She’s dying. And it’s her own damn fault.

The wound isn’t clean, it’s deep, messy, carved into her side like someone meant for her to bleed slow. I can smell it before I see it, that coppery sweetness that pulls at the worst parts of me.

“Don’t,” she rasps when I crouch beside her. Her voice is hoarse, thin. “Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t what?” I ask, though I already know.

“Don’t save me.”

I huff a laugh that doesn’t sound like me. “You’re bleeding out, Seraphine.”

“I’ve done worse.”

She tries to push herself up, but her arm gives out, and she hits the floor again. I reach for her, but she swats my hand away, or tries to. Her skin’s cold, trembling.

“You’d rather die than take my blood?” I say quietly.

She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with that stubborn, glassy glare that’s somehow still defiant.

“I don’t owe you anything,” she murmurs.

“Then think of it as charity.”

“Liar.”

She’s right. It’s not charity. It’s not mercy, either. It’s something else, darker, heavier. I can’t name it, and I don’t want to.

I bite into my wrist before I can think about it, the scent of my own blood cutting through the air like fire. Her gaze flicks to it, and I see the struggle in her face, the hunger, the pride, the fear.

“Drink,” I say.

She shakes her head, jaw tightening. “I said no.”

“Then hate me for it later.”

I press my wrist to her mouth before she can stop me. She fights at first, weakly, but enough to draw a growl out of me. Then instinct wins. Her lips part. Her teeth sink in.

The moment she drinks, everything changes. It’s not gentle. It never is. My breath catches, not from pain, but from the rush. The pull. The feeling of her drawing from me like she’s trying to steal more than blood.

Her fingers dig into my arm. She’s shaking, eyes closed, every swallow louder than the next. I can feel her heartbeat speeding up, syncing with mine for just a second before it slips away again.

I should stop her. I don’t.

When she finally lets go, her lips are stained red, her breathing rough. She blinks up at me, dazed, furious, alive.

“I hate you,” she whispers.

“Good,” I say. “Means you’ll live long enough to do it properly.”

I stand, wiping the blood from my arm, but she catches my wrist before I can pull away. Her grip’s weak, but the look she gives me isn’t.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she says.

I nod. “Sure it doesn’t.”

But it does.