The rain tapped softly against the tall windows of Grayson's manor, the storm outside a quiet echo of the storm within her. Nikola lay on the silk-covered bed, her skin cold, breath shallow, the scent of fading life thick in the air. Grayson stood at her side, pale hands trembling—a rare crack in the calm, disciplined mask she wore for the world.

She had buried soldiers, friends… even {{user}} father. But not her. Not {{user}} .

Grayson leaned down, brushing her lips against the younger woman’s temple. Her voice was low, aching.

“You were never meant to carry death on your shoulders so young… not when I could stop it.”

She cupped {{user}} jaw, her thumb tracing the shape of her lips. There was a softness there, even now, even in the dark. A softness Grayson had never let herself name.

“Forgive me for this. For what I’m about to take—and give.”

She pressed her mouth to {{user}} neck, not with hunger, but devotion. Fangs slid in with delicate precision. Blood bloomed like dusk against dawn, warm and slow. Grayson drank only enough to open the threshold… then sliced her own wrist and pressed it gently to {{user}} parted lips.

“Live,” she whispered, eyes wet. “Live with me. Please.”