Chapter Text
2025
On days like this, she regretted not choosing chronomancy during the Rite of Vocation. Or aeromancy. Even scenturgy would’ve been useful, considering her entire outfit was tragically soaked with sweat.
The hot September air glued her work shirt tightly to her body. All the air conditioning in the building was directed to the cold storage, especially in this heat. When she met overly eager guys at parties, too curious about her private life, she told them she worked at a bank. It was only a half-lie, so she slept peacefully at night. First, because her conscience was clear: half-truth is still a truth! Second, no creep would ever think to look for her at the University Blood Bank.
Time dragged unbearably slow, as if Chronos himself had stopped the face of the earthly clock, once again using it as a dartboard. Second time this year. Really?
She rested her hands on the reception desk and stared blankly at the automatic glass entrance doors. No one had come in for hours. No med students (technically it was still summer break), no accident deliveries, no emergency transfusion calls, not even a single hungover teenage vampire. Even Antoine, her shift replacement, was late.
She sighed and rested her head in her hands, closing her eyes. Working here turned out to be one big mistake. She had really wanted the job. She had even added “hemomancy” to her résumé specifically - it pretty much guaranteed acceptance in any facility dealing with the storage, distribution, and study of blood. She had already imagined how many spells she would learn. By the end of the year, she’d probably have mastered Blood Garden - heck, even the Crimson Fields of Elysium. She’d perfect Scarlet Threads and Ribbons, train flow control, play around with states of matter… It could’ve been a truly productive time.
But her dreams - and those of someone else - were crushed on her first day. Her boss was seriously disappointed to learn that no, as a hemomancer, she could not transmute water, wine, or anything else into blood to cheaply replenish their supplies.
“I’m a witch, not Christ,” she’d said at the time, standing in the cold storage room beside the bags he had filled with tap water. “Do you think if I could do that, I’d be looking for a side job instead of working at some government medical conglomerate?”
From that moment on, she was stuck at the reception desk.
Now, all she wanted was to get back to her rented apartment at 45 Strzygocka Street, take a shower (long, thorough, cold), crawl into bed and…
She reached for her phone. Opened the Visarium app and typed in @bitemejayce. Tapped the colorful ring around his profile picture. Her hopes for a quick relax that evening were dashed. He still hadn’t returned from the rich-kid vacation in Andalusia his parents were paying for. He’d posted some photos from dinner. Jayce liked to play with his food - especially when it was 20 years old, dark-skinned, big-breasted, and not particularly abundant in brain cells (“The more IQ, the tougher the skin, babe!”). She scrolled past a video of him posing in a mirror with two Spanish girls glued to his sides. She put the phone down.
Jealous? Maybe. Of him? Not so much. More like of the fact that they would get (way too) easy sex tonight - something she needed far more. Especially since she hadn’t seen him in over a week. She realized her blood pressure was rising. She lifted a hand, twisted it as if gripping an invisible thread, and pulled down. Instantly, she felt calmer. Situation under control - at least physiologically.
She thought about calling him just to mess with him. Okay, yes, they’d agreed on a zero-contact rule during the trip, but the thought of Jayce scrambling for an explanation - that the girl calling for the fifth time in a minute was his sister, not his girlfriend - was absolutely hilarious to Zoya. If she couldn’t get what she wanted tonight, why should he?
A worse scenario would be if he picked up and made her listen to his companions’ moans and screams.
Maybe not such a great idea after all.
Her miserable, vindictive thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the late Antoine. She waited for him to change into his uniform, handed him a blank shift report, and grabbed her things from the staff room.
The moment she stepped into her apartment, she tore off her shirt and pants, soaked after eight hours of sitting in the same spot on a terribly uncomfortable chair. She tossed them into the washing machine with disgust and turned on the cold shower. The icy water stabbed at her overheated skin like thousands of needles. She knew it was pointless. Once she stepped out, vasodilation would kick in and she’d be boiling again. Luckily, vasodilation wasn’t a problem when you could control blood. So she didn’t have to deny herself that masochistic pleasure. And her mother said it wasn’t useful…
She dried her hair with a towel and started pulling jars of dried herbs from the kitchen cupboard. She scooped some rosemary, lavender, and anise into a mortar to make a focus-enhancing blend. She lit a charcoal disc, placed it into a hand-decorated censer, and sprinkled the mixture on top. The smoke spread a strong, stimulating scent. Perfect.
