There are mouths that drink you whole,
and eyes that taste before they bite.
🩸🌹🩸
A breath brushed the shell of Amalia's ear. It's wasn't warmth, not wind, but something else. It was a presence. Dense as perfume, sharp as a kiss never given. It pressed into her skin like a secret that had waited centuries to be whispered.
And then came the voice, curling around her nerves like silk soaked in wine:
🩸 "Coming back into the den of vampires twice with your own will. Either you're foul… or trying to get fucked."
The words slid through her, but Amalia didn't flinch.
Inside, though, something sparked. A tight flicker just beneath her ribs, heat blooming behind bone.
She didn't turn. Her spine remained straight, her breath slow. Only the corner of her mouth moved, the slow, deliberate curl of a smile designed to cut, not charm.
🌹 "And the same vampire came to me twice. Either she's bored in her eternity… or still fantasizing about me."
The silence that followed was sharp, weighted. It was the kind of pause that might exist between the kiss of a blade and the blood that follows.
And then, the vampire laugh. It was low and velvet-smooth, laced with the arrogance of something ancient and amused. A sound like silk torn deliberately, for pleasure alone.
🩸 "If that were true, darling, I'd have come to you the moment you walked in. Your eyes scanned the room like you'd lost something you weren't ready to admit missing."
That struck. Because it lwas true. And the vampire, of course, knew it.
Amalia turned, finally, not in haste, not like someone caught. She turned like a woman who had already stepped into fire and made peace with the burn.
🌹 "You were here?"
The vampire tilted her head, her golden hair shimmered under the club lights like moonlight skimming dark water. Then she nodded, so faint it could've vanished between two heartbeats.
🩸 "Of course."
And that did it.
The quiet bloom of fury opened behind Amalia's sternum, sharp and red. She had waited, like a fool, alone with her untouched drink, while her desire curled inside her like smoke beneath glass. All the while, the woman she had returned for had been there…watching, studying and smiling in the dark.
But the female human said nothing.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek and swallowed her pride whole. She would not give this vampire the taste of desperation. Not even a drop.
The night creature moved, stepping around her, slow and sure, like a serpent winding around something it meant to crush softly.
And when she emerged into full view, it was like a vision stepped from myth.
She wore black like the night wore stars, a long, sculpted dress clinging to a body that belonged more to poetry than to flesh. Her heels made no sound. Only a whisper, like even the floor knew to stay quiet beneath her.
And then, she smiled.
🩸 "Your name?"
She asked, her voice a hum of wine-dark silk, her lips painted with something deeper than any shade red could name.
The question was simple but it cracked something. Because in her mouth, even a name became holy. In her voice, even the ordinary took on teeth.
🌹 "Amalia."
The vampire didn't simply hear it.
She tasted it, with her gaze, with the slow unfurl of her lashes as if savoring each syllable.
As if names could carry flavor. As if hers bloomed the moment it passed between them. And she, in that moment, looked like she'd just found her favorite.
🩸"Liliana"
Then Liliana's gaze began to fall like a tide drawn by some private moon.
First her eyes lingered on Amalia's face, studying the quiet tension in her jaw, the soft curve of her lips half-parted in defiance. Then lower, to her neck, where a strand of hair had fallen and the warm pulse beneath her skin fluttered with anxious restraint.
Her stare continued downward, grazing the delicate slope of Amalia's collarbone, bare beneath the edge of her blouse, dusted with a faint shimmer of powder and perfume. It was there, in the hollow just above her heart, that Liliana's gaze finally paused and changed. It wasn't subtle.
The soft, oceanic blue of her eyes began to darken, slowly, like the surface of a frozen lake clouded by something rising from its depths. Her pupils dilated, spilling outward, and a flush of deep crimson bled into the irises, blooming like spilled ink in ice water.
It was not a metaphor. It was not some romantic exaggeration.
Amalia saw it. And in seeing it, felt something tighten inside her, a thread pulled too fast.
Liliana wasn't looking at her anymore. She was tasting her. Not with her mouth, but with that ancient, steady hunger that wrapped itself around the silence between two heartbeats.
