The day of the ball approached with the looming weight of unwanted expectations, and Silia found herself growing increasingly irritable. The final dress fitting had passed without incident—unless one counted Meyena's constant snide remarks as incidents, which Silia did not. It was part of the course.

Qadir thought he'd meet Silia at their usual time, the evening routine now well-established, but the room was empty. The fire crackled softly on the walls, casting flickering shadows on them, but the bed where she normally sat was vacant. He stepped inside, scanning the room for any sign of her, when his eyes fell on a piece of parchment resting on the desk near her bed.

I don't know if you can read, but I'm in the gardens. He read, noticing the small draws of a girl with fangs and long hair with trees around her under the sentence. Qadir snorted, but a smile showed nonetheless. The nerve of this vampire.

Qadir pocketed the note and made his way through the dimly lit halls toward the gardens. As he walked, the cool evening air drifted in from the open windows, carrying the scent of flowers and damp earth. The castle was quiet, save for the faint sounds of servants going about their business.

When he stepped into the garden, he spotted her immediately. Silia wasn't near the cliff toward the more hidden part of the estate. She stood near the fountain, leaning against a marble column, her arms crossed over her knees as she gazed out at the softly illuminated sky towering through the greenery.

"You made it," she said without looking at him, her tone teasing. 

"I'm glad to inform you that I can indeed read." Qadir quipped back, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance. Silia turned to face him, a smirk playing at the edges of her lips. "How surprising." He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Her smirk widened, but she said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. The evening air was cool and pleasant, and the soft rustle of leaves filled the quiet. Qadir's gaze shifted to the garden, where flowers closed under the subtle light, and a soft breeze stirred the air.

He finally broke the silence, his voice low as he sat back against the cool, smooth marble of the pillar, the chill of the stone seeping through his clothes. The soft rustle of leaves was a soothing backdrop to their conversation, a gentle reminder of the world beyond their quiet exchange. "Why the gardens tonight?"

Silia pointed at the sky, her finger lining up. "It's a full moon." She explained gently. "It's pretty to watch it rise at dawn."

Qadir glanced up at the sky, following Silia's gaze. The moon hung low, a pale yellowed disc in the slow darkening sky, its warm light casting an ethereal glow over the garden along the mix of colors. He leaned back slightly, his arms resting casually on his knees.

She was right, it was pretty. "I suppose you've been waiting here a while then?" he asked, his tone more curious than teasing.

Silia shrugged, brushing off the question with a hint of her usual nonchalance. "It's quiet here. No one's watching, no one's talking." Her eyes lingered on the horizon before flicking back to him. "Except you, of course."

He smiled faintly, catching the edge of something unsaid in her words. "I didn't realize my company was so intrusive."

"It's not," she said, rolling her eyes. "Most of the time."

Qadir's smile deepened, though he kept his expression controlled. It was always like this—those small, guarded moments. He wasn't sure if it was the norm, as he had never been a bloodslave before.

Silia had made it clear she didn't know whatever it was she was supposed to do of him. So, Qadir was never sure how much closeness was to be expected between someone of his statute and its Master.

"Most of the time? And here I thought I was your favorite bloodslave." He said, his voice low, teasing. Silia huffed, the sound both amused and exasperated.

"Don't flatter yourself." She paused, thinking. "Actually, you kind of are. You are still alive, I mean."

"High praise," Qadir quipped, his tone dry but with a glint of amusement remaining still in his eyes.

Silia shook her head, though a small smile tugged at her lips. The cool night air drifted around them, filling the space between words with a peaceful, almost intimate stillness. For a while, neither of them spoke, and Qadir found himself oddly at ease. The garden, bathed in moonlight, seemed like a world apart from the rigid structure of the castle, where expectations and status weighed on every interaction.

"You're younger than most here, aren't you?" Qadir bluntly asked, breaking the quiet. He already knew the answer, but there was something about the simplicity of her character that he enjoyed—though he'd never admit it aloud.

Her eyes narrowed, lips twisting in mock annoyance. "Are you calling me young?"