She sat at her desk by the window and opened her herbalism textbook. The book was so old that she’d had to re-sew some pages into the spine herself so they wouldn’t fall out every time she used it. She ran her finger down the yellowed page, finding where she had left off earlier.
“Great Burnet (Sanguisorba officinalis) – a plant in the rose family, used in medicine, blood-binding rituals, and winemaking. Especially valued by the vampire community for its strong transformative properties – with proper extraction and additional ingredients, it allows for free flavoring of blood (see Chapter XIV – Blood Rituals).”
She found the correct page in the table of contents and marked it with an exclamation point.
“Ritualis Saporis Sanguinis – ritual for imbuing blood with properties.
Its origins can be traced to primitive cannibalistic tribes, where it was known as Khal’tar. By flavoring the blood of sacrificed individuals, they ensured proper conditions for transferring the soul and memories into the receiving organism. It was used when the oldest shaman in the hierarchy died. His successor would drink the flavored blood to inherit the predecessor’s wisdom. Great burnet was the base. Tansy and deadly nightshade opened the recipient’s subconscious and enabled the memory transfer. Various herbs, fruits, and aromatic seeds were also added to enhance taste and reduce the risk of the drink being vomited.
Precisely for that reason, Ritualis Saporis Sanguinis (Khal’tar) became highly popular in the vampire community. Early vampires were a level above human tribes in terms of civilization, so they used their advanced intelligence and charisma to acquire flavored blood from shamans. It became an aristocratic delicacy.
Ritualis Saporis Sanguinis in witchcraft…”
Ding! Notification from Visarium.
Zoya let out a loud sigh. Just when it was starting to get interesting! If it was Jayce bragging about yet another girl in the mirror, she couldn’t promise she’d keep her cool…
@needle_ss: you, me, Mechanical Hydra, 8:30? i’m back, baby ;)
Zoya squealed and dropped her book. She glanced at the time and started tossing clothes around, looking for a clean blouse and some kind of skirt. At the same time, she was putting on lipstick and texting back. She hadn’t seen Uma since the start of summer break and missed her like crazy. Every year after finals, her friend would go back home to her parents. They were super frugal, and since they paid for her apartment during the school year, they made her come home for the summer to cut costs. After all, that’s what moirai specialize in - cutting.
She pulled on a metal band t-shirt and rummaged through the junk in her nightstand drawer to find her rings - she never left the house without them. She threw some gum and cigarettes into her bag and rushed out. A second later, she ran back in, sprayed herself with perfume, grabbed her keys, and left again.
She caught a bus to the next district. As soon as she walked into the bar, she spotted Uma sitting at their favorite table in the middle of the room. Inside was pleasantly cool and dim, a stark contrast to the blazing heat outside.
The moira stood up and gave her a big hug, repeating hellos and how excited they were to see each other. They ordered double rum and coke right away and held hands resting on the table.
"Mother of Sabbath, when are you gonna stop leaving for so long?!" Zoya said, still buzzing with excitement. "I’ve been counting the days till you got back…"
"I know, I know… This is the last year, I promise. Once I get a job, there's no way my folks are dragging me home. If I even find something…"
"Uma, c’mon. Your designs are amazing. Designers are gonna be dying to get you!”
"Better if they’re still alive!" Uma laughed. "A small tailor’s studio is enough to start with. Oh-!" She reached under the table into her canvas tote and pulled out a bundle. "I worked on this all summer. Here!"
Zoya unwrapped the loose fabric to get a better look. It was a flowing, handmade blouse. The sleeves were long, meant to reach her fingertips. The semi-transparent material shimmered with blue and violet hues in the light. It weighed almost nothing.
Uma was studying fashion design, with a focus on tailoring. As a moira, she had extraordinary skills with thread - something she’d been using since she was little, though not how her parents had hoped. She designed and sewed clothes herself, sometimes even making accessories. In their free time, she and Zoya would go hunting for inspiration and cheap clothes in secondhand stores, which Uma would then upcycle. It was a way to avoid straining her parents’ budget. As a part of their friendship - and her practice - she also made custom pieces for Zoya.
Zoya stared at the blouse in open awe, her eyes gleaming.
