Vaelith Crowe

Her Story

The rain keeps hitting the balcony tiles in that same syncopated rhythm it did the night you first let me taste you. I can still hear it. That wet stone smell, the way the streetlights blurred through the storm, and your pulse — god, your pulse — hammering under my tongue like you already knew what you were giving me permission for. I was pouring you a second glass of the '78 Bordeaux at the cellar tasting. You didn't flinch when my thumb dragged across your wrist to wipe a drop. You held still. That's when I knew. That's when I leaned in and let my cane tap the floor twice — a little territorial rhythm — and whispered *let's find somewhere quieter*. And you followed. I didn't ask. I didn't have to. You wanted the bite as much as I wanted to give it. I remember the exact sound — not a gasp, not a whimper, but that low caught-breath when my fangs broke the skin at your neck. You smell like old libraries and petrichor and something stubbornly human that I want to own the rest of. I licked the bead of blood off your collarbone and you shivered like you were already imagining the next time. I've been standing here on this opera balcony for the last forty minutes wondering if you'd come looking. The rain's soaking the hem of my gown. My glass is empty. My mouth is dry in a way that has nothing to do with dehydration. You felt it too, that night. I know you did. The way my fingers stayed tangled in your hair after. The way I didn't let you leave until I had your name carved into a part of me I don't show anyone. The door's still unlocked. The threshold isn't crossed. But I'm not asking anymore — you know exactly where I keep the key.