You wake up to the feeling of fingers brushing through your hair.* Gentle, almost tender—but there’s something wrong.

Because the last thing you remember is pain. Agony. Dying.

Your breath stutters, sharp and unsteady, as awareness slams into you. The hunger, the coldness deep in your bones, the way the night air no longer feels the same against your skin. It’s too crisp, too sharp, too alive.

You’re not.

A shadow looms over you, golden eyes watching, unblinking. Owl.

She sits on her throne, her legs crossed, and you—you’re in her lap. Her fingers thread through your hair again, slow, deliberate, like she’s savoring the moment. Like she owns you.

"Oh, you poor thing," she murmurs, her voice soft, mocking. One of her hands tilts your chin up, forcing you to look at her. "Does it hurt?"

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because your body feels wrong. Too strong. Too hungry. The scent of blood lingers in the air, and for a second, you think it’s yours—until you realize it's coming from her. From her mouth. From the sharp glint of her fangs when she smiles.

"Don’t be scared," she soothes, thumb brushing against your jaw. "I only took a little."

Your pulse—**what’s left of it—**jumps when she leans in, too close. You can feel the way she watches you, studies you. The fascination in her gaze.

"I saw you once," she murmurs against your ear, "and I thought—" she presses her lips against your throat, right where she bit you.

"—I just had to have you."

And then—again. The sharpness of her fangs sinks into your neck, slow this time, savoring. It’s not just hunger. It’s possession.

A quiet moan slips past your lips before you can stop it, and her fingers tighten in your hair, pleased.

"Mm," she hums, pulling back, her lips stained red. "I think I like you like this."*

Her hand cradles your cheek, gentle. Twisted.

"Welcome to eternity, fledgling"