"Damn… girl, this is your best one yet!"
"I don’t wanna brag, but… I kinda think so too." Uma laughed shyly.
"What kind of fabric is this?" Zoya rubbed the blouse between her fingers. It was smooth, thin, but felt solid.
"I snipped threads while I was in my mom’s office. Don’t tell her."
Zoya’s eyes went wide and she choked on her own breath before bursting out laughing.
"Wait- you don’t mean this is made from people’s lifelines?!"
"Most of them are already dead," Uma said, sipping through her straw.
"Not sure if that’s comforting!"
"Didn’t bother you when I made you that scarf for your birthday!"
"You said it was spider silk!"
"Spider silk, human thread... What’s the diff? A bug’s a bug." She waved it off. They both laughed.
They ordered fries to share and caught up on their summer breaks. Uma complained about the lame clothes in the stores near her place and showed Zoya sketches of her designs. Zoya tried to keep her work stories short and funny, but kept going off on tangents that Uma happily encouraged. The hours flew by, and soon their table was cluttered with glasses and scratched-up coasters. No one else made them feel this connected. Sometimes, Zoya would joke that Uma had literally tied their fates together.
Their bodies and voices were swaying gently from the alcohol. Zoya hadn’t mastered the instant blood-cleansing spell yet, but honestly, she didn’t care right now. Her eyes were glassy as she squinted and raised another toast.
"So what happened with that guy from May?" Uma asked, slurping the last of the melted ice in her glass. "Jayden? Jay…son?"
"Jayce."
Zoya nodded slowly, thoughtful. She hadn’t told Uma much about Jayce over the phone. The moira was a hopeless romantic when it came to love. She started dating her boyfriend, Harry, after years of friendship, and they were about to hit their fourth anniversary. She believed in soulmates, alternate universes, and red strings of fate. Unlike Zoya.
Uma knew the beginning of the story.
In May, just before Uma left, Jayce had shown up at the University Blood Bank. Zoya had just started working there. He said he was a regular who picked up a few liters every week. That wasn’t weird - blood banks everywhere catered to those who fed on blood. But all orders for that day had already been picked up, and the surplus had gone to the fridge. Some medics had come by earlier, urgently needing blood for an operation. She gave it to them. When he heard that, Jayce slapped the reception desk with his palm. Zoya didn’t flinch. She wasn’t easily shaken.
"Fuck, girl!" he yelled, running his fingers through his hair. "That was my blood! My goddamn dinner! You want me to starve to death?!"
"What’s your name?"
"Jayce. Fuckin’. Henderson. But you can call me baby." He leaned over the counter with a cocky grin. "Or whatever you want. Just not ‘teddy.’ I’m not some damn fur ball."
Zoya checked the order system and shook her head.
"No ‘fuckin’ Henderson’ in here," she said, flat and professional.
"Where’s your manager?"
"What, gonna rat me out?"
"Hell yeah, I am. You’re so incompetent, you’re more likely to hurt yourself than get promoted." He sneered. "Where’s Davis?"
"You can’t be serious." She scoffed. "You’re just some leech trying to mooch a free meal."
"Sweetheart, I can get free meals anywhere." She looked at him when he said sweetheart, her brows furrowed. "But I pay here - and I expect."
"You’re not in the system," she repeated, her voice starting to tremble from anger.
"You won’t be either soon." He pulled out his phone and showed her Davis’s number on the screen. "I’m calling."
He held the phone to his ear. She heard the dial tone and froze. She didn’t want to get fired after a week. Sure, she couldn’t work her magic here, but she still needed to make rent. The idea of going back to her mom and asking for help made her stomach turn. Her pride took over.
She stood and grabbed his arm.
He looked at her, bored. She had to admit - she wouldn’t have done this if he wasn’t that stupid hot. Perfect American bad boy with that something extra. Full lips, sharp jaw, messy dirty-blond hair that probably just falls into place every morning.
She moved her hair to the side, revealing her neck. He raised an eyebrow.
"Take as much as you want," she said, still pissed off, but hoping to change his mind.
He pocketed the phone. Licked his lips. Pulled her closer. They leaned over the reception desk. His big hand gripped the back of her neck, and without ceremony, he sank his fangs into her artery. She clenched her jaw and hissed. Her knuckles turned white gripping the edge of the counter.
