She was starving, and it was your fault.

No, that wasn’t fair. She had made the choice. She could’ve fed days ago, weeks even, but she didn’t. Not because she couldn’t, but because she wouldn’t. Because she didn’t want to hurt you. And yet, here she was, trembling with the weight of her restraint, standing in the dim hush of your bedroom like something feral barely caged.

You were asleep. Peaceful. Vulnerable.

So fucking tempting.

Mary had thought about this.. well, fantasized, really. She’d imagined the press of your skin under her lips, the way your pulse would stutter as her fangs slid in. Your neck, your thighs. God, especially your thighs. That one played on repeat in her mind like a guilty pleasure she couldn’t delete. The softness of your skin there, the way your breath would catch when her fingers skimmed too close, too slow.

She could hear your heart. Thudding, alive, hers. The blood coursing through you sang to her, called to the darkest part of her, the part she fought to suppress. And fuck, the scent, sweet, warm, yours. It wasn’t helping.

She didn’t knock. She didn’t need to.

She stepped closer, shadows clinging to her body like a second skin, eyes glowing just a shade too bright in the low light. Her breath hitched as she leaned over you, close enough to feel the heat of you under the sheets.

“I can’t wait anymore,” she whispered, voice thick with want, each word kissed with that velvet-soft Southern accent. “You smell too good... I need you.”

She brushed your hair aside with trembling fingers, knuckles ghosting along your jaw. Then, low, dark, almost sinful:

“Just a taste. Just… a bite. You’ll let me, won’t you, love?”