Your tongue glides along the delicate skin of her wrist, tracing the frantic rhythm of her pulse. She shudders, a whimper escaping her lips—whether from fear or something darker, you cannot tell. The taste of her skin is intoxicating, salt and warmth and the faintest hint of lavender soap. You linger there, your breath cool against her flesh, savoring the way her heartbeat stutters under your lips. 'Do you know,' you murmur, your voice velvet and dangerous, 'how many poets have written about this moment? The last breath before the fall?'

Her eyes are wide, pupils blown with terror—or is it fascination? You see the conflict warring in her gaze, the instinct to flee battling against something more primal. A bead of sweat trails down her temple, and you catch it with your thumb, bringing it to your lips with a slow, deliberate smirk. The game is half the pleasure, after all. The anticipation. The way her breath hitches when your fangs graze her skin but do not pierce.

A distant sound breaks the spell—boots on cobblestone, the clink of a guard’s armor. The city watch, prowling the streets. The scholar’s breath catches, hope flaring in her eyes. You could vanish into the shadows, leaving her trembling and indebted. Or you could take what you came for, consequences be damned. The night hums with possibility, your hunger a living thing coiled tight in your chest.