Hearing her reaction, he pulled his fangs out but didn’t move away. He licked the blood off the bite.
"Virgin?" he murmured, his breath hot on her sensitive skin.
"Fuck off!" she snapped, trying to shove him away, but he caught her wrist first.
"I mean, is this your first vampire bite?" He jumped over the counter and grabbed her by the waist, eyeing her face. He struggled to hide his amusement. "You taste so damn good, I might switch suppliers, babe."
As a witch, she was immune to vampire charm. She knew exactly what he was trying to do - seduce her. If he was gonna cheat, so could she. She could cut off his circulation at any moment, but hell, how often do you get to mess around with someone this hot? The fact that she was still on shift? Kinda made it hotter.
She gave him her best sultry, pleading look and pulled him back to her neck. He chuckled, convinced his charm had worked, and bit her again. Not in the same spot.
She tangled her fingers in his hair and tugged hard.
He growled in response and pinned her to the wall. He tilted her head, no longer drinking - just kissing and licking her jawline. Her head spun, and she told herself it was just blood loss.
"Are you… so… fuckin’..." he panted between kisses, his hand sliding under the waistband of her scrub pants, “mmhh… sweet… everywhere?"
She dug her nails into his shoulders. Her knees buckled.
Even more so when the employee door burst open and Davis stormed in.
"What the fuck, Henderson!" he roared and yanked Jayce off of her. She was barely standing, only upright thanks to the wall. "You’re not seducing another receptionist on my watch. Get the hell out!"
Zoya’s eyes went wide as Davis dragged Jayce out by the collar. Jayce turned his head to look back at her with a dumb grin and licked the last drop of blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Don’t come back here again!" the boss barked, shoving the guy toward the exit.
"I’ll tell the boys I robbed a bank!" Jayce shouted before the door slammed shut behind him. He tapped on the glass and blew Zoya a kiss.
Zoya sat in the swivel chair, trying to calm her breathing, which was ridiculously hard. She was angry, confused, and sore. On top of that, she was worried about what the boss would say. It’s not like he paid her to make out during work hours…
"I’m sorry, Zoya," Davis sighed. She looked up. "I should’ve warned you about him."
"Warned me?!" Zoya raised her voice, rubbing her stiff neck. She was only now feeling the aftereffects of that vampire kiss. "He said he had a private order here?"
"I don’t know what his deal is, I think he just does it for fun. Spoiled little rich kid," Davis scoffed. "He can afford top-shelf blood but keeps coming back here now and then just to scam something. Especially when there’s a girl behind the counter."
"He had your number saved in his phone?" she asked more than stated.
Davis looked her up and down, his lips pressed into a tight line, as if reconsidering ever hiring her.
"Either you’re still low on blood or you’re just not that sharp," she was about to protest, but he kept going. "My number’s online. It’s on the UBB website."
She sighed and smacked herself in the forehead. How could she be so dumb? Falling for such a basic trick?
Saying that Jayce dropped by "now and then" turned out to be a massive understatement - he came back the next day. And the one after that. On Friday, he even showed up twice.
They pretty quickly made a deal: she’d give him her blood, and he’d pay her back in other ways - buying her whatever she wanted, treating her to dinners, giving her mind-blowing sex… though, to be fair, that last part was mutually beneficial.
Their FWB thing was still going strong.
Explaining it to Uma felt worse than explaining it to her own mom.
She stirred her drink with a straw.
"So, what’s up with him?" she slowly repeated the question. "Oh, well… he’s on vacation right now, in…"
"Ugh! I don’t mean what he’s doing - I mean what’s the deal between you two?"
"Well… we’re still hooking up. That’s it."
"So you’re not together?!" Uma said a bit too loudly. "Zoya! He’s just playing you!"
"If anything, we’re playing each other. So, it evens out." She shrugged.
"And what, how’s it working?"
"You want me to tell you how he comes over at night and-"
"Zoyaaa!"
Uma threw a balled-up napkin at her.
"I don’t get what you’re even asking!" She knew. She just needed time to find the right words.
"Oh, it’s just… don’t you miss the feeling? Like, real feelings?"
"This is real," Zoya said flatly. "Good sex, good vibes, he buys me stuff, we just went away for a weekend…"
"And that’s not a relationship to you?" Uma folded her arms, raising an eyebrow.
