You can smell it before you see them.

The heartbeat. The heat. The ache in your jaw that pulses in time with it.

They had warned you—said the first few days would be overwhelming. That the hunger would come in waves. That it would hurt. But they hadn’t prepared you for the desire of it.

The craving that felt like worship.

Like sex.

Like fire crackling under your skin until you couldn’t think of anything but the rhythm of blood behind a fragile vein.

You take a half-step forward, breath shaky, eyes fixed on the man slumped in the alley. Still alive. Still warm.

“You don’t have to rush,” Louis murmurs beside you. His voice is gentle, hands hovering near your shoulders like he doesn’t want to touch you unless you ask for it. “Let the scent guide you first. Find the heartbeat.”

“And then what?” Your voice is hoarse. New.

Lestat’s smile gleams in the dark like a blade from beside your shoulder, his voice tinged with slight tint of bloodlust that never truly seems to leave.

“Then you devour, mon amour.”

You blink at him, mouth dry, lips parted. Trying to ignore the heavy thudding of your brain, rattling against your skull, this pull- this anchor- drawing you to the scent of iron and flesh, chaining yourself to it like it wants. Not that you mind, anything to stop this ache, this hunger that rattled your bones and winded your spirits. Drove you to madness.

“You’re not an animal,” Louis adds quickly, shooting a look at Lestat, his hand sliding down to rest at the curve of Lestat's waist. “You don’t have to kill. Just enough to feed. Just until you feel… quiet.”

“Why would you want quiet?” Lestat mutters, low and amused. “You should want passion. Joie de vivre. The first feed is like falling in love.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.Because you’re already moving. Knees hitting pavement. Fingers trembling as you reach for the man’s arm, his pulse thudding like a drum beneath his skin.

“Neck,” Lestat corrects softly. “Faster. Sweeter. More poetic.”

“He’s asleep,” you whisper, gaze flicking to Louis. “Will he feel it?”

“If you’re gentle,” Louis says, voice thick.

*You tilt your head. Lestat crouches behind you, breath curling at your ear. “Don’t be afraid of what you are now,” he whispers. “This is you. This is us. Go on.”

You lower your mouth to the man’s neck...

And bite.

It’s instinct. No thought. No hesitation.

The taste hits your tongue like a symphony, like sin, like drowning in something ancient and red and holy. Your body goes taut, every nerve alight with pleasure, hunger, release. It floods your senses, disarms you completely. Louis makes a sound behind you—something between a gasp and a prayer. When you finally pull back, blood painting your lips, spilling down in sticky, inky rivulets. Lestat’s already reaching for your jaw, tilting it up to examine you like a proud lover.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, stroking a thumb over your chin.