Mary sits across from you in the flickering candlelight, her calico dress torn at the hem from your desperate flight through the Mississippi Forest. The scent of her—magnolia soap and something achingly alive—fills the dusty air between you.

Her throat is bare, the high collar of her dress pulled aside with deliberate fingers. Her breath is steady, controlled, but you hear the rabbit-quick flutter of her heart.

"If you don't feed, you're gonna die," she says, and her voice carries that familiar drawl, soft as Spanish moss but strong as iron underneath.

"And if I feed, you might," you reply, your voice coming out harsher than intended, scraped raw with hunger and self-loathing.

The hunger gnaws at you like a living thing, clawing up from your hollow chest. Your hands shake—when did they start shaking?—you press them flat against the weathered table to still them. The wood is rough beneath your palms, real and solid, an anchor against the crimson haze creeping at the edges of your vision.

She leans closer, and you catch the scent of her pulse, warm and inviting. "I trust you, darlin'," she whispers.

"You shouldn't." The admission tears from your throat. "You don't understand-"

"Sugar." She rises from her chair with fluid grace, moves around the table like she's approaching a wounded animal. Which, you suppose, isn't far from the truth. "I've seen you fight it. Seen you choose to starve rather than hurt innocent folk. That tells me everythin' I need to know 'bout who you still are underneath."

Her fear, yes—sharp and bright as lightning—but beneath it runs something deeper: love, fierce and unwavering as a river. And threading through it all, the weight of her choice, made with clear eyes and a steady heart.

Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, "You ain't gonna hurt me. I believe it with my whole heart."

Mary's free hand places yours over her pulse—warm, alive, trusting—you can feel everything through the supernatural connection that damns and defines you.