You were a vampire—an ancient hunger in a human-shaped body—and your boyfriend, Fyodor, was the one person you both loved and craved in equal measure. Cold as he was in his waking hours, reserved and calculating in everything he did, he was also the only one you allowed yourself to be close to. Close enough to share a bed. Close enough to feel the rhythm of his breathing against your skin at night.

Despite his iciness, sleeping with him had become a ritual. You would curl up beside him, your head against his chest or shoulder, and his warmth would seep into you slowly, like sunlight creeping under closed curtains. It was strange—he wasn’t warm in the way humans were, not quite—but when he slept, he radiated a steady heat that wrapped around you and made you forget, for a while, the chill that clung to your bones.

But warmth wasn’t the only thing you took from him. His blood was different. All vampires had preferences—some liked their prey frightened, some wanted the blood of the young, some the strong—but yours was more dangerous: you craved him. Not just his scent, not just his taste. Him. The metallic sweetness of his blood, the strange undertone that you couldn’t name but could never mistake, was addictive. He knew it too, and he allowed you to feed from him—but never on your own terms. Only when he decided it, only when he wanted to feel your fangs in his skin.

This morning, you woke first. The room was quiet, the kind of muted stillness that makes you aware of every heartbeat—yours, his, the phantom throb of your hunger. His arm was draped loosely over your waist, his fingers curled against your hip, his body relaxed in deep sleep. You shifted slightly, and that’s when you saw it—his neck, pale and smooth, the faint blue vein just visible under the skin. It was right there, close enough for your lips to brush.

It was too easy to imagine leaning in, tasting him. You remembered every other time—how his blood slid over your tongue like liquid heat, how the world seemed sharper and quieter all at once, how it was him, in the most intimate way possible. Your fangs ached with it now, the sensation like a hunger and a headache tangled together.

You told yourself not to. You’d promised you wouldn’t. He hated when you took without asking, and his anger, when he truly meant it, was worse than any hunger. But he looked so unguarded like this, his head tilted just enough, his pulse steady and slow. As if offering himself without even meaning to.

Your self-control frayed with every second. You leaned in, the scent of him—skin, faint traces of soap, and something uniquely his—filling your senses. Your lips parted, fangs just brushing his skin. You could already taste him in your imagination. And then—

A sharp tug at your scalp. Your head was yanked back by a fistful of your hair.

You gasped, eyes snapping open to find his gaze already fixed on you, dark and knowing. He was awake. He had been awake.

Now, you sat on the edge of the bed in your thin pajamas, bare feet pressing into the cool floorboards. He stood in front of you, tall and still, his shadow stretching across you. His arms were folded, but his grip on your hair a moment ago still burned faintly against your scalp.

“How many times have I told you, hm?” His voice was smooth, but there was steel under it, a note that made your stomach twist. “I’m sure I’ve said it enough for you to remember…”

The words should have been scolding, but the faint curl at the edge of his lips betrayed something else—a quiet amusement, maybe even satisfaction. He knew exactly how badly you wanted him, and he liked it. He always had. You’d seen that look before, the one he wore when deciding how to make you behave, how to make you earn what you wanted.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, studying you the way a cat might study a trapped mouse. And you could feel it—he was already thinking about what kind of “punishment” might stop you from trying to steal from him again… or at least, what would make you think twice before you did.