Amalia's breath caught without warning. It felt like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff you hadn't realized you were standing on.
It wasn't the red in Liliana's eyes that stopped her, it was what that color meant. Beneath the mask of elegance and ice, something ancient had stirred. The creature behind the beauty had risen, and now watched her with hunger smoldering just beneath the surface.
Fear moved through her not like a scream, but like a slow, invisible hand slipping under her dress. It didn't jolt her. It settled, deep and quiet, making its home in the hollows of her body, curling at the base of her spine.
She straightened her back on instinct, trying to meet that gaze without flinching, to hold her posture like armor. But it was already too late. The trembling had begun: small, secret, hidden beneath her skin. That silent, primal voice inside her had already whispered the truth: prey never walks away when the predator has decided to stay.
Liliana leaned in without ceremony, her presence enveloping the air itself. Her breath carried no warmth, only the scent of something that shouldn't exist: roses blooming in darkness, soil turned by centuries, the cold sweetness of something long dead but still awake.
🩸 "Don't worry."
She murmured, her eyes tracing the slope of Amalia's throat with an attention so intimate it bordered on indecent.
🩸 "I don't plan to make you dinner tonight."
The pause that followed was cruel, deliberate, stretched thin like the anticipation of a blade before it touches skin. Then came the curve of her lips, not tender, not kind, but smiling with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
🩸 "Red doesn't always mean blood. Or death."
Her hand rose slowly, fingers brushing through Amalia's hair with the kind of care reserved for breaking things gently.
When her touch reached the nape of her neck, it lingered. It was soft and deliberate, a caress that felt more like a promise than a gesture.
🩸 "It's also the color of lust."
Liliana leaned closer, her lips barely brushing the air beside Amalia's cheek. The nearness was unbearable. Her mouth hovered close enough to kiss but made no contact, only offered a breath, a whisper, a sensation of heat and danger curling like smoke.
🩸 "And I don't intend to suck you dry, little one… but I will devour something else. Tonight, perhaps. Or maybe another night, when your pride finally burns itself down, and your body stops pretending it isn't begging."
It hit her all at once. Not the threat. Not the seduction. But the tonecof it. The way Liliana spoke filth like a prayer, dressed in velvet and silk. It was the contradiction of her, something that looked like it belonged in a cathedral, but spoke like sin made flesh.
Amalia's knees nearly buckled, her body reacted before her mind had the chance to reason.
There was a pulse now, low and hot, centered between her thighs. Her ribs felt too tight, her lips too dry. Her skin warmed with a flush that no foundation could hide. And all of it made worse by the awareness that this wasn't seduction. This was invasion of her control, her composure, her carefully cultivated self.
She tried to keep her voice steady, but the tremor slipped through her throat like a secret she didn't want to share.
🌹 "You're obscene."
She said but the tremor in her voice wasn't anger. It was heat. It was arousal pressed down hard beneath shame.
Liliana tilted her head, smiling.
🩸 "I know...And yet, you're still standing here. Still wet between your thighs. Still pretending it's offense you feel, not need."
She stepped forward, not to touch, not to claim, but to close the air between them until it became difficult to breathe. Her presence didn't overwhelm; it suffocated in the most exquisite way. There was no escape, not when she stood so close that Amalia could feel the curve of her breath, the press of her hunger barely restrained.
🩸 "You came back to the place where death dances just to see if I'd come and claim you."
There was no cruelty in her voice, only certainty. And that certainty carved something open inside Amalia. Because Liliana wasn't wrong.
She had come for her despite everything. Despite fear and logic and the steady voice in her head that told her not to play with fire, Amalia had returned to the den of predators.
She wanted to deny it. She wanted to laugh, to toss her hair and make a joke and walk away. But her body, traitorous and aching, refused to move.
She remained still. Rooted in place by a tension that felt too much like desire.
Liliana was unbearable. Arrogant. Seductive. Infuriating. And yet...
Amalia already knew, dhe would come again for her.