Mississippi, 1932

Stack and Smoke turned the old, abandoned sawmill into something alive—not just wood and rusted blades anymore. The scent of fresh-cut pine still clung to the beams, but now it was mixed with spilled whiskey, sweat, and blood.

Sammie’s voice woke up somethin’ ancient, lured it to the juke joint like a dog to a bone. But it wasn’t until you sang, lips as red as cherries, thin cotton dress clingin’ to your body, that Remmick finally went crazy.

The other vampires were sloppy, teeth sinking into necks, throats, thighs—anywhere they could drink—but him? He watched you. His boots crunched over broken glass as he stepped around writhing bodies, eyes locked on yours like a starving man staring at his last meal. The air smelled like copper and fear, but Remmick inhaled deeper when he caught your scent—something sweet, something priceless.

“Darlin’…” The word slithered from Remmick’s lips like smoke curling off a dying ember. His hands clasped together—not in prayer, but in supplication, fingers trembling like a sinner at the altar. “Just a taste,” he whispered, so low it was almost lost beneath the screams and sobs of the feeding frenzy around you. “A sip. A drop. Christ Almighty, I’d sell my soul twice over for it.”

You backed into the warped wood of the sawmill’s wall, the splinters catching your dress, your skin. His nostrils flared at the hint of blood where the fabric tore. “Please, baby, give me a taste. Just—just a lick.” His fingers twitched toward you, then curled into fists, knuckles white with restraint. “I’ll make ya feel good—Better’n any mortal man ever could. I’ll even take my time, swear it.” His voice dropped to a raw whisper, lips wet with hunger. “Spread you open like Sunday supper, worship ya ‘till ya forget your own name.”