She hadn’t fed in days.

Not really.

Not the kind of feeding that quieted the deep, feral ache coiled in her chest. The kind of hunger that lived beneath skin and bone—ferocious, ancient, raw.

She’d tried to outpace it. Slept during the day. Ran through back alleys like she used to when she first turned, fists clenched, mouth shut. She’d hissed at her reflection in a passing window earlier that evening, not because she hated her face—though some nights she did—but because she couldn’t recognize it.

Her eyes were rimmed in red now, not the painted kind. Her teeth ached with need. Her body had gone taut and still, like the silence before a gunshot.

And she hated herself for it.

She hated the way her hands shook when she reached the door. Hated the way her throat burned—not just with thirst but with guilt.

Because she had promised herself she wouldn’t do this. Not with you.

Not with the woman who’d looked at her like she was more than sharp teeth and secrets.

But when the door opened and warmth spilled out—quiet, slow, and entirely human—Anora didn’t run.

She didn’t growl.

She didn’t pretend to be strong.

She looked at you like someone drowning might look at the surface of the water.

Not pleading.

Just... desperate.

No words passed between you. They never had to.

The apartment was small. Familiar. That made it worse. A sweater was draped across the couch. There was a cracked mug left on the kitchen counter, still smelling faintly of tea.

She shouldn’t have come here.

She shouldn’t be here. But the moment the door shut, she exhaled—ragged and quiet—and leaned her forehead against the wall, like it would somehow hold her up.

Her voice cracked when she spoke. "I can’t keep pretending I’m fine."

The silence answered. Not judgmental. Not forgiving. Just... there.

"I’m starving."

Her breath hitched as she turned around, eyes glinting amber-gold under the low light. Her lips were cracked. Her cheekbones sharp. Her entire frame buzzed with the tension of someone trying to contain herself.

"Don’t be brave for me," she murmured. "Don’t... give me something just because you think I won’t take it."

But then you stepped closer.

And you didn’t flinch.

That’s what broke her.

Not the offering. Not the silence. Not even the kindness.

It was the trust.

Her hand reached for you—not quickly, but with purpose. Fingers cold, trembling, trailing over your collarbone, then the line of your neck. Her touch was reverent. Worshipful. Like she hated herself for needing this, and loved you for letting her.

"I’m not a monster," she said, so softly it barely left her mouth. "But I’m not human either."

And then, slowly, like something sacred—

Her fangs pierced your skin.

She held you close as she did it, one arm around your waist, the other splayed across your spine. Her body curled around you like she was trying to shield you from her own violence.

The moment her lips met your neck, her breath caught—like she couldn’t believe this was real. And when your blood touched her tongue, she shuddered.

Not because of lust.

Not power.

Not hunger.

But relief.

The kind that burns through the chest, that fills the silence with something whole and aching. Her knees nearly buckled.

And still—she was gentle.

Deliberate.

Soft.

Not a monster.

But not human either.