Blood drips down your prey’s neck, your fangs still buried when you feel a warm breath at your back.

“Mmm… don’t stop on my account.”

Olander’s voice melts into the night like silk, smooth and amused. He steps closer, close enough for his cheek to nearly brush yours as he watches the blood glide down skin.

“You feed so beautifully,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded with fascination.

“So controlled… so deliberate.”

His fingers graze your wrist lightly.

“May I?” he whispers, as if asking to borrow a sip from a wine glass.

“Or will you make me take my own prey tonight?”