chapter six  ࿇  A SINFUL ACT

❝ Can I ask you somethin'? Somethin'... personal? ❞
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♱

"Wake up baby you need to eat some breakfast so you can get to class on time" Mississippi spoke gently. Jacqueline stirred beneath the thin quilt as her mother's voice filtered into the room, soft and insistent, pulling her from the heavy fog of sleep.

The light from the window was faint but enough to throw pale streaks onto the walls, catching the edges of her cluttered desk—textbooks, pens, and a tangle of loose notes she'd never gotten around to organizing.

"Baby, c'mon now," Mississippi said again, gently tugging the quilt down to expose her daughter's face. "You'll be late for class if you don't eat somethin'. And Father Rein's stayin' for breakfast."

That last part jolted Jacqueline awake more effectively than her mama's coaxing ever could. Her eyes blinked open, dark and wide, still soft with sleep but quickly sharpening. "Father Rein?" she mumbled, her voice rough with the residue of dreams.

She rubbed at her eyes and sat up, the quilt pooling in her lap. The thought of him sitting at their kitchen table, so close to her life outside of church, made her stomach twist in ways she didn't care to examine.

"You heard me," Mississippi replied, her tone as sweet as honey but firm enough to leave no room for argument. "Now get yourself ready."

Jacqueline sighed and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet brushing the cool floorboards. She moved with a sluggishness that felt deliberate, like she was resisting the current pulling her toward the inevitable. The bathroom mirror reflected her face, sleep-smudged and pensive, and she washed it quickly, as if scrubbing away any lingering traces of vulnerability.

She chose the outfit her mama had left out—a soft burgundy sweater, cropped and slightly oversized, paired with dark bootcut jeans that hugged her hips just right. Her heart-shaped locket glinted faintly as she clasped it around her neck, a quiet weight against her skin. The heels Mississippi had insisted on, white platforms with an ankle strap, felt more like a costume than anything practical, but they clicked with purpose when she finally slipped them on.

Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, the gloss catching the light when she ran her fingers through it one last time. She kept her makeup light but purposeful—a smooth sweep of foundation, a hint of blush, and a subtle gloss on her lips that made them gleam like fruit. The effort was unconscious, almost automatic, but there was a part of her that felt sharp, exposed, knowing Vincent would see her like this.

When she stepped into the kitchen, she felt his presence before she saw him. Vincent sat at the table, a porcelain cup of coffee cradled in his hands, his crimson eyes catching the dim morning light like embers. He was talking to her father, who was nodding along but glancing at the clock every few seconds. Mississippi bustled around the stove, her voice a hum of warmth as she asked if anyone needed more biscuits.

Jacqueline froze for a moment, just long enough to notice how Vincent's gaze shifted to her, his expression calm but somehow piercing. His eyes swept over her with a languid ease, taking in the wine-red knit of her sweater, the deliberate taper of her jeans, the glint of her locket resting at her throat.

But it wasn't just the outfit. He noticed the curve of her neck, the faint shine on her lips, the way her hair framed her face, soft but deliberate. She felt him seeing her, really seeing her, and it made her chest tighten.

"Good morning, Jacqueline," Vincent said, his voice smooth and steady, breaking the quiet hum of the kitchen. He spoke her name like it was a secret, like he was trying it out to see how it tasted.

"Good morning, Father," she replied, her voice careful, even as her throat felt dry.

Mississippi turned and waved a spatula in her direction. "Jackie, you're gonna eat quick, right? Father Rein's offered to drive you to school. Said it's on his way."

Jacqueline's stomach flipped. She could feel Vincent's gaze still on her, though he had turned back to his coffee, lifting it to his lips with a deliberate calm. She sat down across from him, her movements deliberate, trying to ignore the way the air felt heavier when he was in the room.

"I don't wanna trouble you, Father," she murmured, focusing on her plate as Mississippi placed it in front of her. Scrambled eggs, toast, and a single sausage link, all arranged neatly.

"It's no trouble at all," Vincent said, his tone pleasant but with that same undercurrent she could never quite place. "I'd enjoy the company."

She glanced up at him, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. There was something unsettling in the way he looked at her—not improper, not overt, but almost like he was waiting for something. She quickly dropped her gaze back to her plate, suddenly feeling like the room was too small, too warm.

