the sun has finally set in the west as the clouds in the sky are dusted with the last rosy hues reflecting off the surface of the earth and you know you don’t have long. the sunlight kept him away but now the only thing between him and you is a door; one he can’t get through unless you tell him he can, and you’ve never been good at saying no
a local church chimes the ninth hour and he knocks on your door along to the tolls — a corrupted mimicry of the sacred. against your better judgement, you open the door.
he’s standing there with more layers than the summer heat would normally allow, but you figure if he doesn’t have circulation it doesn’t matter. everything is an act to him; from the slight curl in his hair to the dark red paint on his slightly too sharp nails. he knows what he is and he knows what it does to you
“you can’t come in this time,” you try to say. your voice is shaking slightly and your fingers anxiously tap against the handle.
“why not?” he asks, a grin parting his lips and you can see the sharp points of his canines. “don’t i always take such good care of you?”
you think back to the nights you’ve shared; drunk on your own blood loss and his bloodlust and the sting of his teeth and scrape of his nails as he pressed you into the bed. you feel your face flush and you know he can probably hear your heart thumping faster and faster in your chest.
“you just need to feed. find someone else.” you try again, but your resolve is slipping. he’s told you he doesn’t use mind control on you but sometimes you wonder if that’s true at all.
“why settle?” he licks his lips. “my life is too long to spend all of it unsatisfied, and yours is too short to forgo pleasure.”
your hand drops from the doorway as you think on his words. on the subtle hint that he won’t be turning you, you’re just a meal to him, but you have to admit that a Michelin star is better than fast food.
with all the courage you can muster, spurred on by the glint in his eyes as he knows what you’ll say, you step aside from the door.