"Calling you? No," he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. "I'm outright saying it." Silia huffed, though she didn't seem genuinely offended. "Being made fun of my age by a human. That's rich."

After a moment, her gaze turned curious. "So, how old do you think I am?" she asked, leaning slightly toward him, clearly setting him up.

Qadir smirked. "Not more than a thousand, that's for sure." Silia narrowed her eyes, though there was a glimmer of amusement behind them.

"Well, am I wrong?" Qadir pressed, clearly enjoying the slight annoyance he could see creeping into her eyes. She sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. "You're not under three hundred, are you?" Qadir asked, watching her closely.

Silia gave him an incredulous look. "Just narrowing it down." He raised his hands in mock surrender.

"You're not good at this." She stated, giving him a long, exasperated look. 

"Five hundred?"

"Getting closer," she said, her voice clipped but playful.

"Six hundred?" he ventured.

"Ding, ding, ding," Silia said, throwing her hands up with mock excitement. "Actually, six hundred and four, if you must know." She smiled sheepishly.

Qadir chuckled, shaking his head. "Six hundred and four. Noted."

Silia tilted her head slightly, eyeing him with curiosity. "And what about you? How old are you?"

Qadir let his back lean against the pillar beside her, meeting her gaze with a smirk. "I'll just say—you've still got a long way to go before you catch up to me." She rolled her eyes at that, but expected for him to go on.

Qadir paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "Would you believe me if I said I wasn't sure?"

Silia blinked, clearly caught off guard by the admission. "You're not sure? How do you not know your own age?"

He shrugged. "Humans don't always keep track. Neither do the owners. I've been a slave all my life, so..." She studied him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "So you really don't know?"

"I mean, I look like I'm in my twenties, don't I?" Qadir asked, his tone light but a bit evasive.

Silia leaned closer, scrutinizing his face. "Yeah, late twenties. But still... that's bizarre. Even for humans." Qadir laughed softly, shaking his head. What did Silia even know about humans?

"Would it make things easier if I just said I'm twenty-six? I'll match your hundreds." She nodded. "You act way older. But I guess I can let that slide." She paused, her tone softening slightly. 

"It's weird to think about, though. Time. I've got... all of it. And it still feels like... nothing."

Qadir studied her, catching the shift in her tone. "You think about it often?" Silia shrugged, though her gaze flicked back to the moon. "More than I should, maybe."

"What, not enjoying your eternal life yet?" Silia's laugh was short at the question, almost bitter. "I've spent all of it sick. Eternal life's a little overrated in my situation."

Qadir's teasing expression faded slightly, something more thoughtful crossing his face. He hadn't expected her to be so blunt about it. "Sounds rough. At least my life is supposed to end."

"It is." she admitted, her voice quieter now. "Wonder who's really losing from us both."

He couldn't ignore the irony of their situation—him, a mere human, finding solace and even a semblance of companionship with a vampire. It was a strange twist of fate that made him question not just the nature of their relationship, but the very structure of power that defined their existence.

Silia glanced at him, the moonlight casting soft shadows across her face. "So, you think I'm young?" she asked, her tone playful but with a hint of vulnerability.

Qadir grinned. "Compared to me? Absolutely."

She huffed but didn't argue, her smile growing despite herself. "I guess I'll take that as a compliment." Qadir shook his head, "It wasn't." He stated, smiling.

As he sat there, Qadir couldn't quite shake the strange comfort he felt. The quiet of the garden, the subtle warmth of Silia's presence beside him, and the way the moonlight seemed to soften everything around them created an unusual sense of peace. It was an odd sensation for someone like him, and he found himself reluctantly enjoying it.

For a moment, under the full moon, surrounded by the quiet hum of the night, the strange bond between them felt less like a setup and more like a quiet understanding.

. . .

Qadir hadn't realized it was actually expected of him to attend some sort of meeting with the other bloodslaves regarding the ball. Not that he had been hanging around humans that much, but the lack of communication still irked him. It wasn't until Anghel discreetly informed him in passing that he was required to attend that he realized he was being summoned.

