. “Darlin’,” the word drips off his tongue like honey hiding poison, “I ain’t even supposed to be awake.”

Your skin crawls. It isn’t just the words, but the rhythm, each one deliberate, measured, as though language is only another mask he knows too well how to wear. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t shift. He is stillness made flesh, the kind that predators learn long before prey ever understands why they should run.

“You should go,” you manage, though your throat sticks. “People will see.”

He moves at last. One step. Then another. Slow. Heavy coat stirring though the air is dead still, boots cutting the dust without a sound. “Ain’t no one left t’see,” he murmurs, accent coiling smoke-slick through the silence. “You been walkin’ through a grave. Didn’t you wonder why it was so quiet?”

And you had. The thought hammers back in sudden clarity. No barking dogs. No hammer of tools. No barter-shouts in the street. Not even the wingbeat of scavenger birds. Just your own echo. And now his. “What do you want?” you ask, knowing the answer won’t save you.

He smiles, wider now, white teeth gleaming beneath the shadow of his hat. Eyes like gold fire fixed unblinking on you. “To see what you’ll do.” He comes closer. You step back. “Run. Scream. Beg…” His voice stretches the words, savouring them, consonants softened to silk, vowels drawn out until they ache. The drawl curls around you like smoke in the lungs, like chains slipping tight. “Surprise me.”

Your back hits stone. No door. No alley. No escape. Just heat and him. He looms without leaning, coat a black tide around him, a shape that doesn’t belong to the world anymore. You run because that’s what prey does when the shadow smiles. Because the wall behind you is only stone, and the street ahead, too wide, too bright, too silent, is no sanctuary. Boots slip on dust. Air claws at your lungs. Your heartbeat thrashes like it wants out. You twist through alleyways, duck past corners, scrape your limbs raw on rusted railings and jagged brick. Each turn should put distance between you and him, but the silence keeps up with you. The Wasteland heat blurs, light glaring hard enough to hurt, but you don’t dare slow.

You glance back. The alley mouth behind you is empty. No hat. No shadow. Just light. That’s when the fear changes. Because he’s not chasing you. He’s circling. A click of boots behind you. Then ahead. Then to your left. The sound is soft, almost polite, but impossible, echoing where no one should be. The sense of him presses closer from every direction at once, a predator drawing the lines of a cage you can’t see.

You dart left. Slam through a doorway. Stagger through a dead shop, breath high and useless in your throat. Dust hangs in the air like a cobweb. Broken counters, gutted shelves. No way out. And then he’s there. No warning. No roar. Just a shift in the air, a blur at the edge of sight. Arms like iron, movement like lightning. He lifts you as easily as a doll; your spine hits stone before you can even drag a scream past your teeth.

A wall eats your momentum. A body seals over yours. His hand clamps down over your mouth, glove hot and dry, palm calloused, smell of leather and dust and something metallic, like old coins and blood. Heat and shadow swallow you whole. Gold eyes stare down from inches away, catching what little light there is, burning it into you. You can’t even twitch.

“Poor thing,” he breathes, and it isn’t mockery. It’s almost reverent, like a priest at an altar. “You didn’t know.”

You stiffen, every nerve screaming for denial. But beneath the fear, something else rises, slow and traitorous, a low throb at your centre, the same ache you’d ignored this morning. Too soft to be painful. Too deep to be dismissed. A pull. Biological. Wrong. Ancient. The kind of instinct that has nothing to do with choice.

“Oh, but I know,” he murmurs, voice thick as velvet and just as dark. “Even if you pretend you don’t.” He leans in, breath stirring the hair at your temple. His nose drifts through it, grazing your scalp; he inhales, a long, slow drag like a man drinking at a well. The sound is quiet but obscene. “You’re bleedin', little lamb.” The words aren’t cruel. They’re absolute. Not a threat. Not a warning. A connoisseur’s observation, soft as a blade laid across your throat.

You shudder. The movement only brings you closer to him.

And he smiles. Not wide. Not gleeful. A small, knowing curve of lips that bares a hint of teeth. “Daylight,” he hums, amused, drawl dragging like honey over stone. “You thought it made you invisible.”

He eases his hand from your mouth. You don’t scream. You don’t even breathe. You’re not sure why. Maybe because you know it wouldn’t help. Maybe because the sound of his voice, low, devout, like scripture whispered over a grave, has frozen you deeper than terror ever could. His fingers find your wrist. Not to bind. Not to hurt. Just to touch. To prove that he can. The pads of his fingers are warm and dry, a hunter’s grip, intimate and unshakable. “Come quietly,” he says, as if offering you mercy, as if you were already halfway to kneeling.

You should run. Everything in you says run. Your heart hammers the command, your muscles coil for it, but your legs won’t move. Your mouth won’t open. Terror is an animal under your skin, and it has gone perfectly still. And somewhere in that deep, instinctive place, the place that knew to fear him before you even saw him, another voice answers. Not this time.

The world becomes motion again. You don’t remember the shift. One moment, he’s there, scent of leather and dust filling your lungs, fingers resting at your wrist with deceptive gentleness. Next, the alley is gone. So is the sky. Metal bites at your knees. The clang of it echoes through your bones, too loud in the silence. Dust rises into your throat and sticks there. The air smells of rust, dried blood, and oil gone rancid, thick enough to taste. The light is coppery and dim, pooling from a single lantern that swings on its chain, casting long, pendulum shadows that move even when you don’t.

Behind you, something heavy seals with a hiss and a lock. The sound is final. The train doesn’t run. Hasn’t in years. But the car still stands, half off the rails, tilted like it’s kneeling to something older than memory. Windows blacked out with age and grime. Benches gutted to their frames. Hooks hang from the ceiling like a butcher’s dream.

And he’s there. Perched on the bent rail of a bench as if he’s been waiting all along, coat pooled around him like a living shadow, hat on, legs folded, posture still and easy. He watches you with those molten gold eyes, unblinking, a predator at rest after the pounce. “You’ve never been hunted, have you?” he asks at last. The drawl drags slow across the copper air, lazy and intimate, like a hand across your throat.

The words are soft. Not mocking. Not cruel. Curious, in the way a man might wonder if a bird has ever known a storm.

You shake your head.

His smile cuts through the quiet. “I didn’t think so.” He leans forward slightly, just enough for the light to touch the edge of his face. “You don’t smell afraid,” he says. “But you should.”

Your mouth goes dry. You want to retreat, but the metal behind you has turned to wall.

He stays where he is, eyes never leaving you. You feel them like weight. Like pressure on the inside of your ribs.

“Do you know what the Priests used to do?” he asks, conversational, as if this is a sermon. “Before they traded blessin' for blades. They’d take sinners to places like this. Not churches. Not temples. Places the light didn’t reach. A train. A tunnel. A pit. Anywhere quiet enough for a confession.” He tilts his head. “And they’d wait.”

You try to shift away. You can’t.

“You’ve got the look of someone who still thinks God might show up and stop me.” He laughs, soft and dry. “Darlin’, I was one of His.” A breath of pause. “Now I answer to somethin' else.” He stands. Steps slow, bootheels ringing against the floor like a clock ticking down.

You crawl backward without thinking and collide with the wall behind you.

He crouches in front of you, hands resting loosely on his knees. Close enough to touch. “I’m goin' to ask you a question,” he says. “You’ll answer. Truthfully. If you lie, I’ll know.”

You nod, breath catching. “I...I didn’t think—”

“No.” His voice is calm. Patient. Final. “That’s not it.” He leans in. His gloved hand slides beneath your jaw, thumb grazing your pulse. “You felt it. That ache. That warmth in your blood. You didn’t know what it was, but your body did. It wanted. It bled. It called.”

You try to deny it, but nothing comes out. Only breath.

And he takes that too, watching the shape of it leave your mouth like it's his due. “You woke somethin', little lamb.”

You don’t look away. His hand left your skin the moment your breath caught, but the impression lingers. Heat at your jaw. Weight between your ribs. The shape of his presence clings like smoke.

He stands again, unhurried, like the ruined railcar isn’t ruins at all, but something built for this. A place meant to hold a moment exactly like this one. “You’ve gone quiet,” he says, pacing the length of the car. The sound of his boots is light, deliberate. “But you’re not silent.” He glances at you, not fully turning. “You felt it this mornin'. That pull in your stomach. That ache that didn’t belong to hunger or heat. You didn’t recognise it. But your body did.”

You start to shake your head.

“No?” His tone doesn’t change. “Then why did you wash like that? Why the change of clothes?” His gaze flicks across you, not with hunger, but with the precision of someone cataloguing details. “Not for comfort. Not for weather.”

You shift. His eyes catch the motion, and he stops walking. “The call wasn’t conscious,” he says. “But it was there. I followed it.” The metal creaks above you. The air is too warm, the light too low. The edges of the railcar seem to blur. “I smelled more than blood. I smelled what came with it. Confusion. Tension. Somethin' raw around the edges. You’re not just bleedin'. You’re unravellin'.”

You try to answer, but your voice sticks.