Breakfast passed in a blur of small talk and clinking silverware, and before she knew it, she was standing on the porch, Vincent's car idling at the curb. He opened the passenger door for her, his movements fluid and precise, and she hesitated just long enough for him to notice.

"Don't worry," he said softly, his voice laced with amusement. "I'll get you there safe."

She climbed in, her heart thudding in her chest as the door clicked shut behind her. The car smelled faintly of cedar and something metallic, and as they pulled away from the house, Jacqueline stared out the window, trying to ignore the way his presence seemed to fill the space. But she could feel his eyes on her, watching, quiet and steady, as if he was trying to unravel her, piece by piece.

The car hummed softly beneath them as they cruised down the quiet, tree-lined road. Jacqueline kept her eyes fixed on the passing fields, her fingers twisting the heart-shaped locket at her throat. She wasn't sure what to say or how to fill the space between them. But then Vincent's voice broke the silence, smooth and low, curling through the air like smoke.

"How did you like my sermon this Sunday?" he asked, his tone measured, as though the answer didn't matter, though she felt it might.

Jacqueline hesitated, her hand pausing mid-fidget. The sermon. She remembered it in fragments—the cadence of his voice, the way his words seemed to wrap around her, lingering in her chest like an ache. He had spoken about sin, not as something to fear, but as something inevitable, something that was already in you, just waiting to be understood.

"It was... thought-provoking," she said finally, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, only to find him already looking at her, his lips curved in the faintest trace of a smile.

"Thought-provoking," he repeated, as though savoring the words. "I suppose that's one way to put it. And what exactly did it provoke, Jacqueline?"

Her cheeks burned at the way he said her name, as if it were something fragile and sharp, meant to be handled carefully. She turned her gaze back to the window, her fingers tightening around the locket. "I don't know," she said quickly, her voice clipped, as though that might end the conversation. But it didn't.

Vincent hummed softly, a sound that was neither agreement nor dismissal. "It's good to be unsettled sometimes," he said, his eyes flicking back to the road. "It means you're thinking. Questioning. Too many people go through life without ever really looking at what's inside themselves."

Jacqueline shifted in her seat, her pulse quickening. There was something about the way he spoke, as though he were addressing her directly, peeling back layers she wasn't ready to expose. "I don't think I like feeling unsettled," she said, her voice more defensive than she intended.

He glanced at her again, his smile deepening, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "No one does," he said softly. "But that doesn't mean it's not necessary."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and intimate, and Jacqueline felt as though she were teetering on the edge of something she couldn't name. She thought of his sermon again, the way his voice had filled the church, how every word had seemed to land squarely in her chest, like a stone dropping into still water.

"I don't think I understood all of it," she admitted after a long pause. Her voice was small, hesitant, but there was a flicker of curiosity beneath it, something she couldn't entirely suppress.

"That's all right," Vincent said, his tone softening. "Understanding isn't the point. Not at first. It's about letting yourself feel it. Letting it settle inside you, even if it makes you uncomfortable."

Jacqueline's breath caught, her fingers gripping the locket so tightly she thought it might leave an imprint. She wasn't sure if he was still talking about the sermon, or if this was something else entirely. The way he spoke, the way he looked at her—it was like he was asking her to admit to something, to give him a piece of herself she wasn't ready to share.

They pulled up to the college, the old brick buildings rising up against the pale morning sky. Vincent stopped the car but didn't move to unlock the doors right away. Instead, he turned to her, his expression calm but watchful.

"I hope you'll tell me, one day, what you truly thought," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "When you're ready."

Jacqueline nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She fumbled with the door handle, grateful when it finally gave way, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, the cool air rushing over her like a slap.

As she watched the car pull away, she couldn't help but feel that she'd left something behind in that passenger seat, something fragile and raw. And though she didn't know what it was, she had the unsettling sense that Vincent did.