He let out a low, humorless chuckle. Of course, no one thought to inform him directly. He truly was the Silia of his kind—kept out of the loop, whether intentionally or not. Though, perhaps, being left in the dark wasn't such a bad thing when it came to matters involving the Nandor family.

With a reluctant sigh, Qadir followed the servant's direction to a smaller, less ornate chamber near the back of the estate. As he stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with a mix of tension and weary familiarity. It was clear this wasn't the first meeting of its kind, though it was a first for him to attend.

Leandra, Meyena's bloodslave, was seated at a long wooden table, her back straight and her expression cold as ever. She barely glanced at Qadir as he entered, her lips pursed in what seemed to be permanent disapproval. Around the table sat three other bloodslaves he hadn't formally met yet, though he recognized them from various glimpses throughout the estate.

He quickly noticed that he and Leandra appeared to be the two in the best shape. He couldn't recall the names of the other three women—if he had ever heard them—but their health seemed lacking.

The woman seated closest to the door, her dull brown hair hanging loosely around her shoulders, had visible bite marks trailing down her neck and shoulders. Her face was pale—far paler than any healthy human should be—and her eyes were sunken, marked by deep purple bruises.

She looked exhausted, as if she'd been drained not only of blood but of any remaining will. The skin around her wounds was raw, like it hadn't been given the chance to heal properly before being reopened. Her hand trembled slightly as she moved to pick up a piece of paper in front of her.

The other bloodslave in a similar state, sitting farther down the table, wore long sleeves despite the warmth in the room, but Qadir could see the telltale signs of fresh marks on her wrists and neck. Her gaze stayed low, avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room. She seemed to flinch at even the smallest sounds, her demeanor that of someone who had grown accustomed to being ignored or mistreated.

The third bloodslave, seated between them, appeared to be in better shape physically, though not by much. Her hair was tied back in a tight knot, and while there were no obvious bite marks on her, her posture was rigid, like she was bracing herself for whatever might come next. Her eyes darted around nervously, clearly unsure of her place here.

Qadir has had his share of brutal masters before, but seeing the state of these bloodslaves reminded him of how fortunate he was to be tied to Silia. For all her faults, she wasn't cruel or violently punishing.

The room was mostly silent, save for the shuffling of papers and occasional, clipped whispers. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls.

"Well, look who finally decided to show up," Leandra said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. Her eyes were sharp as she glanced up at Qadir.

Qadir shot her a dry look as he took a seat, turning over the chair in front of him before letting his arms rest against the backrest. "Hard to be present when no one tells me things."

Leandra scoffed and returned her attention to the papers in front of her. "Whatever. The ball is only days away, and we're still scrambling to ensure everything runs smoothly."

Qadir couldn't help but burst out laughing. "What exactly is this?" Qadir asked, glancing at the others in the room. He hadn't anticipated there being meetings for bloodslaves about a ball—he'd assumed they'd just follow their masters' whims, as usual.

Leandra gave him a sharp look, her lips pressing into a thin line. "This is how we avoid chaos. The Kadijan ball is not some small family affair; it's a major event, politically and socially. It's our duty to make sure our masters—particularly those in the lower ranks of the Nandor house—don't embarrass themselves, or worse, offend any present member of the royal family."

"Do you recall that you're still—despite a bloodslave—a mere human?" It wasn't often that the man found himself at a loss for words, but right now, he almost was.

"It's you who don't understand." She gestured to the stack of papers in front of her. "The way we conduct ourselves reflects directly on our masters. The Nandor house might not be the highest in rank, but they're still nobles. We're expected to maintain decorum."

Qadir let out a small laugh, the absurdity of the situation hitting him. "We're supposed to care about their reputations? It's not like anyone will be looking at us." He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms.

The woman with the long sleeves—the one with the nervous hands—finally spoke, her voice soft but firm. "It's not about us," she said, glancing at Qadir with tired eyes. "It's about them. Anything we do reflects on our masters. Any mistake we make... they pay for it. And then we pay for it even more."

He had thought about it a few times, how idiotic it sounded that he had been offered to Silia as some sort of humiliation because of his own terrible character. But now, it started making way more sense. It wasn't even about her daily life at the castle, it was well thought for this specific kind of occasions.