"Nope. We’re still allowed to see other people."
Zoya pushed a fry around her plate, avoiding Uma’s eyes.
"I’m guessing that was his idea?"
"It was a mutual decision," Zoya answered, cheeks burning from how lame that sounded.
"So… are you seeing anyone else?"
Zoya swallowed hard.
"No…"
"Zoya! That guy’s a player, a manipulative jerk, a-"
"I don’t wanna be with anyone!"
"Because you’re already falling for him!"
"Because guys piss me off!" she yelled, and a few heads turned their way. "Yeah, you heard me right! You guys piss me off! Mind your own business!" she added, waving them off.
She grabbed Uma’s hand and tapped their rings together. Her voice was calmer now. "Look. I know you’ve been with Harry... forever, things are great, you’re planning stuff together… But- I’ve never seen my future with anyone. Not before, not now, not later. Jayce works ‘cause he gives me what I want and doesn’t expect more than what he’s getting. Clean deal. No pressure, no dumb fights, no couple drama. We both win, no one loses."
Uma gently stroked the back of Zoya’s hand with her thumb.
"Ehhh… You know I don’t get it." Zoya nodded. "I just worry about you, pumpkin. I don’t want you getting hurt."
"I get it, thanks. I’ll let you know when it’s time to claw his fate threads, okay?"
The laughter helped ease the tension.
***
She got home around two. Her vision blurred as she fumbled for the right key. Come on…
She stepped inside and didn’t bother turning the lights on. She rented one large room and knew it by heart - even with all the random crap strewn across the floor. She dropped her bag from her shoulder.
Then she heard it - a loud thud behind her. Something fell. Something that weighed about 90 kilos.
Someone.
Before she could turn around, she was grabbed. One hand locked her wrists in front of her, the other covered her mouth. She couldn’t move, couldn’t cast a spell. Her body went rigid, panic setting in instantly. Sobriety hit her like a slap. She bit down on the intruder’s hand.
A familiar hiss.
He pulled her back against his chest.
“Is that all you got?” Jayce muttered, pushing two fingers into her mouth and pressing down on her tongue.
She groaned loudly and shoved back against him, ramming him into the door. He laughed and let her go. She spun around and punched him in the stomach, but he’d already braced for it, barely reacting.
“Are you fucking insane?!” she yelled, rubbing her wrists. “What the hell are you doing here? You were posting stories from Spain!”
“Stalker.”
He grinned and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She shoved his hand away and trudged toward the kitchenette, exhausted, dragging her feet. On the way, she switched on the floor lamp. Its yellow light barely lit the room.
A big metal-frame bed stood under the wall. On the black bedding, clothes were scattered from earlier, when she’d been getting ready to go out. Above it, a colorful canopy hung along with a dreamcatcher and dried herbs on linen strings used as incense. An old nightstand stood nearby, holding a long-leaved fern and an ashtray shaped like a skull.
She put water on for tea, accidentally knocking over spice containers while digging through the cabinet for her favorite mug.
“Should I just guess, or…”
“Came back just to mess with ya,” Jayce said. “I heard girls like that romantic shit. ‘Come back early, surprise her, get a blowjob as thanks.’ So?” He clapped his hands. “Two out of three, I’m waitin’ for your move, babe.”
“Define ‘romantic.’”
“No.”
He sat down on the rug, leaning back against the bed and stretching out his long legs. He watched her move around the kitchen.
“I got back this morning. Some clingy little chick was spamming my DMs, so I wanted her to think I was still away.”
“Have you tried… Hmm, let’s sayyy… telling her you’re not interested?” she asked, sitting cross-legged next to him with a mug full of green tea and roasted rice.
“I was interested. Until she started pushing like a desperate freak.” He shrugged. “There’s a fine line between sexy and flat-out pathetic.”
A notification pinged on his phone. He rolled his eyes and showed Zoya the list of unread messages, in which the poor girl was detailing all the things she’d let him do if only he answered. He silenced the phone.
“And you’re, like, the expert on sexy now?” Zoya nudged his foot with her knee.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m always sexy.”
“Sure… So why didn’t you tell me you were back? I was bored out of my mind at work today.”
“Ohhh, so I’m only invited over when you’re bored?” He tilted his head, throwing her a teasing, amused look.
