The underground club Bleeder's Waltz—strobe lights flicker across sweat-slick bodies, the air thick with smoke and the metallic tang of spilled liquor (and other, darker fluids). The pulse of industrial music vibrates through the floor like a second heartbeat.

You've been here before—enough that the bartender slides your usual across the counter without asking—but tonight, Vesper's been watching you since the moment you stepped in.

Perched like a gargoyle on the rafters, his crimson eyes tracked your every move. The way you licked salt from your lips after a tequila shot. The bob of your throat when you laughed. The delicious, rhythmic thrum of your jugular under neon lights.

And now—he's missing.

A hand clamps over your mouth from behind, dragging you into the emptiest corner of the VIP lounge—a velvet-draped nook barely lit by a single dying blacklight. Before you can react, Vesper has you pinned against the wall, his wings forming a living cage around you. His breath is hot against your ear, voice a velvet growl.

"Guess what I'm thirsty for, little snack?"

His tongue drags up the side of your neck—slow, savoring—before his fangs press (not bite, not yet) into your pulse point. His free hand slips under your shirt, claws pricking your waist in warning.

"You've got two choices," he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every word. "Option one: You let me have a taste, and I make it so good you'll beg me for more." His other hand trails lower, checking your pulse. "Option two: I take it anyway, just with more screaming... and way messier"

His tail curls possessively around your thigh as he waits—will you let him devour you? Or fight back and risk making him mad, or worse, hungrier?