Her words hung in the air as Qadir's smirk faltered. He glanced again at the two bloodslaves who were in bad shape, the bite marks all over their bodies telling a story of, he assumed, repeated punishment. Or perhaps just plain cruelty. 

Leandra leaned forward; her tone sharp. "The ball is more than just an event. It's about power, reputation, alliances. Not all vampires will have their eyes on us, obviously. But the way we move, who we speak to, who we ignore... It will all come to ears if not executed perfectly. If we mess up, it's our masters who look weak or incompetent. That's why we have these meetings. Self-preservation."

The realization finally reached Qadir. This wasn't just some pointless gathering of servants. These people were bound not just by blood, but by the crushing expectations of the vampire society. They weren't free to be indifferent. They had to care because their lives, quite literally, depended on it. What a bunch of freaks, he thought.

Leandra, sensing his shift in understanding, continued. "We have to make sure everything is perfect. The order of entrance, the specific decorum expected from each bloodslave depending on their master's rank... even the smallest detail matters. If Silia enters the ballroom out of place, or if she's seen without you when she's supposed to have you by her side, it will be noted."

Qadir frowned, the absurdity of it all not fully leaving him. "So, what? I'm supposed to memorize my place in a line and keep her glass topped off?"

Leandra gave him a sharp look. "Yes. And more than that. You'll be seen as an extension of her. How you behave, how you move, whether you stand with the right posture... it all reflects on her status. You mess up, she looks bad. She looks bad, you pay for it."

The woman with the bite marks spoke up next, her voice raspy but steady. "It's not just about showing up. We have to be flawless, invisible but present. The wrong gesture or word can set off a chain reaction of consequences."

Qadir ran a hand through his hair, annoyance making way upon his face. He had come into this world thinking he was just an expendable servant, there to give blood and stay out of the way. Now, it was dawning on him that his role was far more complicated and far more dangerous, though he didn't care that much on the later part.

He'd thought he'd have time at the event to gather information, but it was clear he'd be busier than expected. Qadir exhaled slowly. It was hard to imagine Silia caring about any of this, but she did seem dreading the forced attendance.

"Great," Qadir muttered under his breath. "So much for just standing around and looking pretty."

Leandra shot him a final look. "This is the reality of being a bloodslave in a noble house. The ball isn't about fun, or even survival—it's about making sure our masters come out of it looking strong, powerful, and connected. And we make sure of that, if we want to keep our position and incidentally, our lives."

The meeting moved forward with more details about the ball—the precise timing of their entrance, the protocols around serving their masters, the expected dress codes, and how to interact—or rather, not interact—with other bloodslaves and humans present. Vampires were obviously to avoid at all cost, especially for Qadir, Leandra had mentioned.

By the end of the meeting, as Leandra dismissed them, Qadir couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease. And only speak when spoken to, she had said. He smirked, realizing the disaster waiting to happen in barely a few days.

As he left the dimly lit room, his thoughts churned. He hadn't known much about the intricacies of vampire politics nowadays or their twisted sense of decorum, but now, he realized he was indeed entangled in it. Perfect.

In another part of the sprawling Nandor estate, Silia sat slouched in a high-backed chair, her eyes scanning the room with poorly concealed irritation. The family meeting had been called on short notice, and now she was stuck in a room full of relatives she barely tolerated. The air was thick with centuries of unspoken tensions, obligations, and hierarchies she had long grown tired of being close to.

All of them were gathered around the large oak table, their faces a mix of seriousness or indifference. Her cousin Asen seated beside her, seeming equally disinterested. He shot her a quick glance, his eyes reflecting the same thought: Why are we here?

Silia sighed, leaning her chin into her hand as Meyena's father, Dacian—one of the elder members of the Nandor family—droned on about the upcoming ball and how important it was for their house to maintain its standing. 

It wasn't like their house had much standing left to maintain, but the way Dacian spoke, you'd think the Nandor name was still held in the highest regard.

"—And this event with the Kadijan family is a crucial opportunity for all of us," Dacian continued, his voice a low rumble that filled the room. "We are not a House of insignificance, despite what some might think. Our connections remain... viable. It's important we show the royal family, through our behavior and alliances, that the Nandor still hold power in these lands."