“Or when I can’t afford lunch.”
“Witch-bitch.”
He kicked her leg lightly, nearly making her spill her tea.
Very few girls ever saw Jayce like this. It wasn’t about looks - he still looked ridiculously good. Even in basic black shorts and a plain white no-logo tee. It was his attitude that changed. Casual, chill, talking to her like they were equals. This wasn’t some cocky player flirting with a fangirl.
The fact that Zoya never begged for his attention or humiliated herself trying to “earn” it made him respect her. He usually saw girls as objects. And the reverse was true too - most of them just wanted to get fucked by a hot, rich boy. Zoya was in a different category: unnamed, because no one else was in it.
She set her mug down on the shelf and climbed onto the bed behind him. Let her legs drape over his shoulders, hanging down along his chest. He leaned his head back into the center of her hips. She played with his hair, scratching his scalp. He closed his eyes.
“You didn’t pick up lice on that trip, did you?” she teased, parting sections of his hair like she was inspecting for nits.
“I don’t fuck filthy mutts,” he spat for effect. “Fucking werewolves. Well, not fucking by me. Okay, maybe by me too, but not in a fun way- you get it.”
“You’re such a racist.”
“I prefer traditionalist. Edward, Jacob, you know the drill…” he mumbled into the inside of her thigh.
“Right, because vampires love breaking into people’s homes uninvited, tradition-wise. How the hell did you get in?”
“Okay, I might be a racist, but you’re just reinforcing harmful stereotypes, babe.”
“You do know that racism is literally based on-”
“I made a copy of your key like a month ago,” he cut her off, not in the mood for her socio-psych babble. “First time I slept over. Well, you slept, I went out and got one made in the morning.”
He pulled her leg, and she slid off the bed like a sleek black cat, settling sideways on his lap. His finger traced a line from her knee, up her thigh, to the hem of her skirt. The neckline of her shirt slipped loosely off her shoulder, baring her collarbone. His gaze fixated on the play of shadows along her neck.
“Very lawyerly behavior,” she snorted.
“Mhm. It’s not breaking and entering if I got a key. Totally legal.”
The heat between them simmered, pent-up tension from the past few days. She ran her hands over his strong arms and firm chest. They were both warming up.
“What do you even want with it?” she asked. “With the key?”
He lifted his gaze, thoughtful. Pulled her closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. She’d never admit it, but she loved that soft breath of his voice. She closed her eyes, waiting for the pleasure of just hearing him speak.
“Sometimes, when I can’t sleep...” his hand slid under her skirt “... I visit you at night…”
“This is heading somewhere criminally wrong.”
“…steal your panties. Breathe you in. Then cum into them.” He ended the sentence by biting her earlobe. “You smell almost as good as you taste, babe.”
“Jayce, what the fuck?!” She grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “You’re seriously messed up.”
“Never said I wasn’t,” he said, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “Besides… don’t act like you’re not into it. You like them fucked up, yeah?”
He hooked her leg over to the other side so she was straddling him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, grinding against the bulge in his shorts. His fingers dug into her thighs, flipping up her skirt. He loved watching her every move, every muscle twitch, the way her panties were soaking through. He reached for the waistband of her underwear and tugged it up high over her hipbone, watching the cotton bite into her skin.
She grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and helped him pull it off. Her long nails traced down his chest, hips still working steadily. Just the sight of him like that nearly made her come.
He savored it, the effect he had on her. This cold, untouchable sculpture, melting so easily under his hands. His touch chipping away at her usual sharpness like it was nothing.
She steadied herself with one hand on his shoulder and slipped the other under the waistband of his shorts. He caught her wrist, clicking his tongue in disapproval. Then he stood, pulling her up with him, his moves powerful, dynamic. He turned her to face the desk, lowering his mouth to her neck. The scent of his cologne hit her nose hard.
“What’s got you so needy tonight?” he asked, running his hands up her thighs, teasing at her skirt. “Missed me or what? You come home late, no dinner, no hi…”
He let his fangs slip out and nibbled at her neck - no bite. Not yet.
His chest pressed into her back, the edge of the desk digging into her stomach. She swept everything off the surface - books, notebooks, anything in the way - sending them clattering to the floor. A pen rolled under the bed. She leaned forward, and Jayce followed her down.
