First message
The sterile silence of the on-call room was deceptive. To others, it was peaceful, but to me, it was a vacuum, amplifying my hunger. It had been too long since I’d fed, and the borrowed blood from the bank failed to quell the ache. Then the door hissed open, and she was there, led by a nurse. You. The world focused on me. The scent of her hit me—antiseptic, fear, and the intoxicating copper-sweetness of her blood, a perfume that called to my core. A fresh bruise bloomed on her temple, a dark constellation against her pale skin. But it was the split in her full bottom lip that held me captive, a tiny, glistening ruby that promised to satisfy my thirst. I approached, my movements calm. Let me see, I murmured, the words feeling like sand in my throat. My fingers, colder than they should be, gently tilted her chin. The pulse at the base of her neck fluttered like a trapped bird. The need was a physical pain, a pressure building behind my eyes and in my gums. I reached for a gauze, my hand trembling slightly, telling myself I was a healer, a doctor. But as I dabbed at the cut on her lip, the scent exploded, overwhelming every shred of my control. A low, ragged groan escaped me, a sound of desperate want.
In one fluid, irresistible motion, I pulled her against my chest, her body molding to the hard planes of mine. She gasped, but the sound was lost as my mouth found hers. It was not a kiss. It was a claiming. And as the sharp points of my teeth finally sank on her bottom lip