Silia rolled her eyes, her fingers drumming on the table in a show of barely restrained boredom. She knew this was all posturing. The Nandor family's glory days were long behind them. Sure, they owned vast stretches of land in the south, but the most resources-rich parts were controlled by other vampire families. What did they have left? A few crumbling estates and a handful of human towns paying taxes.

Meyena's father paused to take a long breath, his gaze sweeping across the room. He wasn't oblivious to the younger generation's disinterest, and his next words sharpened, cutting through the fog of boredom. "You all, the youngest of our House, need to understand that appearances matter. The royal family will be watching, and the Kadijans... well, they are favored. You cannot afford to behave carelessly. Your conduct reflects on all of us."

Silia felt Asen shift in his chair next to her. He was the type to get fidgety when conversations like this dragged on, but Silia stayed still, her annoyance growing. She didn't need to be told how to act. She'd been around for centuries. She sighed loudly.

"Anything to add, Silia?" Dacian's voice cut through her thoughts, his eyes narrowing at her expectantly.

"Can I stay home?" She muttered, not bothering to mask her irritation. Dacian let out a loud sigh as well, his eyes darting towards the others as a few snickers could he heard.

As the man continued, his voice droning on about the significance of the Kadijan ball, Asen leaned closer to Silia and whispered under his breath, "Remind me again why we bother with this?"

Silia smirked, her eyes still on Dacian but her tone equally sardonic. "Because we've got nothing better to do than pretend to care."

He huffed softly. Asen had a way of making everything seem trivial, which, in a family like theirs, was a necessary skill. Her eyes flicked across the room to where Emil sat, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he slouched in his chair with an air of superiority. She despised him. The way he looked like he was in on some cosmic joke at everyone else's expense made her skin crawl.

Asen followed her line of sight and rolled his eyes. "You'll drive yourself insane trying to make sense of Emil."

The meeting dragged on. Dacian and Mihaela, Meyena's mother, took turns lecturing them all about the importance of the upcoming ball, how it was an opportunity to restore some measure of dignity to the Nandor name—dignity that had, in truth, faded generations ago.

"We are not a House to be underestimated," Mihaela said sharply, her eyes narrowing on Silia. "Despite what some may think, we still have standing in these lands. The Kadijans may be favored by the royals, but we are not far removed. Our family's history speaks for itself."

Silia bit back another sigh. Not far removed? Meyena's father, Dacian, had a distant link to the royal family, and that was about the only connection they could still boast. Mihaela, well, the both of them, liked to pretend their influence was greater than it actually was, but Silia knew the truth. The Nandor were hanging on by threads, their southern lands only nominally theirs.

Meyena's gaze lingered on Silia, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at her lips when their mother mentioned "behaving appropriately." Silia felt a surge of irritation rise in her chest, but rolled her eyes, once again.

Ivan, who had remained mostly silent, shifted in his seat, his brow furrowing in thought. "We need to show the Kadijan that we're not to be overlooked. They have influence with the Royals. If we can form an alliance—"

"Yes, yes, alliances," Seyan cut in, clearly bored with the conversation. "We've been talking about alliances for centuries. What's different this time?"

Ivan shot him a glare. "What's different is that we're running out of options. You may not care about our standing, Seyan, but I do. And so should you."

Silia glanced at Ivan, annoyed pity flaring slightly through her eyes. Of course, he cared—he probably thought securing favor with the Kadijans would win him a place in Meyena's good heart. But that didn't mean Silia had to care. The Nandor family wasn't what it used to be, and no amount of politicking at a ball was going to change that.

"What about the other family members?" Seyan finally said, his voice deceptively calm. "Aren't they the ones who hold more power? Why aren't they here, or ever, if this is so important?" Mihaela shot him a sharp look.

"Your ancestors' whereabouts are no concern of yours. You are here, and you will behave accordingly. This is our house, and it is our responsibility to keep it from fading further into obscurity—"

Silia's chest tightened at the mention of their parents. It was a sore subject that no one dared to bring up openly. To her and Emil, it was quite simple; their mother died giving birth to Silia, and no one had seen their father ever since.