♱

The lake was quiet except for the occasional ripple, the lazy buzz of insects, and Mantis's voice cutting through the stillness like a hot knife. She was sprawled on the grass, one hand resting on her stomach, the other lazily waving a cigarette in the air as she spoke. Jacqueline sat beside her, cross-legged with her notebook balanced on her thighs, the paper smudged with pencil marks. She was supposed to be working on a reading assignment for her literature class—something about modernist poetry—but the words were starting to blur together in the midday sun.

"Oh, Jackie, it felt so good too," Mantis said, her voice lilting with exaggerated delight. "I'm telling you, fucking older men is the way to go." She exhaled smoke into the warm air and tilted her head back, her face catching the sunlight like a flower's.

Jacqueline paused mid-sentence, her pencil hovering just above the paper. Her eyes flickered toward Mantis, narrowing slightly, and she shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You're so vulgar," she muttered, turning her attention back to her notebook.

Mantis let out a low, throaty laugh, the kind that made you feel like you were in on some big cosmic joke whether you wanted to be or not. "Vulgar?" she repeated, sitting up just enough to prop herself on her elbows. "Girl, please. I'm just tellin' it like it is. You oughta try it sometime. Loosen up."

Jacqueline ignored her, her fingers tightening around the pencil as she tried to focus on the half-written stanza in front of her. She could feel Mantis watching her, the way her gaze lingered like a weight pressing against her side. It made her uneasy, like Mantis could see the way her ears were burning, the way her stomach twisted at the mention of older men—not because she was scandalized, but because the thought stirred something she wasn't ready to name.

"Who's got you all uptight these days, anyway?" Mantis continued, dragging on her cigarette. "You've been actin' weird lately. Don't think I haven't noticed."

Jacqueline's shoulders tensed, but she didn't look up. "I haven't been acting weird," she said, the words coming out sharper than she intended.

Mantis smirked, her eyes narrowing. "Uh-huh. Sure. You've been mooning around town like you've seen a ghost, barely sayin' two words to me half the time. What's goin' on, Jackie? You crushin' on someone?"

Jacqueline's stomach did a little flip, and she set the pencil down carefully, folding her hands over her notebook as if she could keep whatever was inside her from spilling out. "No," she said flatly. "I've just been busy. School, you know. Some of us actually care about passing our classes."

Mantis rolled her eyes, but there was something sharp in her gaze now, like she wasn't buying the excuse. She sat up fully, crossing her legs and leaning closer, her cigarette dangling between two fingers. "C'mon," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "You can tell me. Is it that boy from your class? What's his name—Derrick? Or is it someone else? Someone older?"

Jacqueline felt her heart skip, and she hated the way her body betrayed her, the way her breath hitched just enough for Mantis to notice. Her friend's grin widened, and she leaned back, exhaling smoke in a satisfied puff. "Oh, I knew it," she said, laughing. "It is someone older, isn't it? Who is it, Jackie? Don't leave me hangin'."

"It's no one," Jacqueline said firmly, picking up her pencil again and staring hard at her notebook. Her hand shook slightly as she scrawled another line of notes, the letters coming out uneven and jagged.

Mantis raised an eyebrow, her smirk softening into something more curious. "Huh," she said, tapping ash onto the grass. "Well, whoever it is, you better be careful. Older men got a way of gettin' into your head. They make you feel like you're the only thing they've ever wanted, like you're special or somethin'. But don't let that fool you, Jackie. They're just as messy as the rest of us, maybe worse."

Jacqueline didn't respond, but her stomach churned at the words. She thought of Vincent—his calm, deliberate voice, the way he looked at her like he saw straight through her. She thought of the way his presence seemed to fill every room, every space he entered, and the way her body reacted to him, unbidden and uncontrollable. She pressed her pencil harder against the paper, carving out words she couldn't bring herself to speak aloud.

Mantis took another drag from her cigarette and lay back down, her head resting on her folded arms. "Anyway, you let me know if you need advice," she said lightly. "I've been around the block, you know. I could teach you a thing or two."

Jacqueline nibbled on her bottom lip, her gaze darting between the rippling surface of the lake and the blunt edge of Mantis's cigarette, the orange glow dimming as her friend tapped the ash onto the grass. She felt the weight of the question in her chest, pressing against her ribs, and she tried to swallow it down. But it wouldn't go. It sat there, restless and stubborn, waiting to be let loose.

