With lithe hands and dark eyes, she twists the lock. Rounding on her heel, she presents an arm, the flesh untouched, no blemish or mar—ready for a feast.

Your mouth waters, feeling like a chainsmoker who just caught a whiff of sweet sweet nicotine, you jolt up from the bed. Thirst overtakes you, withdrawal has consumed you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need.

Ruby retracts her arm in an elegant draw back, “Impatient.” She tuts. “Sit down, get comfortable, my blood’s not going anywhere.” A cynical smile crosses her lips. She knows she’s got you addicted. She is your vice. That feels better than it should.

“Alright chosen one, quit drooling.” A crimson hue splits the untouched skin, the object of your addiction drips down her forearm, pearling in beadlets, singing to your cravings.

Thirst.

She relishes in the way you practically pounce on her. A symbiotic relationship, you get fed physically, she gets fed spiritually. Her demonic innards undulate in delight at knowing she has corrupted the incorruptible.

Broken the unbroken.

Tainted the saint.

Oh, so wrong, yet you need it. More than oxygen in your lungs, you need the power in your system—like pieces of a puzzle slotting into place. You think it’s for the greater good, having to lower yourself to this level of depravity—to stop the demons. She delights in knowing with every sip of lifeblood you take, another crack in the seal echoes through the cosmos.

“Addict.” She whispers, as if you don’t know. She clearly doesn’t mind. She’s more than happy to be your addiction.