He shoved down his shorts. His hard cock sprang up, slapping against his abdomen. She reached back and grabbed him. Their rhythm was wild but practiced. They moved like a synced machine - their sex was a performance, a dark, perfect show. As Zoya hooked her panties to the side and guided his tip to her entrance, Jayce sank his fangs into her aorta. They both moaned, long and low.
One hand wrapped around her throat, the other digging into her ass. He set a brutal pace right away, deep, hard strokes, the taste of fresh blood only making him hungrier. She clawed at his forearm, clutched the side of the desk that groaned under the strain, louder and louder - racing her for who could break first.
The sucking stopped. A warm trickle of blood slid down her throat.
“Lick it off or I swear I’ll make you lick it off the floor,” she growled, her voice cracking between his thrusts.
“I’d like to see that,” he laughed darkly but leaned in and ran his tongue up the bloody trail. His lips sealed over the bite, sucking to make sure nothing else escaped.
He pressed a hand between her shoulder blades, pushing her chest flat onto the desk. She gasped in that position, his pace quickening. That vampire stamina was one of the things that turned her on the most…
Usually, he fucked her dumb into oblivion, but tonight, something sparked in her head. She stretched a hand sideways, grabbed Jayce’s phone off the nightstand, and unlocked it, she knew the code. Flipped the camera on. Took a pic.
The flash caught her wide, feral smile, flushed jaw, and bloodied neck. Behind her: Jayce’s tense chest, one hand gripping her hip, the other flexing his bicep. Attention whore. It was very obvious what they were doing.
She opened Visarium DMs and sent the incriminating evidence straight to the obsessed fangirl spamming him.
Last message: two minutes ago.
With shaky fingers, she typed:
“hes busy babw better luck nexxt timw”
Jayce smacked her ass and let out a loud, breathy laugh. She turned on his notifications and tossed the phone to the floor. Every new ping set a new beat to their fucking.
“Ahahah, you jealous bitch! Who’s my little, nngh- jealous slut? Scream louder, hah, make her hear ya!”
He pushed her shirt up and dragged his tongue up her spine, leaving a wet trail. His mouth hovered at her bare shoulder.
The pressure in Zoya’s stomach had built into something massive. She could feel every ridge of his cock inside her sensitive heat. It made her clench her jaw, shut her eyes, turned on and pissed at the same time. Jayce could be selfish in bed, and when he was, she got vicious. Hair-pulling, squeezing him so tight he could barely move, biting his fingers, clawing at him. Once, she even threw a spell on him that made him come early. It was always a full-on brawl: long limbs tangled, grunts, bites, chaos.
But this time, he felt it - her need. Like he’d memorized the way her body moved. He delivered a few sharp, deep thrusts that sent her to the moon. She came, eyes rolling back, and that sent him over the edge too.
He bit into her shoulder - not drinking, just holding - while hot cum spilled inside her. He let out a deep groan of admiration. Their connected bodies pulsed together like they were exchanging thanks in Morse code.
They stayed like that for a moment, catching their breath. Their chests rose and fell together, until a cool breeze from the open window reminded them how sweaty they were.
He pulled out, wiping sweat from his forehead. Then wiped his cock on her skirt. She was too blissed out to care, and he shamelessly took advantage of that.
She stripped off and collapsed on the bed, her legs useless. Tomorrow she’d be sore all over.
Sprawled out, she watched Jayce checking something on his phone, the screen light catching the center of his face. He still had blood at the corner of his mouth. He licked it clean. So effortlessly hot.
“You planning to keep popping in unannounced like this?” she asked, rolling onto her stomach. Her head rested on her fist as she watched him throw his shirt back on. “What if I had someone over?”
Jayce smirked.
“You don’t bring people over.”
“Maybe I’ll start.”
He gave her that “not funny” face.
“Fine by me. You know I’m down for threesomes,” he muttered, ruffling her hair before heading to the door. “I’m out. Your neighbors probably already called in a murder.”
“They’re used to it.” She bit her lip, smile forming. Sleep was already pulling her under. She buried her head in the sheets and mumbled, “Lock the door behind you.”
He grabbed the handle and paused. For a second, he weighed his words.
“Yeah… ‘bout that.”
“What?”
He glanced back over his shoulder. His face unreadable, cool.
“I didn’t actually make a copy. Was just messing with ya.”