"Mantis," she began, her voice small and shaky. She looked down at her notebook, pretending to study the half-finished lines of poetry scribbled across the page. "Can I ask you somethin'? Somethin'... personal?"

Mantis lifted an eyebrow, smirking as she turned her head to look at Jacqueline. "Well, that depends," she said, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air. "What kinda personal are we talkin' about? This your way of finally tellin' me who you've been crushin' on?"

Jacqueline shook her head quickly, her cheeks already starting to burn. She twisted the pencil in her hands, the wood creaking faintly under her grip. "No, it's not that," she muttered. "It's just... I don't know. It's stupid."

Mantis sat up slightly, leaning her weight on one elbow. "If it's comin' from you, Jackie, I'm sure it's not stupid. Now spit it out before you go chewin' that lip clean off."

Jacqueline hesitated, the words twisting and tangling in her throat. She could feel the heat creeping down her neck, pooling in her chest. She bit down harder on her lip, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood, and finally forced herself to speak.

"I—" She paused, exhaling sharply through her nose. "This is so embarrassing," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Mantis's smirk softened into something more curious, almost gentle, though her eyes still sparkled with amusement. "Embarrassing?" she repeated, sitting up fully now. "Jackie, you know I don't scare easy. Whatever it is, I promise I won't laugh... much."

Jacqueline's face burned, and she dropped her gaze to her notebook again, the words blurring together as her fingers fidgeted nervously. "I just... I've been thinkin' about stuff lately," she said, her voice faltering. "About... things people don't talk about much."

Mantis tilted her head, watching her intently. "Things, huh?" she said, her voice low and teasing. "You mean... sex things?"

Jacqueline flinched at the word, her stomach twisting into knots. "Kinda," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "I mean, not just that. Like... what people do. You know, when they're alone."

Mantis's eyes widened slightly, and then she burst out laughing, loud and bright. Jacqueline's face turned scarlet, and she ducked her head, wishing she could disappear into the grass.

"Jackie!" Mantis wheezed, clutching her stomach. "Are you askin' me about—oh, Lord, this is rich. You're askin' about self-pleasure, ain't you?"

Jacqueline groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Oh my God," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "Forget I said anything."

But Mantis shook her head, still laughing as she reached over to nudge Jacqueline's arm. "No, no, don't go all shy on me now," she said, grinning. "You're really somethin', you know that? I didn't think you had it in you to even say the word."

"I didn't say the word," Jacqueline snapped, her voice sharp with embarrassment.

"Close enough," Mantis said with a shrug, stubbing out her cigarette in the dirt. She leaned back on her hands, her expression turning thoughtful. "So what's got you thinkin' about that all of a sudden, huh? You been feelin'... restless?"

Jacqueline didn't answer, her silence telling enough. Mantis's grin widened, and she leaned in closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Listen, Jackie," she said, "ain't nothin' wrong with it. Everybody does it. Hell, I do it all the time. Keeps me sane, y'know?"

Jacqueline peeked out from behind her hands, her brow furrowed. "Really?" she asked hesitantly.

Mantis laughed again, softer this time. "Of course, really. What, you think you're the only one who gets, I dunno, feelings? Jackie, you're human. It's natural. Hell, it's healthy." She paused, her smirk turning sly. "But I gotta say, I'm surprised you're askin' about this now. You sure there ain't someone puttin' thoughts in your head?"

Jacqueline stiffened at that, the image of crimson eyes flashing unbidden in her mind. She shook her head quickly, her voice coming out too fast. "No," she said. "It's not like that. I just... I don't know. I've been thinkin' about it, that's all."

Mantis studied her for a moment, her grin softening into something more knowing. "Well," she said, leaning back again, "think all you want, sugar. But don't drive yourself crazy over it. Ain't no shame in takin' care of yourself."

Jacqueline nodded faintly, her hands still trembling slightly as she turned back to her notebook. But her thoughts were already far from her work, spinning off into unfamiliar territory, restless and heavy with questions she didn't yet know how to answer.