For Seyan, Ivan and Asen's parents though... Centuries had passed since anyone had seen them, and yet no one ever talked about it. They were just... gone. Their absence had left a strange void that hung over every family gathering, like an unspoken curse.

"Enough." Dacian's voice was stern, silencing the squabbling. "All of you will conduct yourselves with respect and grace. You will follow the decorum expected of you, and you will not bring further disgrace to this family."

Silia exchanged a quick glance with Asen, who gave her a lazy grin. "No pressure," he whispered, his tone mocking.

As the conversation shifted back to more formal matters—protocols, seating arrangements, and how the Nandor family should present itself at the ball—Silia felt herself slipping back into her thoughts. The weight of expectation, to someone as isolated as her, was all suffocating. She felt trapped in this endless cycle of pretenses, all for a family that clung to a fading past.

Across the table, Meyena kept her perfect posture, her eyes occasionally flitting over to Silia as if waiting for her to misstep. Emil looked like he was already planning his next escape, Seyan was half-asleep, Asen started rocking on chair, looking like he'd rather be anywhere than here and Ivan, of course, was still lost in thoughts of political strategy.

With a sigh, she shifted in her seat, already counting down the hours until she could escape from the suffocating grasp of family duty.

. . .

The night before the ball was a restless one for Silia. It must've been a hundred years since she last made an appearance at that kind of event, and with a bloodslave? Add another hundred.

She sat at the edge of her bed, gripping the fabric of her emerald gown that laid beside her. The golden threads seemed to mock her. The weight of her secret had grown heavier over the years, and the anxiety that came with it was something she knew all too well. The ball meant she would be surrounded by other vampires—heightened senses, sharp instincts. It wasn't the kind of social interaction she was used to anymore.

Her family had no reasons to actually expose to the rest of the world she was a freak who couldn't feed. That didn't mean her cousins wouldn't miss an occasion to embarrass her, even if it was more subtle. And if it wasn't them, it would be the others.

Keeping her sickness a secret wasn't exactly what sent her over the edge, it was more so the fact that she could never seem to learn from that kind of events. Tomorrow, surrounded by guests, allies and enemies, Silia would be under a microscope. That's why she felt so anxious. There were so many reasons for her to lose her temper.

Qadir stood in the doorway, as calm as ever, though there was an alertness in his eyes. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, the same easy smirk tugging at his lips. "Getting ready for tomorrow?" His tone was casual, as if this was just another day, but there was an undertone that showed he noticed her tension.

Silia met his gaze and hesitated for a moment, then steeled herself. He was her bloodslave, he was to do as she said. At least, that's how she tried to convince herself. She straightened her back, forcing the nerves down. "I need something from you," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, authoritative even, though it came out softer than she wanted.

Qadir raised an eyebrow, the smirk not fading. "With what? A last-minute errand?"

"No, not that," Silia interrupted. She crossed the room, brushing a hand through her hair, trying to organize her thoughts. "I need you to... make it look like I fed from you."

For a moment, there was only silence. Qadir blinked, clearly caught off guard. His expression shifted as he processed her words, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Make it look like you fed from me?" he repeated slowly, like he was waiting for the punchline of some joke.

"Yes," Silia said, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She looked anywhere but his face. She should've just done it without asking. Why did she have to explain herself to him? "And... you can't tell anyone. That I can't actually do it." she added, her voice quieter.

There was a long pause as Qadir studied her, his smirk fading as he absorbed the seriousness in her tone. He sighed softly, stepping away from the doorframe and walking toward her. "Let me get this straight. You want me to pretend you fed from me... to the others? Or to your family?"

"My family already knows," Silia admitted, her voice tight with frustration. "They won't care if it's fake, they might even like the show of it. But the others—the vampires at the ball—they'll expect it. All the other humans will have marks. I need them to believe I'm... normal."

Qadir's gaze softened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. "Alright. You're the Master, aren't you? I'll do my part." He offered her a small, reassuring smile.