He closes the distance again, slow but certain, and stops in front of you. “Most people run to escape,” he says. “You ran because somethin' inside you knew what I was. Knew I’d follow. Knew I’d find you.” He watches your face closely. “Tell me that isn’t true.”

Your voice scrapes out low, unsure. “I don’t know.”

He draws in a slow breath. “Good.” Something in the word lands hard. Not praise. Not cruelty. Just fact. “You’re startin' to understand,” he says. “This isn’t about fear. It’s about truth. And now that you’ve seen it…” He crouches again. Steady. Balanced. Eyes level with yours. “What happens next?”

You swallow. Blink. And before your fear can drag the words back down, your mouth moves. “Are you serious right now?”

He slowly cocks his head, the hat shadowing his eyes, and the gold in them flares like a predator’s pupil catching the lantern’s swing.

You narrow your eyes. “Let me get this straight. You think I walked out into the Wastes, bleeding, in daylight, just to summon you? What, like some kind of walking mating call? To attract you?” The laugh that escapes is short and splintered, brittle as cracked glass. You don’t care. “God, you really do think the sun shines out of your ass.”

He straightens, vertebra by vertebra, a movement more like a blade sliding free than a man standing up. The brim of his hat tilts just enough to let a glimmer of gold catch in the dimness.

Your pulse still jolts under your skin, but it isn’t panic anymore. You know what this is. What he is. And you’re done pretending. You throw your hands out. “Forgive me for not checking my cycle before leaving the house. I wasn’t expecting company.”

He advances a pace, not with noise but with a shift in gravity, the way a storm front rolls over a plain.

You glare, jaw tight. “And yes, I ran. Because a silent stranger in black cornered me in an alley and started monologuing like Dracula’s southern cousin.”

Another pace, heavier this time, boots hitting the steel with a thud that vibrates up your shins.

“And this is somehow about you?”

His mouth crooks into a shape that isn’t quite a smile, more a cut opening in shadow, teeth catching the copper light. The air between you tastes of dust and metal. “You done?” he asks at last. Not a question. A soft collision of words that carries weight enough to still the lantern’s sway.

“Almost.”

He waits.

You cross your arms. “If you’re going to kill me, do it. But don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that special.”

He laughs. A deep, warm sound that rumbles from somewhere behind his ribs. It’s worse than any threat he’s made so far. “Oh,” he says, eyes glinting, “Ain’t you cute.”

You scowl. “Not comforting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” He closes the gap again, boots ringing against steel. You don’t retreat.

You plant your feet. The shift is subtle, but real. The air seems to recalibrate. The weight in the room edges off his shoulders and onto yours, not fully, but enough to be felt.

His gaze sharpens. Less like a predator. More like a man solving a puzzle. “You’ve got teeth,” he says. “Most break by now.”

You raise a brow. “I’m anaemic and pissed off. Bite me.”

His grin widens, slow as a blade being unsheathed. “That,” he murmurs, tone pitched low and intimate, “was the wrong thing to say.” He moves in a blur through the copper light, coat snapping like smoke torn from a fire. Your eyes can’t keep pace, but your body knows.

Pain detonates before comprehension does. White-hot, immediate, sharp enough to wrench the breath from your lungs. His mouth is at your wrist. Teeth breaking skin with the precision of a strike honed over centuries. Heat floods out of you in a rush, the copper tang flooding your tongue even though you’re not the one drinking. You gasp, the sound guttural, raw, half-swallowed against the shock of it. Then it’s gone. He’s gone. You stagger back, clutching your arm. Blood wells fast, dark and slick between your fingers. Not deep. Not fatal. A wound carved with intent, not hunger. Punishment. Proof. “What the fuck,” you manage, but the word fractures halfway through. Your throat works around it, breath ragged, chest heaving. Your heart beats like it’s trying to flee your ribcage, pumping more crimson through the shallow punctures.

He watches. Gold eyes lit with something you can’t name. His lips glisten faintly, tongue dragging across the curve of one fang before the copper sheen disappears. “You needed remindin’,” he says, calm again. “You’re not in control here.”

Everything inside you rebels. Your stomach flips, your skin prickles, your veins begin to itch. “Am I—did you just infect me? Am I going to become a familiar?” The words scrape out, raw and trembling.

His smile broadens, unhurried, the curve of it cutting deeper than any fang. Gold eyes glint like struck coins. “Now you’re afraid.”

You stagger until the wall finds you and press your spine against cold metal. The chill doesn’t ground you. Your hands are shaking. Your breath comes in short, broken bursts. The railcar tilts slightly, as if the floor itself has shifted under your weight. “You bit me,” you whisper. Your voice isn’t a shout. It’s a confession, disbelief, fury and shock fused together. “You fucking bit me.”

He shrugs, a tiny lift of his shoulders that’s more gesture than movement, coat whispering at the seams. “You goaded me.”

You press your palm hard to the wound. Blood seeps between your fingers, warm and slick, too fast for comfort. It streaks down your wrist, glimmering dark in the copper light. The scent is everywhere, iron, salt, fear. “I need a doctor,” you stammer, but it sounds hollow even to you.

“You need a Priest.”

The words strike harder than they should, echoing in the gutted car, ringing in your bones. Something old and heavy stirs in the space between you. You stop speaking. He only watches, eyes bright, posture composed, a predator measuring the tremor of its prey.

“I’m not turning,” you murmur, taking a hand to pet over your head. Hair still intact. “I didn’t – what did you do to me?”

“I could tell you what’s happenin’,” he says, voice low, almost kind, “but it’s more fun to let you wonder.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re sick.”

“And you’re delicious.”

The panic catches in your throat. You can’t swallow it.

He laughs once, low and quiet. “Relax. If you were turnin’, you’d already feel the fire in your blood.” He pauses. “Oh. Wait.”

You do. You don’t know if it’s real. You don’t know if he’s bluffing. And the worst part is, you don’t know if you want to believe him. You slide down the wall, breath ragged, heartbeat pounding behind your eyes. Your wrist is slick with blood, but it’s not the pain that turns your stomach. It’s the heat. It blooms under your skin like a fever, racing through your arm, chest, spine, thighs. Nothing feels right. Your nerves buzz. The railcar hums like it’s singing to you alone. You gasp. A laugh slips out. Then you try to stand. Bad idea. The floor sways. Or your mind does. Gravity feels like a rumour. The walls stretch and breathe. The light swims. You look up. He’s still there. Arms folded. Leaning against a beam like he’s watching a play. Except there are two of him? “What the fuck did you do?”

He raises a brow, one gold eye catching the lantern’s swing. “Nothin’ permanent,” he says, almost lazily. “Just a taste.”

You groan, head lolling against the cold wall. “I feel drugged.”

He laughs, low and pleased, the sound curling through the car like smoke uncoiling from a slow burn. It slides under your skin as surely as the heat. “You’re reactin’ beautifully,” he says, gold eyes catching the swing of the lantern. “Prov’n my point. You’re not a familiar.”

You clutch your head, nails scraping your scalp. “The fuck are you on about?” Your body pulses with static, veins vibrating like wires strung too tight. Your fingertips burn. Your teeth ache in their roots. You can feel every inch of blood in your body, rushing too fast, too loud, like a flood battering its own banks. “Am I hallucinating?” You stare at your hand. It shimmers faintly, the air around it wavering like heat above stone.

“Yes.”

“Am I going to die?”

“Mm.” His mouth crooks faintly. “Not today, little lamb.”

You fumble for a jagged rock on the floor and hurl it. It arcs wide, clattering uselessly against a gutted bench. “Fucking vampire,” you mutter, slumping sideways, vision swimming.

“I’ve been called worse,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his boots clicking like punctuation marks. “But not by someone who offered their wrist.”

“I didn’t.”

“You offered your attitude,” he counters, voice silk over iron. “I responded.”

You drag a trembling hand over your face. The world sways, edges bending. “I’m going to be sick.”

He hums, a lazy vibration that doesn’t match the tension in the car. “Avoid my boots.”

“I won’t.”

His teeth flash, not in a full smile, but in a small, sharp glint of amusement, the expression of a predator pleased that the prey is still spitting even while it trembles. “Sleep it off,” he says, voice dipping soft, intimate. “You’ll wake up sore, confused, and convinced this was just a dream. Until you see the scar.”

