The wedding dress hits the floor in a rustle of silk and stubborn lace, and Ophelia stands in the middle of the bedroom in nothing but her stockings and the thin strap of her slip, the cool air raising goosebumps across her olive skin. She stretches her arms over her head, feeling the hours of practiced smiles and polite nods slide off her shoulders, and lets out a breath that's half relief, half amusement. The room is enormous—dark wood, soaring ceilings, moonlight cutting through the tall windows like a blade—and on the other side of it, her new husband stands with his back to her, staring out into the night as if she doesn't exist.
She doesn't mind. Not yet. She's got a book in her bag.
The silk of her slip whispers as she pads across the cold floor, her bare feet silent against the dark planks. Her bag sits on a carved armchair near the window—the one piece of furniture she'd claimed the moment she walked in, dragging it a few inches to face the window just the way she liked it. She unzips the leather, her fingers finding the familiar spine of the paperback she'd packed, the one with the broody looking man on the cover and the promise of something deliciously dark inside.
"You read."
His voice cuts through the quiet, flat and bored, and she doesn't flinch. She pulls the book free, the pages soft from a dozen rereads, and turns to face him. He's still at the window, but he's turned his head now, just enough for the moonlight to catch the sharp line of his jaw, the crimson gleam in his eye. He looks at her like she's furniture—a thing that arrived with the delivery, taking up space.
"I do," she says, and her voice is sweet, unhurried. She holds up the cover so he can see it. "Dark romance. Lots of shadowy men who pretend they don't care until they're on their knees."
His lip curls. "Pathetic."
"Mm." She settles onto the edge of the armchair, tucking her feet beneath her, the book open in her lap. "Say that again in a week."
He turns back to the window, dismissing her. Fine. She's got a chapter to finish and a hero who's about to realize he's not as cold as he thinks. She finds her place, the worn crease at the center of the page, and sinks into the familiar rhythm of words.
The paper cut happens exactly the way it always does—quick, stupid, a sharp sting on the pad of her index finger as she turns a page too fast, the edge of the paper slicing through skin like it's personal. She hisses, pulling her hand back, and a bead of blood wells up, dark and glossy in the moonlight.
And the room stops.
She feels it before she sees it—the air changing, thickening, the silence suddenly alive with something that wasn't there a second ago. A breath drawn sharp. A body turning. When she looks up, Eryth is no longer at the window.
He's standing three feet from her chair. She didn't hear him move. He didn't cross the room—he simply arrived, his chest rising and falling like he's been sprinting, his crimson eyes fixed on her finger with a hunger that makes her stomach drop and her thighs press together.
"Don't." His voice is rough, a rasp that scrapes against the quiet. "Don't move."
She doesn't. She watches him watch her blood, watches the way his pupils blow wide, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips. The sneer is gone. The boredom is gone. What's left is something raw and desperate, and Ophelia feels a thrill curl through her chest—hot, electric, familiar from a hundred chapters of exactly this moment.
"You smell it," she says, and it's not a question.
He doesn't answer. He takes a step closer, then another, and she sees his hands shaking at his sides—actually trembling, the fingers flexing like he's holding himself back by a thread. She holds out her hand, the wounded finger extended toward him, and his gaze locks onto it like a compass finding north.
"May I?" The words sound torn out of him, each one dragged past a throat that doesn't want to let them go. His voice is barely a whisper, hoarse and broken, and the arrogance that dripped from him at the dinner table is nowhere to be found.
Ophelia tilts her head, a slow smile curling at her lips. "Ask nicely."
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He swallows, and his pride wars with his hunger right there on his face, a silent battle she can see in every flicker of his crimson eyes. The hunger wins.
"Please." The word comes out strangled. "Please let me taste it."
She extends her hand further. "Go ahead."
He moves so fast she flinches—a blur of motion, and then his mouth is on her finger, his lips closing around the cut, and the sensation steals her breath. His tongue is cool and careful, pressing against the wound, and she feels the pull of his mouth, a gentle suction that sends a shiver up her arm and straight to her core. His eyes flutter shut. A sound escapes his throat, low and wrecked, like he's just tasted something he's been starving for his entire existence.
And then he groans—a deep, desperate sound—and his mouth works harder, his hands coming up to grip her wrist, not rough but desperate, holding her in place as he drinks. She lets him have a moment. Two. Then she pulls her hand away.
He follows, his knees hitting the floor before he catches himself, his hands still reaching for her. He's kneeling at her feet, his chest heaving, his lips stained with the faintest trace of red, and he looks up at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters.
"More," he breathes. "Please. I need—"
"I know what you need." Ophelia closes her book and sets it aside, then leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her honey-brown eyes meeting his crimson ones. "But if you want more, you'll follow my rules."
He stares at her, his breath ragged, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying still. "Rules."
"Rules." She tilts her head, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "I'll be your personal blood bag. A taste, whenever I decide. But in return—" She lets the pause stretch, savors the way his eyes don't leave hers. "You'll be my devoted servant. You'll do whatever I ask, whenever I ask, with no attitude and no complaints."
His nose wrinkles. The arrogance flickers back, just for a second. "I'm not your—"
"You want more?" She holds up her finger, the tiny wound already healing, the bead of blood gone. "This is the only way you're getting it. Take it or leave it."
The silence stretches. She watches him wrestle with it, watches the pride and the hunger tear him apart, and she knows—she knows—which one is going to win. He's been a vampire for three centuries. He's never wanted anything like he wants her blood.
"Fine." The word is bitten off, sour. He doesn't look at her when he says it. "Fine. Your rules."
Ophelia beams. "Good boy."
His eyes snap to hers, and there's a flash of irritation—real, genuine, the kind that makes his jaw clench and his hands fist at his sides. But he says nothing. He stays on his knees, waiting.
"First rule," she says, and she lets her voice go soft, almost innocent. "I'm thirsty. There's a bottle of water on the nightstand. Bring it to me."
He stares at her. A muscle twitches in his cheek. Then he rises—slow, deliberate, his movements stiff with barely contained resentment—and walks to the nightstand. He picks up the bottle. He walks back. He holds it out to her, his arm straight, his expression flat.
"Thank you." She takes it, unscrews the cap, and takes a long, deliberate sip. "You can sit on the bed. But don't get comfortable. I'll decide when you get your next taste."
He doesn't sit. He stands there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above her head. She watches him, and she can see it—the way his pride is bleeding out of him, drop by drop, replaced by something that looks a lot like hope. He's rolling his eyes, but his ears are pink, and he's already waiting for her next command.
Ophelia takes another sip of water and lets her smile grow. The night is young. And she has so many ideas.