Her relief was immediate, but short-lived when Qadir added with a chuckle, "But I'm guessing you don't even know how to bite someone, do you?"

Silia shot him a glare, her earlier nerves morphing into annoyance. "Who do you take me for?" she huffed, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her words. "It's been a while, that's all."

Qadir crossed his arms, still smirking. "And the human anatomy book on the table is just for light reading?" Her eyes darted to the corner of the room where an open book lay, diagrams of human veins marked in pencil.

She flushed even deeper, biting her lip in frustration. "It's just a precaution." she muttered, flustered.

"Right." His tone was amused, but it softened as he turned his neck slightly, exposing the side of his throat. "Go ahead. Bite me."

Silia felt her heart race. She stepped closer, her hands trembling slightly as she sat next to him on the bed. Her fangs, normally retracted, slid out almost reluctantly as she leaned in. But the hesitation was painfully obvious—she wasn't sure where to bite, or how deep, or how much pressure to use. She couldn't even tell how long it had been she had actually tried to feed on a human.

Qadir's voice was soft but steady. "You're overthinking it. Just... calm down. Feel for the pulse." He reached up, guiding her hand gently to the side of his neck, pressing her fingers over the rhythmic beat of his pulse. His hand was warm against hers, and Silia found herself freezing, her senses overwhelmed by the sudden proximity.

Silia, brows furrowed. Her fingers brushed the side of his neck, but her uncertainty grew with each passing second.

"Don't bite too hard," Qadir added, still calm. "You don't need to tear into me. It's about precision, not force."

Silia swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his eyes on her. Her breath caught in her throat as she leaned in again, slower this time. She felt ridiculous, like a child trying to do something for the first time. Her fangs brushed his skin again, and this time, she pressed down lightly, the sensation foreign and strange.

Qadir's body tensed slightly, but he didn't move. "Slower," he murmured. "Let them sink in naturally."

She tried, but her inexperience showed. Her bite was awkward, unsure, and far from the smooth elegance—or tortuous pain that could be expected of her kind. The sensation was strange—she could feel the heat of his blood just beneath the surface, but she wasn't feeding. She didn't make any motion to try and suck the blood out.

Qadir remained still, his breathing steady, but she could tell he was watching her, making sure she didn't mess it up again.

She suddenly wondered if the proximity the two shared at the moment should be a norm between them. She didn't recall ever being so close to the man. His hand still held hers, guiding her, his breathing steady despite the vulnerability of the position. There was an intimacy to it that felt unsettling to her.

"See?" Qadir's voice was softer now, less teasing. "You've got it. Now pull back."

Silia did as he instructed, retracting her fangs carefully. There was a mark left on his neck—four dots. Just enough to convince anyone who looked at him to know that she had fed recently. It wasn't perfect, but it would suffice.

Silia stepped back, exhaling sharply as if she'd been holding her breath. She could still feel the warmth of his pulse on her fingertips, and the closeness left her rattled. Without a word, she rushed to her bathroom and rinsed her mouth with water, trying to wash away the blood.

Qadir chuckled from behind her. "That bad?"

"I didn't even taste it." She muttered, more embarrassed than anything. "That... should work, right?" Qadir touched the mark with his fingers, nodding in approval. "Yeah. It'll be convincing enough. Don't worry about that tomorrow."

Silia breathed, a wave of relief washing over her. She felt vulnerable, but at least now she had some sort of control over the narrative that could unfold at the ball. "Thank you," she said quietly, the words more sincere than she'd intended. Qadir gave her a half-smile as she sat back next to him over her bed.

"How do you know how to do that so well?" she asked, her voice quieter now, curiosity slipping through her usual distant attitude.

Qadir glanced at her, a shadow of something passing behind his eyes. "I can't recall the amount of time I've been bitten before." he said, his tone casual but with an edge she couldn't quite place. Silia's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't press further.

"Well." she said, "It won't turn into a habit with me."

Qadir chuckled softly, standing up from the bed. "Good idea. I'd hate to have to train you more." She rolled her eyes, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips. As Qadir left her room, she let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

Everything will be fine tomorrow, she convinced herself. She trusted him.