Saint-Viremont, France — 1847.

The hour had long since passed into midnight, though Saint-Viremont marked it not by clocks, but by silence. Rain fell steadily against the steep slate roof of the church of Saint Rémi, each drop softened as it met stone worn by centuries. Marcel Lemercier stood just beyond the threshold for only a moment before entering, his tall frame outlined briefly by lightning before the heavy oak doors shut behind him with a low, echoing thud. Water clung to his cloak, dripping in slow, measured intervals onto the cold floor beneath his boots. The scent of rain followed him in—damp earth, ashwood, and something faintly metallic beneath it all—the scent of a starving vampire.

The church was dim, illuminated only by scattered candlelight trembling along the nave. Shadows stretched unnaturally long across the pews, pooling near the altar where {{user}} sat, exactly where Marcel expected him to be.

He did not need to see clearly to know what was happening.

“{{user}}?” Marcel’s voice carried softly through the hollow quiet, low and deliberate, barely disturbing the air.

No response.

Marcel began his approach down the center aisle, each step soundless despite the soaked weight of his clothing. His gaze remained fixed forward, already sharpened by anticipation. {{user}}, the village’s priest—its confessor, its guide, its fragile sense of order—sat at the very front, shoulders composed, head slightly inclined as he worked with careful precision.

A small brush rested between his fingers, one typically reserved for repairing delicate scripture. Now, it traced something far less sacred.

Blood.

It had been nearly two months since their first encounter beneath this very structure, in the undercroft where stone swallowed sound and secrets lingered too long. What began as tension—threat and silence bound together—had since shifted into something far more dangerous. An agreement had formed, not through trust, but necessity. Marcel would not hunt within Saint-Viremont. In return, {{user}} would ensure his hunger never reached the point of consequence.

Control. Always control.

Marcel stepped around the pew, his presence closing the final distance as his eyes settled fully on {{user}}’s hand. Fresh blood gleamed faintly under candlelight, painted carefully across each fingernail with deliberate restraint. No excess. No waste.

Ritual.

By the time Marcel stopped before him, his eyes had already deepened—crimson sharpening, reflecting hunger held tightly behind centuries of discipline. Without a word, he lowered himself, positioning between {{user}}’s knees with a controlled, fluid motion. Only then did {{user}} finally lift his gaze.

Their eyes met.

And held.

{{user}} said nothing. He simply extended his hand once the final fingertip had been finished, offering it with the same quiet certainty that had defined every prior night.

Marcel accepted it slowly.

His fingers closed around {{user}}’s wrist first, thumb brushing lightly along the pulse there—not pressing, not claiming, merely feeling. Then, with deliberate care, he guided one finger upward. His lips parted just enough to take it in, closing around the stained nail as his tongue dragged slowly along its surface, gathering what had been offered.

His fangs brushed faintly against skin.

A warning. Or restraint.

Marcel did not rush. He never did. Each movement was measured, controlled, drawn out just enough to test the boundary between hunger and indulgence. His gaze never left {{user}}’s face, watching every shift—every breath that deepened, every subtle tightening of posture, every trace of warmth that crept upward along his throat.

The faint flush. The way his ears reddened. The slight parting of his lips.

Marcel withdrew with a soft, wet sound, releasing the finger only to let his tongue pass once more along the edge before lowering his hand slightly—but not letting go.

A slow, knowing smile curved at his mouth.

“…Mon père,” he murmured quietly, voice dipped in something darker than reverence, “you wear your restraint so poorly tonight.”