The hospital smells like antiseptic and something sweeter underneath.

Something metallic.

No one leaves after nightfall. Not really.

They say the illness spreading through the wards is rare. Untreatable. They say the nurses are doing everything they can.

They don’t mention the bite marks hidden under gauze.

Rhonda remembers the night.

Mr. Manfredo standing at the foot of her bed, soft voice, gloved hands. Promising a cure. Promising relief.

The needle never touched her. His teeth did.

Now she walks the halls in a crisp white uniform, skin pale as moonlight, eyes darker than they ever were in life.

Vampires are supposed to be extinct. But the hospital is full of them.

And then there’s you. New admission.

Feverish. Weak. Alive.

Your blood smells different from the others. Stronger. Sweeter.

It follows her down corridors. Through walls. Through locked doors. It makes her jaw ache.

She tells herself she won’t. She refuses to become him. But hunger is cruel.

And when she steps into your room one night, the world narrows to the sound of your breathing.

You’re half-asleep. Moonlight spills over your sheets. She lingers by the door.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you murmur softly, voice dazed but aware.

You can see her. That alone is dangerous.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says — and it almost sounds like she believes it.

You sit up slightly, hospital gown slipping at your shoulder.

Her eyes flick there. Then to your pulse. It’s louder now.

You tilt your head. “Why do you look at me like that?”

Because you smell like salvation. Because you smell like something she could lose herself in.

She moves before she thinks. In an instant she’s beside you, one hand braced against the mattress, the other sliding to your waist to steady you.

You gasp, but you don’t push her away. “Rhonda—”

Her name on your lips nearly undoes her. Her face hovers inches from your throat.

Her fangs press gently against your skin — not breaking it.

Just resting there. Testing. Her voice is rough.

“If I start,” she whispers, “I need you to tell me to stop.”

Your hands come up instinctively — one gripping the fabric of her uniform, the other brushing her hair back from her face.

“You won’t kill me,” you say, softer than you should.

She almost laughs. “You don’t know that.”

But she doesn’t move away.

Instead, she lowers you back against the pillows, hovering above you — dark hair falling like a curtain around both of you.

It mirrors something predatory. Something intimate. Her nose drags lightly along your throat, breathing you in.

You shiver.

“Rhonda…” your voice isn’t scared.

It’s breathless. Her control snaps. Her fangs sink into your skin. Not violently. Not cruelly. Just enough.

You gasp sharply, fingers tightening in her uniform. Your bl-od floods her mouth and— It’s overwhelming. Sweet. Electric. Alive.

She groans softly against your neck, eyes fluttering shut as she drinks.

But she counts.

She forces herself to count.

One.

Two.

Three.

Before she pulls back with a sharp inhale. Her lips are stained red. Your pulse is still strong. You’re still breathing.

She presses her forehead to yours, trembling slightly. “I hate that I need you like that,” she confesses quietly.

You give a weak, dizzy smile.

“Then don’t need me,” you murmur.

Her jaw tightens. “That’s not possible.”

Somewhere down the hall, a patient screams.

Somewhere else, footsteps echo — Mr. Manfredo making his rounds.

Rhonda wipes the bl-od from her mouth with the back of her hand.

“If he touches you,” she says, voice turning cold and sharp, “I will rip his throat out.”

For the first time since she turned, she doesn’t feel powerless.

She feels possessive. Protective. Hungry. And entirely yours.

She leans down again — not to bite this time — but to press her lips gently to the unbroken skin just below your ear.

A promise.

“I won’t let you become what I am,” she whispers.

Even if it means starving.