Your stomach knots. Panic knifes sharp under the fever in your blood. The word scar lingers, heavier than it should, and your body rejects it outright. You dig your nails into your arm, into your thighs, anything to anchor yourself. But then he’s gone. Or maybe not. Hard to say. The car seems to breathe around you, metal plates rising and falling like a ribcage. The lantern’s glow twists and elongates, copper light dripping down the walls in molten streaks. Your blood glows in your veins, each pulse bright and searing, visible when you look at your own hands. “No,” you rasp, voice breaking as you clutch your wrist tighter, trying to stem blood that already seems irrelevant. “No—”

The venom, if that’s what it is, fights you from the inside out. It burns, not like fire, but like something blooming too fast, stretching your nerves until they hum like wire. You curl, shake, try to force your body to sweat it out, spit it out, fight, but laughter claws up your throat instead, hoarse and broken, spilling into the warped air. It doesn’t sound like you. You have no idea what he’s done. But whatever it is, it’s already working. You brace your hands against the floor, slick with your own blood, and shove. Your arms shake, trembling like they might tear from the effort, but you drag yourself upright inch by inch. The venom fights you with every breath, heat tearing through your veins, bones hollowing out, the world pitching sideways. You grit your teeth and force your knees beneath you anyway. “Move,” you hiss to yourself, throat raw, vision blurred. “Get out—”

And then he’s there. No sound. No warning. One blink and he’s crouched in front of you, close enough that the sweep of his coat brushes your shins. His knees pin the space to either side of your ribs, hemming you in. A gloved hand snaps up, firm but unhurried, fingers sliding beneath your jaw. He tilts your face until you can’t look anywhere but into his.

Gold eyes bore into you, steady and unnatural. For a moment, they look molten. Then they pulse. Light flares and contracts, heartbeat slow and inexorable, dragging your focus with it. “Easy now,” he croons, the drawl smoothed into something unbearably tender, the sound of a lullaby turned wrong. “Don’t fight it. Just let go. That’s it, little lamb.”

Your breath stutters. You try to wrench your head away, but his hand holds you steady, guiding you back to the gold. The light beats again, and your lashes flutter.

“Sleep,” he whispers, low and coaxing, hypnotic. “Sleep and dream of me.”

The command threads through your skull like silk pulled taut, drowning out every other thought. Your chest heaves then eases against your will. The fight drains from your limbs even as your mind screams to keep moving. The venom roars, the car sways, your blood sings, but his voice cuts through it all. And you can’t stop falling under.

You wake slowly. Not gently. Not peacefully. Your mouth tastes like copper. Your head is full of static. The air smells like sandalwood, leather, and something darker, thick enough to make your stomach twist. You open your eyes and immediately regret it. The ceiling above you is vaulted, ornate. Gilded moulding. A chandelier like glass lace. You’re in a bed the size of a continent. High-thread-count sheets. Velvet coverlet. Pillows too soft, too clean. It’s opulent. Excessive.

Artificial light is gentle on your eyes, though you still struggle to focus. Your chest tightens. This isn’t the railcar. This isn’t the street. This isn’t anywhere you know. You sit up too fast. The room tilts. Your pulse stutters. You grip the mattress, breath shallow. Your head throbs, not from impact, but from something chemical. Residual. Like your body still hasn’t processed what he injected you with.

You groan and raise a hand to your temple and stop. Your wrist. Dried blood. Clear teeth marks. Deep enough to bruise. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. You were bitten. And you’re still not a familiar. You scramble upright and freeze.

Your skirt is stuck. Heavy. Damp. You glance down. The pad leaked. Badly. A wide, dark stain spreads across the fabric between your thighs. Your skin is sticky. Your body aches. You’ve been here for hours, unmoving, bleeding, slow to wake. You press a hand over your face. Drag it down. “Fucking great.”

You don’t know what’s worse: being kidnapped, bitten, and dumped in a stranger’s bed, or bleeding through your clothes while it happened. You swing your legs off the mattress and wince. There’s no trash can. No bathroom in sight. Just a carved armoire, a writing desk, and a mirror so clean it cuts. You cross the room on shaky legs. Try the door. Locked.

You turn back to the mirror, just to assess. Pale face. Glossy eyes. Shirt wrinkled. Skirt bloodstained. But something’s off. Not what’s there. What’s missing. No gear. No ID. No hint of who you are or how you got here. You’re not just lost. You’ve been claimed. You turn from the mirror, hoping for a way out, and his voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re awake.”

You flinch, stumbling into the dresser. Your hand hits the wood hard. Your heart leaps into your throat.

He’s there. Not by the bed. Not near the door. In the corner, deep in the shadows beside the armoire, where no one should have gone unnoticed. But he has. Seated in a velvet armchair as though he’s lived there forever. One leg crossed. Hat angled low enough to hide his eyes, but not his grin. He’s been watching.

Your eyes flick to the sheets, the mirror, the bloodstained skirt.

His eyes follow. “Sleep well, little lamb?” he says.

You fold your arms. The fabric sticks to your skin. “You drugged me.”

“I did.”

Your jaw tightens. “Were you watching the whole time?”

“Yes,” he says, grin curving sharper. “I watched you sleep. I watched you wake.” A pause. The gold in his eyes catches the light like a blade catching sun. “And I watched the moment you realised you bled life over my sheets.”

Your stomach knots. “You bastard.”

He leans forward slightly, watching, assessing.

You reach for something, a lamp, a vase, anything solid.

He lifts a hand. Not to stop you. Just to remind you, he sees. “Easy,” he says, not as comfort, but as command. His gaze drops briefly to the bloodied skirt. The smile grows.

You clench your jaw. “Why am I here?”

He rises. No sound. No hurry. “Don’t think you’re ready for that answer yet, darlin’.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Not yet, lamb.”

The words hang heavy, but it’s not the tone that guts you. It’s the look. The grin. The implication. Your spine locks. Heat floods your face, faster than shame, faster than reason. Because for one goddamn second, your mind filled in the gaps. Not pain. Not violence. Just possession. Being taken by him. By something that bit you, watched you bleed, dragged you here and made you his. And you want to vomit. “No,” you snap, backing away. “No, not ever. Don’t even think it. I wasn’t—That’s not—I’m not here for—that’s not going to happen.”

He pauses, head tilting, brows lifting slightly. “…fascinatin'.” Your blood goes cold. Shit. He steps closer. Calm. Measured. “Not goin' to happen,” he repeats. “And yet, it’s the first thing that came to mind.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You’re flushed,” he says. “Pulse spikin'. Breathin' shallow.”

“It’s called panic.”

“It’s called projection,” he replies. “Don’t worry, little lamb. I have no intention of fuckin’ you without consent.”

Your stomach knots. Oh, God. He said it. Your stomach went from knots to backflips, and you backpedalled further. The panic on your face is obvious, not just the visceral reaction of having a stranger announce their lascivious intentions, but that you’re new to it.

His smile changes. Not wider. Sharper. The gold in his eyes brightens like a match struck in the dark. He’s not leering. He’s learning. “Oh?”

You step back. “Don’t.”

His grin widens, teeth catching the light. “Oh.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He makes a sound that isn’t a laugh, a deep, pleased purr of recognition. “My little stray lamb is untouched.”

Your face burns. “Fuck you.”

“Not yet. But now I know what it would mean.” He isn’t leering. He doesn’t have to. The power is in knowing. In the way your whole body coils, not from fear, but from sheer humiliation. And he basks in it. “Don’t worry,” he says, voice low. “I won’t take what’s not given.” He leans in, breath brushing your skin. “But now that I know what you’re guardin’, I’ll enjoy watchin’ you try to keep it.”

“I’m not staying,” you snap, breath still catching in your throat. “You’re going to return me. Now.”

Black Hat folds his arms and leans against the wall as if this is a performance meant for his entertainment. Nothing urgent. Nothing new. Just the latest act in a play he’s already seen too many times. “Bold of you to assume you’re the one makin’ decisions.”

“I don’t care what you think this is,” you bite out. “Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not part of it. You’ve had your fun. I want to leave.”

Still nothing. No reaction. No rebuttal. Just a lazy motion with his hand, gesturing toward the far end of the room. You blink. Then follow it. And freeze. There are no windows. Not a crack in the stone. Not a single pane of glass. Just velvet drapes stretched across a solid wall. The chandelier glows overhead, soft and warm, but the air feels wrong. Still. Stagnant. As if it hasn’t shifted since you were brought in. A cold ripple curls up your spine.

“…where am I?”

His smile spreads like ink blooming in water. “I was wonderin’ how long it would take you to notice.”

Your voice drops. “It’s dark outside.”

“Very.”

You don’t breathe. You can’t. The quiet turns sharp, edged with something you can’t name. The space seems smaller than it did a moment ago, the shadows thicker. “Why bring me here if it’s night?” Your voice falters. “You said I wasn’t in danger.”

“I said you weren’t in danger from me.” He takes a step forward. Just one. But it’s enough. “If you’d walked out that door without guidance…” He glances toward the thick wooden frame across the chamber. “Well. I doubt what’s waitin' in the halls would show restraint.”

Your stomach twists. The blood in your veins suddenly feels colder. “You’re lying.”

He tilts his head, expression calm. “Why would I bother?”

“I’m not going to be part of this.” The words trip over themselves. “I’m not—I didn’t ask for this.”

“And yet,” he says, quiet as ever, “here you are.”

“I didn’t choose this.”

“No,” he agrees. “But choices have been made. And right now, you have one left.” Another step. Closer. Still not touching, but closer than you want him to be. “You can stay,” he says. “Accept my protection. My rules. My hospitality.” His gaze flicks once more to your skirt, but his tone stays dry. “No judgment.”

Heat creeps up your neck. You cross your arms tighter.