♱

Jacqueline slid on her nightgown, the satin cool against her skin, its ivory sheen catching the faint light from the candles flickering on her vanity. The gown clung delicately to her body, the lace trim at the bodice soft and intricate, like spider silk woven by patient hands. A ribbon tied just beneath her chest added a girlish innocence to its otherwise suggestive design, the fabric falling in a fluid sweep down to her ankles. Over it, she wore a matching robe, its loose sleeves draping over her arms, the lace edging brushing lightly against her wrists. She traced the cameo necklace at her throat with one finger, her movements slow and absent-minded as her thoughts wandered.

The room was dim and intimate, the warm glow of the candles casting golden light across her reflection in the mirror. She tugged at her braid, loosening the long waves of her hair until they spilled over her shoulders like a dark curtain. The quiet was thick, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the faint creak of the old wooden floor beneath her bare feet.

She turned toward the window, her fingers playing with the edges of her robe, her gaze drifting idly across the yard. And that was when she saw him.

Vincent.

His silhouette was unmistakable, framed by the soft glow of his room. But he wasn't alone. There was a woman with him, her figure half-hidden by the curtain but still clear enough for Jacqueline to see her movements. The woman leaned in close to him, her hand brushing his arm, her posture languid and confident, like she belonged there.

Jacqueline froze, her fingers tightening around the edge of her robe. Her breath hitched as she watched Vincent lean toward the woman, his face partially obscured but his intent unmistakable. There was a casual intimacy in the way he touched her shoulder, the way his body seemed to fold around hers. Jacqueline felt her chest tighten, a sharp, twisting ache that she couldn't name.

She knew she should turn away, close the curtains, and retreat to the safety of her bed. But she couldn't. Her feet remained rooted to the floor, her hands gripping the windowsill as she leaned closer, her eyes fixed on the scene unfolding across the yard. It was as though she'd been caught in a spell, drawn to the quiet intensity of his movements, the way his presence seemed to fill the room even from a distance.

A warmth began to spread through her, starting in her chest and trailing downward, a sensation both foreign and familiar. She pressed a hand to her throat, her pulse quick beneath her fingers, and tried to steady her breathing. But the sight of him, so unguarded, so deliberate in his actions, made it impossible.

Her gaze lingered on the way his hand rested at the small of the woman's back, the way she tilted her head to meet him, their bodies moving closer until the curtain obscured them almost entirely. Jacqueline's cheeks burned, her skin hot despite the cool air pressing against her. She felt like a trespasser, an intruder on something private, and yet she couldn't look away.

The ache in her chest deepened, spreading like a slow bloom, and she turned from the window, her legs shaky as she moved toward her vanity. She sat down heavily on the stool, her hands gripping the edges of the table as if to ground herself. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and flushed, her hair wild around her shoulders. She looked almost like a stranger.

Her fingers drifted to the lace trim of her nightgown, tracing the delicate pattern as her thoughts spiraled. She tried to push the image of him away, to focus on the soft glow of the candles and the faint hum of crickets outside. But his presence lingered, etched into her mind, stirring something inside her that she didn't know how to quiet.

Jacqueline closed her eyes, her breath unsteady, and let the silence envelop her, though it did little to still the restless energy coursing through her. Her hands lingered on the cool satin of her gown, tracing the delicate embroidery absentmindedly. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts she didn't want to examine too closely—fragments of moments she'd witnessed, feelings she didn't understand.

The glow of the candles danced behind her eyelids, casting fleeting patterns that felt alive, flickering and shifting like her own muddled emotions. She let her hands rest against her lap, gripping the fabric as if anchoring herself, her breaths slow and shallow as she tried to focus on the sounds of the night: the distant chirp of crickets, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Yet, even in the stillness, the image of Vincent lingered, etched into her mind, impossible to push away.

As Jacqueline closed her eyes, she felt the soft fabric of her nightgown against her skin, a delicate barrier that heightened her awareness. Each gentle caress of her fingers ignited a warmth within her, a pulsing rhythm that synced with her heartbeat. She let out a soft sigh, the quiet room amplifying the sound as her breath hitched.

With each deliberate movement, she felt the restless energy begin to coalesce into something more focused, a yearning that blossomed in the depth of her core. The stillness around her deepened her connection to her body, every sensation magnified as if the world outside had faded.

