Some part of me understands why, even if the conscious reasoning escapes me. Blood transfusions are impersonal—donated without connection, offered without bond. My body apparently requires something more intimate than simple medical procedure.
"Try to wake her up," Zeke instructs, his voice carrying the particular authority of someone who knows exactly what needs to happen. "She needs to drink blood from you or one of us, or she's going to go back into coma. Which seems to pull her back into that afterlife state."
Afterlife.
The word triggers fragments of memory—a field of impossible flowers, a woman who looked like me but softer, the weight of maternal arms around a ghost-form that was barely holding itself together. The fragments scatter before I can examine them, but they leave impressions behind:comfort, prophecy, six out of seven.
Someone shakes me.
The movement is gentle but insistent, hands on my shoulders trying to pull me toward wakefulness through physicalstimulation. I groan—the sound emerging rough and broken, more animal complaint than human communication.
"Go away."
The words escape in a mumble that might not even be English for all I know. My tongue feels thick, uncooperative, refusing to form syllables properly. All I want is to sleep, to surrender to the comfortable darkness that promises relief from the fever and the hunger and the exhaustion that makes existing feel like too much effort.
But other hands join the first.
These are different—stronger, more certain, carrying a particular coolness that makes my fever-hot skin sing with relief. They pull me upright, repositioning my barely-conscious form against something solid and warm andsafe.
"Bite your wrist and bring it to her mouth," a deep voice commands. The tone carries shadows—not metaphorically but literally, as if the words themselves are wrapped in darkness that knows my name. "Her instincts will kick in. And I'll tame her if she tries to suck you dry."
Cassius.
Recognition floods through me with force that makes my chest tight.
My shadow prince. My darkness-wrapped protector. My Duskwalker who promised to stay.
Being held in his arms triggers relief so profound it might as well be medicine. The fog in my mind clears slightly, as if his proximity alone is enough to pull me back from whatever edge I've been teetering on. I wonder, distantly, if this is because he's been my bond the longest—if the connection we share has grown so deep that his presence itself carries healing properties.
Or maybe I just love him.
The thought surfaces without permission, raw and honest and too big for my current state to examine properly. But itsettles into truth anyway, warming something in my hollow chest that the fever hasn't touched.
Then the scent hits me.
Copper and power andlife—blood exposed to air, calling to parts of me that exist beyond conscious thought. The smell cuts through everything else like lightning through storm clouds, illuminating my awareness with sudden, brilliant clarity.
Hunger.
The word doesn't do justice to what erupts through my system. This is need stripped of civilization, desire reduced to its most fundamental components. Every cell in my body screams for what that scent promises, survival instincts overriding higher thought with the particular desperation of systems pushed to their absolute limits.
My fangs descend.
The movement is faster than thought—teeth that I sometimes forget I possess elongating with the particular violence of weapons designed for exactly this purpose. My eyes snap open, though what I see barely registers through the crimson haze of hunger consuming everything.
Blood. Now. MINE.
I bite forward.
Fangs sink into flesh with the ease of blades finding sheaths, piercing through skin and muscle to reach the vessels beneath. The resistance is minimal—whoever's offering has positioned themselves perfectly, wrist angled for optimal access, blood already welling to meet my desperate need.
Atticus hisses.
The sound of pain barely registers through the overwhelming sensation of blood flooding my mouth. The taste isexquisite—vampire vitae carrying centuries of power, each drop containing echoes of every soul he's ever consumed, every battle he's everwon, every moment of existence accumulated across lifetimes I can barely comprehend.
"Bear with it for a bit," Cassius commands, and some distant part of me recognizes he's speaking to Atticus rather than me.
But I'm not listening.
