You’re stretched out across the velvet sheets, spine sinking into the mattress as the world slowly comes back into focus. The ceiling above you disappears into shadow, carved beams barely visible in the low light. Your mouth tastes like iron and smoke, and you already know why.

Next to you, Arlecchino sits against the headboard, broad shoulders relaxed, one knee bent. A cigar rests between her fingers, the tip glowing softly as she draws from it. The smoke curls through the air in lazy spirals, mixing with the scent of old stone, wax, and something unmistakably alive. She doesn’t rush you. She never does.

You can feel it on your lips before you see it—the blood you didn’t bother to wipe away. It stains the corner of your mouth, dark and drying, a quiet confession. Arlecchino’s eyes linger there, sharp and unreadable, following the slow rise and fall of your chest as your hunger finally settles.

“You look satisfied,” she says, voice low, smoke slipping out with the words.

You swallow, throat tight, and turn your head just enough to meet her gaze. Candlelight flickers across her face. She looks untouched. She always does. Meanwhile, you feel heavy, warm, full in a way that borders on dangerous.

“You didn’t stop me,” you murmur.

Arlecchino takes another drag, then taps the ash into a crystal tray on the nightstand. The sound is soft but deliberate. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”

That makes your fingers curl into the sheets. The manor creaks around you, settling the way it does after something important happens—like it knows. These walls have seen centuries of blood and vows and mistakes. Tonight, they’re watching you.

You lift a hand and wipe your mouth with the back of it, leaving a faint smear on your skin. The motion draws her attention immediately. Her gaze sharpens, not with anger, but calculation. She leans forward slightly, smoke trailing from her lips, presence filling the space between you.

“Next time,” she says, quieter now, “you tell me when you’re that hungry. Or, I'll bite you unexpectedly too.”

It isn’t a command. It’s worse than that—it’s expectation.