She opened her eyes and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a loose halo around her shoulders. She looked unlike herself, or maybe too much like herself—raw, unguarded. It unnerved her, the way her own reflection seemed to challenge her, to ask questions she wasn't ready to answer.

She ran her fingers through her hair and forced herself to stand, her movements deliberate, as though shaking off a spell. The room was heavy with quiet, the air thick, and she moved to the window, closing the curtains against the night. Whatever she was feeling—this strange pull, this inexplicable yearning—it was something she needed to lock away, to bury deep before it consumed her.

"Baby, what are you looking at?" the woman's voice cut through the quiet, soft and curious, but it carried the faintest edge of unease. She was seated on the edge of Vincent's bed, her legs crossed, her delicate ankle brushing against the hem of her dress. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the lace, but her gaze was fixed on him now, her head tilted slightly as she tried to read the expression on his face.

Vincent didn't move at first, his eyes still on the window, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head toward her, the movement too smooth, too practiced, as though he'd done it a thousand times before. The soft glow of the candlelight caught his features, and for a moment, the sharpness of his gaze seemed to cut through the dim room.

"Nothing," he murmured, his voice calm, velvet-smooth, but his eyes—those unearthly, crimson eyes—told a different story. They were darker now, like embers smoldering low, threatening to catch fire. His hunger coiled tightly in his chest, pressing against his ribs like a claw trying to break free.

The woman smiled, though it faltered slightly as she shifted on the bed. "Well, whatever it was, you looked like you were miles away. Come here." She patted the space beside her, her tone playful, an attempt to cut through the quiet tension that had begun to creep into the room.

He stepped toward her slowly, his movements deliberate, as though he were pacing himself, holding something back. The air between them seemed to thicken, and the shadows in the room grew longer, darker. She didn't notice, or if she did, she didn't let it show. Instead, she reached for his hand, her touch light, trusting.

"I've got you all to myself tonight," she whispered, leaning closer, her lips curving into a smile. "No sermons, no congregation, just you and me."

He didn't respond, just watched her with a calm intensity that made her pause. His fingers brushed hers, cool against her warmth, and when he finally smiled, it was slow, deliberate, as though he were savoring the moment.

The woman's laughter wavered. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, her voice quieter now, the playful edge softening into something uncertain.

Vincent tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a puzzle he'd already solved but wasn't quite ready to piece together. "Like what?" he asked, his voice low, rich, and almost hypnotic.

"Like..." She hesitated, her smile faltering entirely now. The air in the room felt different, heavier, and she realized, too late, that the flickering candlelight wasn't what had made his eyes glow. "Like you're hungry," she finished, her voice barely above a whisper.

Vincent's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it now, only something sharp and predatory. He stepped closer, his hand slipping beneath her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his gaze. "And if I am?" he murmured, his voice a quiet threat, his breath brushing against her skin.

The woman's eyes widened, a flicker of fear breaking through her confusion. She tried to pull back, but his grip tightened, just enough to keep her still. "Vincent," she stammered, her voice trembling now, "you're scaring me."

"Good," he said softly, his tone almost tender. "You should be."

Before she could move, before she could even think to scream, he was on her. His lips parted, revealing teeth that gleamed too white, too sharp, and when they sank into her neck, the pain was swift and blinding. She gasped, her hands flying up to push him away, but it was like trying to move a statue. He held her easily, his strength unnatural, inhuman.

The room was filled with the sound of her muffled cries, the desperate flutter of her hands against his chest, and the wet, sickening sound of blood being drawn from her. Vincent's eyes fluttered shut, his grip tightening as the hunger consumed him, driving out any semblance of restraint. Her struggles grew weaker, her breath hitching and fading into soft, broken gasps.

When he finally pulled away, blood smeared his lips and chin, glistening in the dim light. The woman slumped against him, her body limp, her head lolled to the side as her breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. Vincent's crimson eyes opened slowly, their glow more vibrant now, almost feverish. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, he simply held her, his fingers brushing against her skin as though to memorize the fragility of it.

The room was silent again, save for the faint sound of her breathing, and as Vincent lowered her onto the bed, he turned his gaze back to the window. His hunger was sated, for now, but the fire inside him still burned, still twisted and coiled, restless and waiting.