“Or,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, “you can walk out that door. Alone. Unarmed. Into corridors filled with things that don’t have my patience.”

You feel it then, something heavy pressing into your chest. Not his hands. Not his will. Just the weight of the truth. The weight of the trap. You swallow hard. Your throat burns.

He leans in, close enough for the air to shift between you. “And believe me,” he murmurs, “you won’t die as quickly as you hope.”

You stare at the door. At the sealed stone. At the velvet. At the blood drying between your legs. Then at him.

He watches you with a smile that doesn’t fade. “Stay or run, little lamb. Either way…” He pauses. Just long enough for it to feel personal. “I get to watch.”

“You get to watch, huh?” Your voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and dry.

He smiles. The sound in his throat is a low hum, a noise without melody, but it vibrates like a purr. “Mmm.”

You hold his gaze. Then, without another word, you turn your back on him and walk to the bed with the forced grace of someone teetering on the edge. Not poised. Not proud. Just too furious to collapse. You climb onto the mattress. You don’t curl up, don’t hide, don’t pretend to rest. You pick the untouched side, the one not already sullied with your menstrual blood. You settle there as if you belong. You’re boldly staking a claim and daring him to do something about it. Your legs cross at the knee, your spine straightens. You lean back on your palms and lock eyes with him. “Good,” you say. “Watch this.”

His brow ticks upward. Not surprised. Curious.

You feel it start to soak through. Warm and thick, spreading fast beneath the cotton. You shift your hips just slightly, pressing down into the fabric as though your blood is a weapon against thread count. It isn’t graceful. It isn’t clever. A final, petty act of defiance. You sit in the silence and wait for the consequence.

He chuckles. The sound is low, amused, genuine. “Oh, little lamb,” he says, voice dipping into something almost fond, the gold of his irises nearly consumed by black pupil. “You really don’t know how much that delights me.”

“Yeah?” you snap. “Glad your vampire kinks include laundry.”

He steps forward slowly, hands folded behind his back like he’s giving a lecture. “Petty vengeance through menstruation,” he says, considering the words. “I’d call it barbaric, but there’s something poetic about it.”

“I hope your housekeeper quits.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Then I hope you have to change the sheets yourself.”

“I won’t.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re just going to leave them like this?”

He grins, all teeth and satisfaction. “Of course. I’ll keep them.”

Your stomach lurches. “Why?”

He leans in, voice dropping like silk through a blade. “Because they’ll remind me of the day you declared war usin' your uterus.”

You stare at him, burning with fury.

He smiles. Calm. Unbothered. Like he’s never been more entertained in his life.

You stare at him. He doesn’t look away.

The sheets beneath you are no longer clean. The blood has spread, warm and slow, clinging to your skin with a dampness that turns your stomach. Your skirt sticks, heavy and vile. The heat is suffocating. Every second makes it worse, but you don’t move. You sit there, spine straight, trying to pretend you still have pride. “You’re disgusting,” you snap.

He smiles without shame. “You’re the one soakin' my beddin'.”

You grab the nearest pillow and hurl it. It hits his chest with a dull thump and falls to the floor. He lets it. You cross your arms, fuming in silence. Your legs ache. Your thighs are tacky. Your dignity lies somewhere between the stain on the sheets and the dull throb in your gut. Minutes pass. Maybe more. Eventually, your voice breaks through the quiet. “I need supplies.”

His head tilts. “Supplies?”

Your teeth grind. “Feminine hygiene.”

His brow lifts slightly, amused. “Ah. The mortal crutch.”

You blink. “I’m bleeding. What exactly do you expect me to do?”

“Embrace it.”

You stare. “Excuse me?”

He takes a step forward, voice smooth. “You made it a weapon. Wield it properly.”

You gape at him. “I’m not some enchanted object to wave around like a fertility charm—”

“On the contrary,” he murmurs, circling the bed with the same measured curiosity he might show a trap waiting to spring. “You reek of ancient rites and blood-born power. You are scent and pulse and rage. You are prey in heat, and you expect me to cage that with cotton?”

“I expect you to have some basic fucking human decency.”

Black Hat cocks his head, the motion subtle, the brim of his hat cutting across his face. The smile beneath it is sinful, a curve that belongs in scripture carved on a forbidden altar. “I’m not human.”

Your whole body tightens. A cold rush surges through you; the urge to scream rises sharp and immediate in your throat. “I’ll bleed through everything,” you warn, voice shaking, hands trembling against your thighs.

“Then bleed,” he says heatedly. “Mark the floors. The walls. My clothes. Let the scent wrap this room like incense. Let every monster in the dark know exactly who you belong to.”

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

He gestures toward the door. “Then go.” You hesitate. His eyes don’t leave yours. “Walk out. Prove it. Let your scent trail behind you like a flare. Let them taste it in the air. Every drop, every heartbeat, they’ll follow.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Still want your supplies?” he asks, calm again. Almost kind.

Your hands curl into fists. You sit back down. Hard.

He laughs, low, dark, pleased in a way that feels older than language. Utterly victorious.

You press your lips together, then force them open. “I want food.” Flat. Unapologetic. “Water,” you add. “Something to drink. I’m not passing out again because your idea of hospitality skips basic survival.”

He leans a shoulder against the carved bedpost, head angled slightly, eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable. All lazy menace, like this moment is a wine he plans to sip slowly. “I can provide that.”

You eye him. Careful. Suspicious. “For free?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a hint of teeth glinting like a blade catching candlelight. “Nothin' is free, little lamb.”

Your pulse skips. “No games,” you say, sharper now. “What do you want?”

“A lick,” he says softly, but the fire in his eyes indicates it’s nothing less than lewd.

Your stomach turns. “What?”

His fingers trail along the polished bedpost. “Off the inside of your thigh.”

The words don’t register at first. Not fully. Your mind refuses to fit them into sense. You freeze. “No.”

His brow lifts, patient. “You asked for my price.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s—Jesus. That’s disgusting.”

“It’s divine,” he says, voice rich and low. “Feral. Older than guilt. You used it to spite me. Now I ask only for a taste.”

“You want to lick me?”

“I want to taste you,” he rumbles. The sound came from somewhere deep in his chest, low and steady, not a growl, not a purr, but something older. His eyes dipped just enough for you to feel the heat bloom down your spine, a pull like gravity.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me.”

“I said I wouldn’t fuck you.” His voice slides across the space like warm smoke. “You can close your eyes and pretend it didn’t happen. No teeth. No claimin’. But if you want food...if you want water...” He shrugs, fluid and unbothered. “That’s the price.”

You stare at him.

No smirk. No leer. Just stillness. An offer made with no desperation and no doubt. You could say no. You should say no. But your fists are clenched tight in your lap. Your mouth is dry. Your stomach knots with hunger, the kind that scrapes at your ribs and makes your thoughts go thin and strange. “You’re sick,” you whisper.

“I’m starvin’,” he replies, voice gone darker, the vowels soft and dangerous. “You want to keep your virtue? Then pay me with shame.”

Your face burns. Your skin prickles. Your body betrays you with a growl. And the worst part is, you’re still sitting there, doing the math. Still thinking about it. You stare at him. Jaw tight. Muscles braced. Something inside you, raw, bitter, frayed beyond repair, hardens like cooled steel. It’s not pride. Not bravery. Just the last thing you have that hasn’t already been taken. Your spine stiffens. Your eyes narrow. “Go on, then.”

He pauses, gaze sharpening. “…Pardon?”

You lift your chin, every word a blade. “You heard me. Do it. Lick me. Like an animal. Like the starving thing you are. Let’s see just how low you’ll crawl for your fix.”

“You think I’m bluffin’.”

“I know you are.”

“You think I won’t kneel.”

“I think you’ll gag once you’re close enough to smell what you want.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Not offence. Not anger. Something older. He smiles. Not like a man. Like a knife being drawn. “You poor little thing,” he murmurs. “You haven’t met a real monster, have you?” He crosses space between you like the rules don’t apply. He’s crouched at the edge of the bed before you can comprehend it. Not kneeling. Perched. Like a predator lowering itself over a fresh kill, head cocked, limbs angled not quite right.

You scramble backward, but he doesn’t follow. One hand claws into the coverlet. The other plants beside your leg, fingers spread, steadying himself like he's staking claim to the ground itself. “You’re bluffin’ too,” he says, voice quiet, unhurried. “But you made the mistake of thinkin' I care.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. Heat floods your body, cruel and immediate, seeping through the pulse in your throat and curling tight in your belly. He doesn’t touch you. But it feels like he already has. He leans in. His face hovers just above your skin, breath warming the air at the edge of your thigh, protected only by your sodden skirt. His mouth splits wider, sharp with satisfaction. “Still hungry?” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

He tilts his head once, sharply, and inhales. It’s sensual, slow and intentional.

You feel it like a hand under your skin, pulling. Something inside you recoils. You shove him, hard, both palms slamming into his shoulders.

