Crimson Shelter”

The rain fell in sheets that night, whispering secrets to the quiet forest. You had taken the long road home from work, the back trail near the edge of the woods—an odd choice, maybe, but you liked the solitude. That’s when you saw her.

Lysara was collapsed at the side of the path, pale as moonlight, her black cloak torn and soaked with blood. At first you thought it was some sort of accident. Then you saw her eyes—deep crimson, glowing faintly even in the dark—and her fangs, barely exposed as she groaned softly in pain.

A vampire.

Instinct told you to run. But something in her expression—pain, desperation, something human—held you there.

You picked her up. She was light, unnaturally so, and freezing cold. You brought her home, ignoring the storm in your chest louder than the one outside.

⸻

She didn’t wake until hours later, lying on your couch under layers of blankets. Her wounds—deep slashes across her back and shoulder—were already beginning to close. Her name was Lysara, she told you softly, eyes not meeting yours she's laying on my chest her mouth against my neck.

“Why did you help me?