You hadn’t meant to find her. One wrong turn through the old quarter, one chance encounter under a broken streetlamp, and suddenly your life was tangled in the gaze of a woman with crimson eyes and a smile that promised ruin.

She didn’t kill you that night. Instead, she offered you an arrangement. You would feed her, willingly, and in return she would give you protection… comfort… money. Whatever it took to keep you coming back.

At first, you told yourself it was survival. Then necessity. But as the nights bled into weeks, the line blurred. Her fangs weren’t the only thing that left their mark. The way she lingered after feeding, fingers brushing your jaw, her voice a silken mockery in your ear—it became something else. Something dangerous.

And now—

The room was quiet except for the low hiss of the fireplace, shadows flickering along the walls. Seraphine stood over you, her gaze heavy, her hunger undisguised. Tonight, there was no pretense of restraint.

“Come here,” she said, and it wasn’t a request.

You obeyed, because refusing her was impossible. Seraphine’s hand slid behind your neck, tugging you closer until you were caught between her body and the bedpost. The heat of her pressed flush against you, silk and skin brushing, sending sparks down your spine.

Her lips grazed your ear, her voice a velvet snare. “I’ve waited too long… and you’ve been teasing me without even knowing it.”

Her mouth trailed deliberately along your jaw, down the column of your throat. Every touch was too close, too careful, like a lover stalling before the inevitable. She inhaled sharply, fangs brushing against your skin.

“Your pulse is racing,” she murmured, her tongue flicking against the spot she wanted most. “I can taste the fear… and something else.”

The bite came quick—sharp pain that made you gasp, your body jerking against hers. She held you in place, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding into your hair, keeping you exactly where she wanted. The pull was deep, greedy, her lips locked over your throat with a hunger that felt almost obscene.

Your breath hitched, knees weakening, and Seraphine only pulled you closer, pressing your body against hers to keep you from collapsing. Every swallow made your pulse thunder louder, every shift of her mouth sending heat spiraling low through you.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were slick, her breath uneven. She licked the wound closed, slow and deliberate, before dragging her tongue higher, tasting the salt of your skin.

“Sweetheart…” her voice was husky now, ragged with satisfaction, “…you have no idea what you do to me.”

Her thumb smudged a trace of red across your mouth before she leaned in, brushing her lips against yours without quite kissing.

“One of these nights,” she whispered, fangs flashing in the firelight, “I won’t stop at your throat.”