He lets you. Drops back to the floor, landing like a cat, knees bent, hands splayed. His grin is wicked and wide. “Bluff called.” He rises in a single fluid motion, as if gravity isn’t real, as if bones are optional, then turns for the door. He’s already halfway across the room before you can catch your breath. “I’ll fetch your water,” he says.

Ten seconds. That’s all you get to try and get your brain into some semblance of order. In the time it takes for him to unlock the door, disappear through it and return, you’re no closer to figuring your way out of this mess than you were before. You should have known he would use his vampiric speed.

Black Hat re-enters the room, coat ghosting around his boots, hat shielding his eyes, but does nothing to hide the sharp grin. A silver tray balanced easily in one hand: a pitcher of cold water, droplets sliding down the glass. A goblet. Bread. Fruit. Meat that still steams. Food that is a rarity for the common folk in the Wasteland. Your stomach growls so hard it hurts.

He shuts the door with his heel and crosses the room in a few strides. The tray is set down on the bedside table next to you before he puts his body between you and the blessed food, arms folding across the width of his chest. Waiting.

You flick your gaze to the tray. Then him. Then back. “…Move.”

Black Hat’s mouth curves.

“You said you’d get water.”

“I did.”

“And food.”

“Clearly.”

“Then let me have it.”

He tilts his head, not unlike a hawk sighting movement in the brush. “I still want my lick.”

You blink, stomach clenching tighter, blood rushing in your ears. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

“I thought we were done with that.”

“We nearly were.” He steps a single inch to the side, letting the goblet glint. “And then you shoved me.”

“Because you were sniffing me like a rabid hound.”

“And I still am.”

“You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “You’re bleedin’ on my sheets.”

You push to your feet, unsteady, sore, half-stuck to the fabric. The smell hits you again, copper and salt and heat. Your knees wobble, your throat burns. “You’re really going to make me barter blood for breakfast?”

“Mm. Be grateful that’s all I’m askin’ for.” His eyes trail down, slow and unapologetic.

“I’m going to throw the food at your head.”

“You’ll regret wastin' it.”

You lurch forward, stupidly attempting to sidestep around his bulk when his hand hits your sternum. Flat. Unyielding. The palm of his hand is hot, even through the gloves, and you freeze, an uninvited shiver tracking down your spine.

“One lick,” he says softly. “Right here.” His fingers graze the inside of your thigh over the skirt, close enough to make your skin flinch. Close enough to feel the heat rising off you. No teasing. No warning. Just contact. No softness. No question.

You stand there, breath heavy, blood sticky between your thighs, hunger gnawing a hole beneath your ribs. Everything in you screams to resist, to lash out, to claw your way free, to spit in his face and die trying. But your body has limits. You’re starving. Thirsty. Humiliated. Cornered. You let the silence stretch until it tastes like bile, and then, with the smallest crack of your teeth, you grit out the word. “Fine.”

His brows lift, that smug curl already forming at the edge of his mouth, but you cut him off before he can gloat.

“One lick. Then you give me the tray.”

He moves. Not quickly. Not threatening. Just forward. Measured. Purposeful. Like he’s stepping up to a pulpit, not a bleeding woman trying to keep her bones from folding in on themselves. You lock your knees and force yourself to breathe, but he stands there, gaze fixed low, patient and expectant, and that’s when you realise what he’s waiting for. The skirt. No slits. No shortcuts. Nothing to see. And he’s not going to rip it or pull it up, not when he can make you do it. Not when he can make you complicit. Not when he can feed off the exact moment you decide to obey.

“Go on, then,” you snap, jaw clenched.

He raises a brow. “I don’t take what isn’t offered.”

The heat in your face nearly chokes you. You want to scream. Want to throw the tray at his head and bolt for the wall. But instead, with hands that tremble more from rage than fear, you grab the hem in your fists and yank it upward, rough, angry, halfway up your thighs. The air hits your skin, and you don’t look at him. You already feel like your insides have been scraped raw. He exhales once. A sound of confirmation. Of satisfaction. And kneels. One gloved hand touches the inside of your knee. Not with gentleness, not with force, just command. He pushes slightly, and your stance adjusts before your brain even catches up. You hate that it happens. Hate that your body listens. And then he lowers his head. No warning. No buildup. The flat of his tongue runs up the inside of your thigh, dried blood smearing wet in his wake as a sound you don’t want to name escapes his throat. He lingers, close to the saturation of your underwear where your pad has failed, inhaling with a low growl. You feel your breath seize in your throat, feel your knees threaten mutiny, but you stay upright, barely.

When he rises, he does so slowly. Controlled. Like a man finishing something sacred, though you know it wasn’t. There is nothing holy in that look. His eyes are still gold, but the black is bleeding in at the edges now, thick and alive and spreading. He licks his lips. “So fuckin’ sweet,” he rasps, and you know that’s the polite version.

You drop the skirt as if it burned you. Of course, it sticks to your legs. Of course, it clings. You don’t care. You reach for the tray with both hands, snatch it off the table, turn your back on him and force your legs to move. Not fast. Not frantic. Just enough to claim a corner of the room and curl around it like a shield.

You eat like an animal. No hesitation. No grace. Tearing bread with your teeth, swallowing water so fast it burns your throat, shoving fruit between your lips and chewing until your jaw aches. You don’t speak. You don’t stop. And through it all, one thought loops repeatedly in your mind like barbed wire dragging across skin. You can still feel the heat of his tongue.

The food settles in your stomach like stones. Not warmth. Not comfort. Just weight. Just ballast to keep your spine from folding and your legs from giving out. You don’t taste it. You don’t want to. You eat with the mechanical resolve of someone stoking a dying fire, not because you’re hungry, but because it gives the illusion that you still have control. That you can still choose something.

Black Hat doesn’t speak. Doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t breathe loud enough to remind you that he’s still in the room. He could be gone. Might as well be. And maybe that would matter, if you cared. But you don’t. Not right now. There’s only one thing clawing at the back of your skull. You have to see.

You rise slowly, the motion unfamiliar, like your limbs belong to someone else. The skirt drags against your skin, heavier than it was. Heavier and worse, hot in places it shouldn’t be. Your thighs chafe. Your breath shudders. But still, you walk. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. Like someone condemned. Like someone approaching their own execution.

The mirror waits in the corner. Tall. Unforgiving. The glass catches the light and throws it back at you with cruel accuracy, illuminating every detail with brutal clarity. You stare into it for a moment, trying not to see what’s reflected. Then your hands move. Slow. Hesitant. Not from modesty, no, modesty fled this place the moment you woke up. What’s left is dread. Raw, sour, iron-tanged dread crawling up your throat like bile.

You grip the hem again. Not with fury. Not like before. This time, you lift it like peeling gauze off a wound. Bit by bit. Higher. Higher. Until your eyes land on the skin beneath. Blood. Everywhere. Smeared down your thighs. Saturated into the fibres. Painted across your skin in long, angry swipes. But there, cutting through the mess, is a single strip. A clean path. A diagonal ribbon of untouched skin that stands out like a slash of light through a battlefield.

Spotless. One lick. No smudge. No smear. No accidental graze. Just skin. Bared. Claimed. Still slightly reddened from contact. You let go. The skirt falls like a blade.

Your knees almost follow. You stumble back two steps before sitting hard on the bed, one hand over your mouth, breath coming in panicked bursts that don’t reach your lungs. You can still feel it. That’s the worst part. Not the memory, but the sensation. The press of his tongue. The unbearable warmth. The wrongness of it. No violence. No threat. No lies. Just the act itself. The truth of what he did, and worse, what you let him do.

You drop your head into your hands and press hard against your eyes, like maybe you can push it out. Scrub it from the inside. Pretend it didn’t happen. But your body won’t lie. Your skin remembers. The heat is still there. The shame is still climbing. He didn’t take anything. Didn’t touch you in a way that left bruises or marks. Didn’t even lie. And somehow, that makes it worse. So much worse.

You try to breathe. Slow. Measured. Like you’ve been taught. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Something grounding. Something to remind your body that it belongs to you. But your lungs don’t listen. The air doesn’t reach. It stops somewhere in your throat, coiling tight like a snare. Your chest doesn’t expand. Your stomach clenches instead. Your fingers twitch against the sheets. Your legs are pressed together so tightly beneath your skirt that it feels like your bones might fuse. Every muscle below your waist is rigid, locked, like you’re holding back something vast and monstrous with nothing but skin and shame.

You press your palm to your stomach. Not to soothe. To check. To make sure it’s still you beneath the skin. It’s not pain exactly, at least, not the kind you can name. Not the sharp ache of cramps, not the low drag of blood moving through organs that are done serving their purpose for the month. It’s not the usual, not the familiar rhythm you’ve hated since your first bleed. This is different. Worse. It’s not stabbing or clenching. It’s warm. Deep. Coiling. Alive.

It begins in your abdomen, but it doesn’t stay there. It spreads like oil under your skin, thick and slow, creeping through your pelvis, curling around your spine, dragging heat through muscle and tissue and down. Down into the softest places. The quiet places. The ones you don’t name out loud. It gathers there, at the root of you, like a second heartbeat. You feel it in the crease of your thighs, behind your knees, at the base of your spine. It doesn’t flare. It pulses. Like something buried. Like something fed.

