Page 24

Mathias drew Carson down onto a pile of soft, discarded fabrics, positioning him between his spread thighs, back to chest. Cool arms banded around him, possessive but gentle, one hand splaying wide over his abdomen. “Watch. Feel the bond through me.”

A female camp member approached, offering her wrist with a respectful nod. Mathias nicked it delicately with a fang and held the bleeding wound to Carson’s lips. “Just a taste. To understand what we are.”

The coppery essence hit Carson’s tongue—rich and heady, carrying faint echoes of ancient power. Not Mathias’, but close enough to ignite the link, the fire spreading through his veins like warm honey. Mathias’ hands roamed slowly—tracing ribs, thumbs brushing sensitive skin in sensual circles, fingers dipping just beneath clothing to tease without fully committing. Around them, the ritual deepened and morphed on an individual level. There were unfocused humans sighing and moaning as vampires fed and caressed, bodies moving in a slow, hypnotic rhythm of shared pleasure. The air pulsed with it—soft cries, the slick sounds of mouths on skin, the scent of many opened throats, and under it all was the rustle of fabric and flesh.

Carson shuddered hard, his own cock straining painfully against his clothes. The nonsexual touches and shared blood amplified everything. Quivering need began to build low in his belly, the bond singing louder, mutual addiction flaring hot and insistent. He pressed back into Mathias’ embrace, craving more of the blood sharing, more of the controlling holds, more of the ruin he was beginning to welcome with open arms.

The threats from the camp faded into background static. Rival camps and ferals felt distant. All that mattered was the high humming in his blood, the snare tightening, the addiction climbing to dangerous new heights.

By the time the ritual ebbed, Carson’s mind buzzed with the feelings which were deeper, darker, and more insistent than ever. He turned in Mathias’ arms, lips seeking cool skin, already hungry for the next taste.

The edge wasn’t just near. He was dancing on it, willingly—and part of him never wanted to stop.

He hated how easily the need overrode every warning.

Later, alone, he pressed his forehead to the warehouse wall and said, “I’m losing myself.”

The bond answered with a warm, possessive pulse that only made him want Mathias more.

***

Zeke

Zeke stood at the periphery of the reaping, arms folded across his chest, watching the slow, sensual dance of bodies and blood with a strange detachment. The air was thick with the sounds of pleasure—soft moans, wet feeding, the rustle of skin against skin—yet none of it stirred him the way it once had. The ecstasy unfolding before him felt distant, like a play he had seen performed too many times.

He drifted back, unbidden, to another life.

Before.

Lecture halls filled with the low murmur of students, the scratch of pens on paper, the sharp scent of chalk dust and old books. He had been Professor Ezekiel Moreau then—respected by peers and students alike, precise in words and work, quietly passionate about literature and philosophy. He remembered standing at the front of the room, watching young faces light up with sudden understanding, or dull with boredom. He had envied them their fire, their messy, vibrant hungers. His own existence had felt increasingly bloodless even then. His days and nights were filled with careful routines, late nights grading papers, the slow erosion of connection after his wife died. Depression had settled over him like a heavy fog, muting everything.

Now, decades later, he stood among predators and their willing prey and felt that same muted distance. The reaping was efficient, controlled, ethical by their standards...but it left him cold. He watched a whelp sink fangs into a trembling human’s throat and felt nothing but mild concern for the balance. The passion, the hunger, the raw ecstasy, it all washed over him like distant rain.

Have I become so detached? Zeke wondered. Or is this what survival costs?

His gaze drifted to the center of the room, where Mathias still held Carson close, the two of them wrapped in their own private world. The soul-mate bond radiated between them like a living thing. Zeke felt a flicker of something. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly, but a deep, quiet anxiety. Change was coming, roaring towards the camp in a swift and unrelenting way. Carson appeared to have integrated too easily. The camp was shifting beneath their feet, and Zeke wasn’t sure any of them were ready for where those changes might lead.

He exhaled slowly, the motion more habit than necessity, and turned away from the reaping. The hunger in his own veins felt dull tonight, secondary to the heavier weight of observation and worry.

Some fires, it seemed, were simply not meant to burn forever.

***

Gina

Gina moved through the heart of the reaping like a shadow given purpose, her hips swaying with each graceful step. She guided a trembling young whelp towards a willing human woman, one hand resting lightly on the fledgling’s shoulder. “Easy, little one,” she murmured, her voice warm with encouragement. “Feel her heartbeat. Let it guide you.”

The whelp struck, fangs sinking deep. The human arched with a soft, broken moan, pleasure blooming across her flushed face. Gina watched closely, drinking in the raw, unfiltered hunger radiating from the young vampire—the desperate need, the first true rush of ecstasy as living blood flooded her mouth. A fierce, almost maternal satisfaction bloomed in Gina’s chest, pushing back the ever-present murmur of the sun for a precious moment.

She moved on to the next, then another, offering quiet guidance and steady hands when the chits and whelps trembled on the edge of losing control. Each feeding grew something deep inside her. There was the sharp tang of fresh blood in the air, the shuddering gasps of humans lost in euphoric haze, and the raw, primal ecstasy shining in the whelps’ eyes as they learned restraint and indulgence in equal measure.

For those brief, stolen moments, Gina felt alive again. The Sun’s Jealous Call receded to a distant murmur. Here, in the careful orchestration needed to ensure their survival, she remembered why she stayed—why she continued to nurture this fragile camp even as Mathias pulled further away, lost in his new obsession.

Yet as the reaping began to wind down, her gaze drifted once more towards the center where Mathias held Carson close. The warmth she had borrowed from the whelps cooled rapidly, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache.

She found Mathias waiting at the edge of the light once Carson had been moved inwards and the last willing human was no longer a problem on the floor. Dam-work still on her hands. Sire-guilt already on his.

“I will manage the human Rolf corrupted.” She expected an argument from Mathias, surprised when she didn’t receive one.