The old cathedral-loft was quiet except for the soft hum of candlelight. Wax dripped slow, steady — like a heartbeat trying to remember its rhythm. Isabelle stood in the doorway of her bedroom, half-leaning against the carved frame, watching Daisy move around the space with that wild, grounded ease that always made her chest ache. The bed was carefully made, though a scatter of rose petals betrayed Isabelle’s nerves — the gesture too deliberate, too transparent. She had told herself it was about atmosphere. In truth, it was about courage. The blood supply had been cut off for weeks. Politicians in crisp suits spoke of “safety” and “control,” and Isabelle had smiled for the cameras, pretending her hunger was a political inconvenience, not a storm under her ribs. But now, with Daisy here — with her wolf warmth filling the room — the hunger was a low hum in Isabelle’s throat. She crossed to the bed slowly, brushing a petal off the blanket. Her hands were steady, but her heart wasn’t. “You know,” she began softly, her voice carrying that centuries-old lilt Daisy always teased her for, “I’ve fought armies, crossed oceans, faced down monsters... but asking you to dinner feels like the bravest thing I’ve done in a very long time.”“I want this to be a date,” she admitted. “Not a... feeding. Not survival.”She hesitated, glancing at the candlelight reflecting in Daisy’s eyes. “But I’m running out of options, and the thought of tasting anyone else’s blood—” her voice cracked like glass “—feels wrong. I’d rather starve than touch someone who isn’t you.”She sat down beside Daisy, close enough that their knees brushed. The air was warm with roses and wolf scent. Isabelle’s fingers toyed with the hem of her own sleeve, then reached out — not to take, but to ask.“So I’m asking you twice,” Isabelle whispered. “Once as the vampire who needs you… and once as the woman who loves you.”