You press harder, trying to squash it. Trying to will it away with the weight of your own hand. It doesn’t budge. It’s not responding to logic. Not pain. Not shame. It just is. And that makes it worse. You curl forward like that might protect something. Might trap the feeling before it spreads further. You whisper to yourself, low and frantic, a litany of disbelief: What is this, what is this, what is this— but the answer is already there, sitting smug behind your ribs.

You know what desire is. You’ve felt it before, in glimpses, in private. You know the mechanics. The biology. But this isn’t that. This isn’t some tentative flicker of interest. This is invasive. This is a violation blooming in response. This is arousal warped into punishment. Your body isn’t reacting to pleasure. It’s reacting to him.

You cover your mouth with both hands, trying to muffle the rising noise in your throat. You don’t want to sob. You don’t want to scream. You don’t want to admit to anyone, especially yourself, that your body responded. That even now, after everything, it won’t stop. That you’re wet with more than blood. That you’re throbbing.

You double over. Not because you want to, but because you can’t sit up anymore. Your knees pull tight to your chest. Your spine curves like a fist. Your face buries into the pillows, and you scream silently into cotton that smells like him. You want to tear the bedding apart. Want to peel your skin off in strips. But instead, you curl tighter.

The warmth doesn’t leave. It pulses again. Relentless. Anchored. And you shake with the effort not to cry. Not from pain. But from knowing that a single lick undid you more than fear ever did.

Your thighs ache, not from blood loss. Not from tension. From clenching. From the hours you’ve spent curled in on yourself as if that would keep something out. Or maybe hold something in. You’re not sure anymore. All you know is that the muscles burn and your hips throb and there’s a weight between your legs that isn’t pain. Not quite. It’s pressure. Swollen. Coiled. Crawling under your skin like something alive.

You’re hot. Not feverish. Not flushed with shame. This is deeper. Hungrier. Need. Not yours. Not invited. But there all the same. It simmers low in your gut like oil snapping in a cast-iron pan, vicious, steady, wrong. And no matter how tightly you curl, how hard you dig your nails into your palms, how many times you grind your teeth and shake your head and breathe through it, it doesn’t go away. You want it gone. Scrubbed out. Boiled off. You want to be clean in a way that soap will never touch.

“It’ll go away,” you whisper to yourself, rocking slightly on the bed like a lunatic, like a child. “It’ll stop. It’ll stop. It’ll—”

Leather creaks. Your spine stiffens, breath hitching. You lift your head with the brittle kind of dread that always shows up second, just after hope dies. Black Hat never left. He’s draped in the armchair like a sin too smug to confess, one leg crossed, one elbow hooked lazily along the armrest, his face mostly shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. But his mouth, that awful, arrogant mouth, is visible. And smiling. Wide. Slow. Satisfied. He breathes in. Just once. A deep, knowing inhale. And then his grin splits open like a wound.

“Oh,” he says, voice thick with velvet and venom. “Delightful.”

You flinch like he struck you. “Don’t.”

“The scent’s shifted,” he murmurs, rising with the uncoiling grace of a creature that’s never known what it means to be harmless. “Sharper. Sweeter. Ripenin’.” He steps closer, boots whispering over the floorboards. “Tell me, little lamb. Do you feel it?”

You scramble backward until your spine hits the wall. “Shut up.”

“I can smell it,” he purrs. “That deep throb. The heat just under your skin. You didn’t know it would linger, did you? That your body would cling to me long after I’d pulled away?”

You snatch a pillow from the bed and hurl it. Pointless. Petty. But it’s something. He catches it one-handed without even blinking. You’re shaking now. Seething. Your cheeks burn. Your thighs are soaked in more than blood, and everything under your skin is crawling. “I want a bath,” you snap. “I want clean clothes. I want soap. I want boiling water. I want to peel this fucking skin off and throw it in the fire.”

He tilts his head like you amuse him. “And you ask this of me?”

“You did this.”

“I gave you one taste.”

“And now I feel like I’m crawling out of myself!”

“That’s not pain, little lamb.” His voice darkens, thickens. “That’s arousal.”

“I don’t want you.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping in so close you lose the light again, the shadows pooling around you like ink. “Not yet, but your body has started to wonder what it’s missin'.”

You slap him. Not hard enough to bruise. Not nearly enough to stop him. But your palm cracks against his chest, and your own wrist flares in pain. “Perverted leech!”

He grins. Wider. Meaner. His teeth catch the light, sharp and inhuman. His eyes gleam, liquid gold turning to tar at the edges. “I am that,” he murmurs. “A leech. A parasite. A filthy thing that drinks deep and leaves you hollow.” His breath brushes your ear, thick and warm and awful. “But you,” he whispers, “you’re a little cup spillin’ over. And now I wonder…” The tip of his tongue flicks out. Not touching. Just close. “…how long before you beg to be drained?”

You stare him down like it’ll make a difference. Like you can burn through him with your eyes alone. Fury coils beneath your skin, sharp and acid-hot, flaring up your throat until you can taste it. You’re flushed, humiliated, trembling in your own body, still thrumming with something you don’t have a name for, something thick and molten that clings to your nerves like tar. “I want a bath,” you bite out again, tighter this time, clipped with the edge of refusal.

He raises a brow, mild as a storm before the sky splits open. Unbothered. Undeterred.

“You’ll give me one,” you snarl, each syllable jagged, snapping like bone beneath pressure. “Or I swear to God, I will bleed on every surface in this place. I’ll ruin your linens, your floorboards, your precious fucking throne.”

He considers it. For a heartbeat. Maybe two. And then, to your absolute horror, he smiles, slow and wide, all teeth and intention. “I’ll prepare it,” he says, like it’s a kindness. Like he’s doing you a favour.

Your eyes narrow. Distrust curdles in your stomach. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he echoes, voice light as fog. “Towels. Soap. Warm water. Maybe even bubbles, if you ask sweetly.”

You stiffen. The blood crusted on your thighs itches. “What’s the price?”

He steps back, folding his hands behind him with mock-ceremonial calm. Elegant. Measured. Evil down to the marrow. “I want to watch.”

You blink, thrown off balance. “What?”

His grin spreads wider, unapologetic. “I want to watch you bathe.”

The silence stretches, pulled tight and ugly between your ribs. Your mouth opens, but nothing intelligent makes it out. “Are you kidding me—”

“You want a cleansin'?” he cuts in smoothly, too smoothly. “Fine. I’ll give you steam, lye, silk and oil. I’ll give you enough heat to boil your sins off the skin and scent your hair like myrrh. But I want to see it happen. I want to watch the blood rinse from your thighs and the filth roll from your spine and the mask crack and peel when there’s nothin' left between you and the truth.” He steps closer, quiet as a shadow, heavy as smoke. “I want to see the moment it all comes off.”

“You mean clothes.”

His smirk deepens. “I mean everythin'.”

Your body recoils. Not just from him, from the idea. From the naked truth of it. From the exposure. “No.”

“Then no bath.”

Your hands curl into fists. “Why?”

His voice dips, low and flat. No cruelty. No volume. Just gravity. “Because you’re beautiful when you’re angry. But I want to see what’s left when the heat fades. When the blood’s gone. When the rage burns out and you’re quiet and clean and still tryin' to pretend none of this is inside you.”

The words land like stones in water, rippling outward. Deep. Inevitable. Dread tightens around your lungs. Your breath catches.

He waits, smiling like the question’s already been answered.

You grind your teeth. “You’d love it if I refused.”

“I’d mourn the missed opportunity,” he says with infuriating ease.

“Fine,” you hiss, the word torn from your throat like a wound. “But you sit. You don’t touch. You don’t say a single word.”

He bows his head, just enough to mock, just enough to make it feel like a contract being sealed. “As you wish.”

The bath chamber is warmer than expected. Too warm. It presses against your skin the second you enter, thick with steam and something sharper, rosemary, maybe, or sage. Maybe something older. Older than comfort, older than civility. The scent clings to the walls like sweat. The light is low. Not soft. Dim. Flickering lamps cast gold across marble that’s too polished, too cold, too clean. The clawfoot tub dominates the space, deep, wide, full to the brim with steaming water. A robe hangs nearby. Towels folded, soap sliced like pastries on a silver tray, everything laid out like an offering. He’s thought of everything. You want to scream. Instead, you stand there, fists clenched at your sides, jaw locked until your teeth ache. The steam curls around your knees. It doesn’t soothe. It suffocates.

He’s already seated. A high-backed chair has been moved into the room, positioned just far enough to feign decency, just close enough to obliterate it. Black Hat sits like he owns the fucking world, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His hat is gone. His gloves remain. His eyes, gold, glassy, unblinking, are pinned directly on you.