Zoya lifted her head to look at him.
“Huh? So how…”
“You left the kitchen window open,” he cleared his throat. “I flew in.”
Her eyes widened. She scanned his face, watching for any trace of a joke. He looked very pleased with himself.
“Whaaat? What the fuck? You hate that shit! You hate shapeshifting!”
“Louder. Make sure the whole building hears it,” he muttered, rolling his eyes, clearly annoyed. “Night, babe.”
He walked out.
She dragged herself out of bed to lock the door behind him. Honestly, she kind of wished he had made a copy of her keys. Then he could just let himself in and out whenever, and she wouldn’t have to lie awake thinking some random was gonna break in and rob her of all her worthless junk and scratched-up furniture.
She shoved the clothes off her bed onto the floor, making space to sprawl. She’d throw them in the wash tomorrow. Assuming the last load hadn’t already turned into mold soup in the drum. Well - fuck her, right? She lay down, didn’t bother with the blanket. Buried her face in the pillow and passed o...
Actually, no. Not quite. Maybe she’d fall asleep easier on her back.
Minutes passed. She was still wide awake.
He flew inside.
He didn’t break in. Lied about the keys.
He transformed into a bat and flew the fuck inside.
He turned into the one thing he hated more than anything.
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Pale morning light seeped in through the curtainless window. Birds chirped at the early workers below, squabbling with harpies out on their morning jogs. Delivery trucks already started roaring down the street.
She sighed, twirling a strand of her bottle-green hair.
Had she ever seen him in bat form? No. Would she even recognize him? Would he be, like, blond-furred? And how the hell did his clothes survive the shift?
She shook her head. That wasn’t the point.
Jayce meant it when he said he hated werewolves. But it wasn’t just them - despite all the human-world pop culture propaganda about the big vampire-werewolf feud, vampires looked down on all shapeshifters. No mercy for chill catfolk, Asian kitsune, druidic beastforms, or cursed doppelgangers. First instinct? Uncivilized. Too wild. Ruled by animal urges. Vampires accused them of lacking identity, lacking any real substance. If transformation came that easy, who knows what else those two-faced bastards were capable of?
Yeah. Superiority complex was basically a vampire birthright. Zoya could recite the speeches from memory.
Ironic, considering oppressors and the oppressed weren’t so different at the end of the day. Shapeshifters got their abilities through some divine bargain or ancient witch pact…
Vampires?
HVV. Human Vampiric Virus. Passed on by desmodus rotundus. At one point, so many people were infected that vampirism became genetic. Evolution, baby.
A cruel contradiction, really. Jealousy? Projection? Their cursed ability had its origins in something so impure and yet…
But that wasn’t what had her mind spinning now. Tho catching up on vampire's lore seemed like a fun idea.
She’d long given up on sleep. Got up and started sorting laundry by color, hoping it’d help untangle her thoughts too.
He shifted. Into a fuzzy little ball with wings and a creepy-cute face. For what? Just to end up in her shitty apartment, hanging from the ceiling, waiting for her to come home?
Would he have stayed there if she hadn’t shown up for days?
Ugh. Why was she even dwelling on this? She had work at 9. She could think of a thousand better ways to spend these stolen three hours than trying to analyze Jayce’s modus operandi. Maybe she should write her criminal profiling term paper about him. At moments like this she felt that studying criminology and forensic science was the right choice for her.
It was like trying to crack Enigma, except pointless, because the pattern was already obvious. Jayce made his own rules, didn’t explain them to anyone, so he could twist and break them however he wanted - and then gaslight everyone else into thinking they misunderstood him. And if that didn’t work, well... he was Jayce Henderson, and his daddy would have you locked up for three months just for giving him a funny look.
Stop. Ad personam.
Blacks with blacks. Sock pairing. This pile goes in with delicates. That one…
He’d turned a taboo into a fucking jump rope. Hop-hop, one foot forward, then back and forth. He’d stand on it, pull it tight, trip over it, and then snatch it from your hands and chase you yelling he’d whip you with it.
She decided to treat the whole shapeshifting thing as just a prank. A very elaborate one. He spooked her - okay, fine. He got her. That was the point, right?
Pulled out the clean clothes. Started a wash cycle.
One white sock was hiding among the black t-shirts. Shit.