You don’t meet his gaze. You don’t have the stomach for it. You move instead, one step at a time. Mechanical. Robotic. Like something’s taken over, something just trying to get this over with before the last thread of you unravels. You dispense with your shirt and bra first, automatically hiding yourself from his gaze as you pivot to reach under your skirt. The fabric’s heavy. Sodden. Your fingers sink into the thick weight of it, and for a moment, all you feel is wet. Too wet. The kind of soaked that drips. The kind that leaves streaks. The kind that seeps into the grout of a floor and stains for days.

The hem doesn’t lift so much as peel. It clings. It resists. You hike it upward with shaking hands, and the sound, gods, the sound, is unbearable. Sticky. Fleshy. The pad catches between your legs and tears loose with a damp, reluctant slap. It hits the floor. Not a clatter. Not a fall. A splat. You freeze. The sound echoes. Your stomach twists.

Behind you, he shifts. One foot uncrosses. One hand curls around the arm of the chair. The movement is small. The weight of it is not. It rolls down your spine like cold oil. You don’t look. You know what you’d see.

You drag the skirt the rest of the way up and off, tossing it toward a corner like it bit you. Then your hands move to your underwear. It’s worse. The elastic peels slowly from your skin. Your thighs are sticky, raw, red from dried blood and the drag of fabric. It sticks to your inner thigh before it lets go with another soft, obscene noise. You want to crawl out of yourself. You want to shed your skin entirely.

You do not look up. But you feel him. You feel the weight of his gaze, like breath against your hipbone. He is not pretending to be decent. He’s not pretending to look away. And he is not ashamed.

You step into the water. The heat is immediate, biting at your calves, your thighs, and then swallowing your hips. You lower yourself in with a hiss, hands braced on either side of the tub, knuckles white as your body eases down and the water rises, climbing your skin like it’s hungry. Blood slips from your thighs and blooms in slow, languid spirals. You sink deeper until the warmth seals over your shoulders like a second skin.

Steam blurs the mirror. But it’s his stare that makes your skin prickle. You keep your eyes locked on the far edge of the tub, on the soft flicker of the lamp, on anything that’s not him.

From the corner of your vision, he smiles. Not wide. Not mocking. Just knowing.

And you hate him for it. But you hate your own body more.

The water should help. It’s hot, perfumed, clinging to your skin like steam with claws, and still, you hope. You hope the scent will drown out the memory. You hope the heat will burn it away. You hope that if you scrub hard enough, dig your nails into your thighs and drag the cloth over skin until it stings, something will lift. The wrongness, the weight, the heat twisting low in your belly that has nothing to do with injury and everything to do with shame. But nothing lifts. The warmth doesn’t soothe. It sticks. Your stomach coils tighter with every breath, the ache pooling behind your hips like you’re full of something unclean.

You close your eyes. Grip the sponge until your knuckles crack. Scrub. Scrub again. You don’t want to look at your hands. You don’t want to look at your thighs. You just want this gone. All of it. Every second. Every trace. Every goddamn nerve that still remembers the softness of his tongue.

And then you hear it. A shift. Not loud. Not sudden. Just deliberate. Controlled. The floor creaks once, and your eyes snap open. He’s no longer in the chair.

Black Hat rises with a liquid smoothness that doesn't belong in a human body. More uncoiling than standing, like he’s unfolding himself from something smaller, as if he’s grown in the silence, recalibrated. He doesn’t look at you. His attention slides past the tub as if you’re incidental, like the blood-clouded water is just ambience. He moves toward the pile in the corner, the soaked mess of your skirt and ruined pad where they landed in that wet, humiliating heap. He walks like a man approaching an altar.

You stop breathing.

He crouches beside the mess, one knee down, the other elbow braced lazily on his thigh. Balanced. At ease. Not hurried. He looks at the pad. At the blood. At the long strip of linen bloated with what you thought was private, what you thought belonged to you. And he stares at it like it’s beautiful. Not in a human way. Not with lust or curiosity. With hunger. Thick. Possessive. Silent.

Your stomach lurches violently, and you barely manage to choke the words out. “If you touch that,” you rasp, voice raw with panic and fury and the kind of disgust that eats itself alive, “I swear to every fucking god left breathing, I will throw this soap hard enough to cave your fucking face in.”

He tilts his head in that quiet, awful way predators do when they hear a sound they don’t understand. His hand lifts slowly, not to grab, not to claim, to hover. Fingers poised above the soaked material, close enough that the air itself seems to go still. Inches away. No further. No closer. And he stares.

You sit upright in the tub so fast the water sloshes over the rim. Your hands tremble against the enamel. “Black Hat,” you warn, and it comes out wrong. High-pitched. Weak. Your breath is shallow, your spine locked so tight it feels like it’ll snap. “Don’t.”

He looks at you. His eyes catch the lamplight like coins tossed into a well, gold, shining, wrong. There’s no white left in them. Just rings of black, wide and full and ravenous, swallowing the light like his gaze is chewing through it. And then, without a word, he smiles. Not wide. Not mocking. Something smaller. More intimate. Like you just admitted something. Like your reaction was the confirmation he’d been waiting for since you met. He stands slowly, brushes nothing off his coat, and turns away. He walks back to the chair as if it means nothing. As if he didn’t just take something from you without lifting a finger. Like the whole moment was just another flex of control, another step in a game only he understands the rules of.

You sink back into the bath with a choked noise caught between a sob and a scream. The water slaps your ribs, heat washing up over your chest, and your hands clamp over your face. You don’t know what’s worse. That he didn’t touch it. Or that a part of you wanted to see what he’d do if he did.

You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been scrubbing. Your thighs are red. Your stomach’s red. The bar of soap is worn down to a sliver, and your palms sting every time you move. The skin along your knuckles is scraped, your nails are bitten to the quick, and your wrists are trembling with the effort of trying to clean something that no longer feels like it belongs to you.

You scrub because there’s nothing else left. Because if you stop moving, the heat will settle again in your abdomen like a stone dropped into boiling water. Because you don’t know why your pulse keeps tripping in your throat or why your body still twitches every time you think of his breath. Because something is blooming in you like rot under skin, and no amount of soap or scalding water will leech it out.

And still, he watches. Not lounging, not relaxed. Composed. Controlled. Perched in that high-backed chair like a king with nowhere better to be, one leg crossed over the other, elbow resting on the arm, chin propped against a gloved hand. His eyes haven’t left you once. They don’t flick. Don’t wander. Just stay fixed, steady, cold, and endless. You can feel them on you like a heat source of their own. Not touch, not breath. Pressure. Watching you peel yourself apart with your own hands.

You try not to care. You try to ignore the way your skin crawls with every second of silence, every shift of water, every pulse of aching heat that won’t leave your belly alone. You rub the same spot above your knee for the sixth time without realising you’ve already scrubbed it raw.

And that’s when he speaks. The voice is low. Smooth. The same tone he’d use to comment on the weather. But it cuts straight through you. “Do you feel clean yet?”

You freeze. Everything in your body tightens: lungs, muscles, jaw. The sponge drips useless water into your lap. And for a moment, a long, bone-deep second, all you can do is breathe. Not like it helps. Not like it fixes anything. But you do it anyway, because it’s the only thing you still own. Then, without speaking, without looking at him, you reach for the soap. Your fingers are slick and shaking. The bar almost slips. You catch it. Raise your arm. Aim. And hurl it.

Hard. Fast. Soapy and wild, launched with the full force of your rage and your humiliation and the crawling, clenching ache in your belly that won’t go away. It flies across the room like a missile.

He tilts his head just a fraction to the right, and the soap whistles past his cheek and shatters against the marble wall behind him with a sharp crack, then skitters along the tiles in a sad, wet spin. He smiles. Not wide. Not smug. Just a slow, satisfied curl of the mouth, like he’s been waiting for this moment all evening. “You missed,” he says.

You drop back into the water with a groan so deep it rattles your ribs. The heat sloshes against your chest. Your head tips back. Your fingers curl into fists. You don’t even look at him. “Go die.”

The chuckle is soft. Measured. Pleased. “I already did.”

You sink lower into the bath, shoulders folding tight as water laps at your collarbones. Your skin stings where you’ve scrubbed it raw. Your lungs burn. Your throat’s tight with fury that hasn’t found a way out. And he’s still watching. You turn your head, meeting his gaze through the steam, your voice rough. “What’s the endgame?”

He blinks once slowly. “Hmm?”

Your fingernails scrape the edge of the tub. “This. Me. What’s the point? You going to keep me locked in here until I bleed out? Or until you get bored and finally decide to drain me dry?”

His expression doesn’t shift, not really, but something in the corners of that grin goes taut. Not gone. Not cracked. Just stretched a little too far, like a thread pulled tight enough to snap. He leans back. The picture of laziness. Arms draped over the chair like royalty waiting for a servant to dance. “No,” he says.

You blink. “No?”

A shrug. Just one shoulder. “You won’t bleed out. And I will never get bored of you.”

Your stomach knots. You sit there, wet and shaking, every nerve pulled tight. “You just wanted to see me squirm,” you say, your voice thinner than you mean it to be.

“And didn’t you?” he answers, almost gently, his eyes flicking over you like they’re cataloguing the mess.

You glare, jaw tight. “So what then? You’re just going to keep me here forever?”

“Forever is a long time,” he says. The words are quiet. Not dramatic. Just dropped into the room like a stone.

And they land harder than anything else. You stare. Your mouth opens, then closes again. Because it clicks now. Behind the sharp smile. Beneath the voice that purrs and bites and toys with everything you are—there’s nothing. Not a wound. Not a flaw. A void. Clean. Hollow. Carved out by decades. He’s not amused. He’s not curious. He’s starving. And worse? He’s lonely. You can see it now. It sits behind his eyes like dust in the corners of an old room. He won’t say it. You know. And you hate him for it.

You bare your teeth. “Go die again.” You twist the blade. “Because clearly, once wasn’t nearly enough.”

Black Hat closes his eyes. And when he opens them again, they’re darker. Not wounded. Not offended. Just hungry. You don’t see him move. He’s lounging in the chair like a smug sermon soaked in violence, legs crossed, mouth curved, gold eyes gleaming with private ruin, and then he’s very suddenly on you. Your head snaps too late. There’s no warning. No lead-in. Just a hand snapping to the back of your neck and yanking your head up, and then his teeth sink into the slope of your shoulder. You scream. Not long, not dramatic, just a fast, high, involuntary tear of sound. Because it doesn’t feel like pain. The second his fangs pierce flesh, something hotter hits you. A flush of warmth so sudden and sickly-sweet it makes your entire body pulse like you’ve swallowed liquid fire. It tunnels through you like a drug, burning through muscle, melting into nerves, rushing straight to the pit of your stomach and blooming outward. Your limbs go slack. Your pulse trips over itself. You feel weightless. Open. Aroused. His mouth is hot. His moan is worse. Deep, raw, half-choked with pleasure like he’s drinking down something sacred. And he is. He’s drinking you. Not tearing, not draining, savouring.

Your fingers scramble for purchase, for sanity, for anything that can pull you back to yourself and land on something damp and familiar. His hat. Still misted from steam. Still ridiculous. You grab it. Shift. And slap him in the face with it. Full contact. No mercy. The wet smack it makes is filthy. Loud. Final. He goes still. Fangs still buried. Breath still warm. Then, slowly, so slowly, he pulls back. His teeth withdraw with a sound you feel more than hear.

The air kisses the punctures he left. Blood spills down your arm. He looks stunned. Eyes wide. Face dripping. Caught somewhere between insulted and turned on. You’re dazed. Shaking. High. Flushed. Dripping with water and venom and blood and God knows what else, and you bare your teeth at him. “Bad vampire.”

He stares at you as if you rewrote his scriptures. Then he laughs. Not polite. Not ironic. Not one of those dry little chuckles meant to disarm. He laughs like the floor’s cracked open and something awful just crawled out to sing. Rich. Loud. Rough silk torn through thunder. A sound dredged from the base of his ribs like it hadn’t had cause to surface in centuries. He wipes his face with the back of his gloved hand, still chuckling. “You,” he says, voice hoarse and full of trouble, “are just askin’ for it, darlin’.”

You slump back against the porcelain, ribs heaving. Blood trickling. The bite throbs. Your whole nervous system is fizzing like a fault line about to snap. And somewhere in the middle of the venom and the fear and the ruin of dignity, your mouth curves. It’s not a smile that belongs to someone sane. You’re still slumped against the side of the tub, chest heaving, limbs loose and twitchy, your nerves shot to hell, and your pulse hammering beneath the skin like something trying to crawl out. The venom’s still in you. You can feel it humming through every vein, turning heat into hunger, thought into noise. Your shoulder doesn’t ache, it burns. Not pain. Not bruising. Heat. Wet, low, invasive warmth blooming outward from the punctures like someone poured liquid want into your bloodstream and lit a match. Your vision doubles. Triples. There are three of him now. All tall. All gleaming with cruel amusement and the kind of beauty that should come with a warning. You squint at them through the steam, your voice slack with disbelief. “Why are there three of you. That’s so excessive.”

One of them chuckles. Probably the real one. You can’t tell. Your focus is obliterated, and your neck feels like it’s on a slow boil. Then you see it, the moment he leans forward, casual as you please, and reaches for his hat, still limp and soaked in your grip. You try to stop him. You really do. But your arm betrays you, flopping sideways like a rag on a laundry line. Useless. Undignified. He catches your failed effort with a brush of knuckles and hums. “Bold little thing,” he murmurs, plucking the hat from your fingers and setting it aside. As if you didn’t just try to whack him with it. Like you’re not still leaking from where he bit you.

You glare up at him with a look that might have carried weight if your eyes weren’t half-lidded and glazed from fang-drunk euphoria. “You bit me.”

“I did.”

“You licked me before.”

“Twice,” he says without shame.

You frown. You try to count. You fail. And then, before your brain can string together another number, he leans back in. No fangs this time. No pressure. Just one long, unhurried, possessive drag of his tongue over the puncture marks on your shoulder like he’s cleaning his plate. The heat of it makes your spine arch. Not out of pleasure. Not fully. Just from the sheer wrongness of it. The intimacy. The animality. You make a sound. It isn’t a word. It shouldn’t exist. It escapes anyway. “Stop licking me,” you manage, the words slurred at the edges. “That’s weird.”

“You’re bleedin',” he replies with that same eerie calm. Like it’s the most reasonable explanation in the world. Like licking blood from open wounds is standard post-bath behaviour.

“I will drown you in this tub.”

He licks again. Slower.

You thump a wet hand against his chest. It lands like a sponge slap. He barely moves. “Stop. That’s—That’s inappropriate.”

“You’re high,” he murmurs, deadpan. “On me.”

You sink deeper into the water, gripping the porcelain edge like it might anchor you to the real world. It doesn’t. The steam curls around you like a second skin. You feel light and heavy all at once, like gravity hasn’t decided what to do with you yet. You close your eyes. Bad idea. He’s still there when you open them. So hot. So there. Your mouth moves before your shame can catch up. “Why are you hot?” you whisper, horrified. “You’re the worst. And you’re still so...hot.”

He huffs a laugh, all smoke and ego. “Inflate my ego more, darlin’.”

“Drop dead.”

“That’s the best you’ve got?”

You whimper. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. You’re clean now. Naked. Bleeding. Boneless. Loopy. Floating. And for some unspeakable reason, he’s still standing there like the universe forgot to evict him. You groan. “Tell your clones to stop staring.”

“They’re all me.”

“Worse.”

He reaches for a towel. Offers it like a gentleman. You slap it out of his hand without ceremony. It flops to the floor. He grins. Because you’re not resisting anymore. Not enough to matter. You’re blood-warm, venom-loose, soaked to the skin, and entirely at his mercy. And somewhere in the back of your hazy, unravelled mind, you suspect he already knows he’s won. You just don’t know what the prize is yet.

You blink hard, vision swimming, water sloshing at your hips as you brace your palm against the rim of the tub. The warmth pulsing low in your belly hasn’t faded; thick, drugged heat still coils through your core like something parasitic, but you’re done sitting in it. You’ve had enough. No more steam. No more licking. No more watching him watch you. You move, shifting unsteadily beneath the water, knees sluggish, thighs aching, legs dragging like they belong to someone else. One hand clamps the porcelain for leverage. You rise slowly, joints creaking like rusted hinges, stomach churning. His gaze is on you, heavy and close and fucking waiting. You don’t look at him. You just shove his face away with a dripping palm, full contact, wet skin to dry smugness, and mutter, “Get off.”

He lets you. Doesn’t resist. Just leans back with that shit-eating grin that promises nothing good and everything dangerous. You don’t wait for a remark. You haul yourself upright, water sheeting down your bare skin, and lift one leg over the edge of the tub. Then the other. Bare feet hit cold marble. The shock of it steals your breath. You grit your teeth. You stand. You try.

And then your vision tips, everything tilting sharply and suddenly, and the floor lurches up at you in a blur of stone and white noise. But it never hits. Doesn’t even get close. Because he’s there, arms snapping around you mid-collapse like he knew. Like he wanted you to fall. His coat’s soft under your hands, his chest hard against your ribs, and he doesn’t stumble. Not even a sway. Just holds you there, naked, dripping, pressed full-body against him like a goddamn gift, and the heat that rushes down your spine isn’t from the bath anymore. You go still.

He doesn’t. His breath ghosts across your temple. His fingers flex around your waist like they’re checking for fault lines. His eyes drop, and you know the moment they land. You feel it like a brand. You follow the look. And you see it. A single dark line of blood curling from the crease of your inner thigh, sliding slowly and heavily down your leg like a lover's kiss. It’s thick. Viscous. Redder than it should be. Vulgar against your skin. He says nothing. But you feel the change. The slight inhale. The stretch of silence. The way his grip tightens just enough to remind you he’s stronger. That you’re off the ground. That your body fits against his like it was always meant to be handled, not held.

You stiffen. “Don’t,” you whisper, though it barely makes it past your lips.

His voice is lower now. Rougher. “Why not?”