And just like that…
72 hours were officially up.
I'd managed to stick to my self-imposed rule: one visit per day, one bag of blood, zero conversation, zero cage-opening, zero falling into the hot vampire's dark gaze and suddenly rebranding myself as Vampire Barbie.
Surprisingly, on the last visit, he didn't say much. Not a smirk, not a snide remark, not even a sarcastic "boo."
Just… took the bag, drank it like a miserable wine connoisseur, and went back to silently plotting my demise or, worse, seduction. I couldn't tell which was worse. Death, or whatever the hell he'd call foreplay.
But now?
Now was the big moment.
I sat on the floor in my living room with a tangled mess of blood transfusion equipment spread out like the world's most sinister arts-and-crafts project. Tubes, needle, reservoir bag, and the slightly cursed charm stone I'd use to anchor the spell.
The goal?
Simple:
Get a needle into him.
Make sure it stays in.
Draw blood like a magical leech until the bag was full enough to drown a city witch.
Do not die in the process.
And since I didn't fancy having the needle ripped out of my hands and jammed through my eye socket by a pissed-off, half-naked vampire, I needed a contingency.
A spell-lock on the needle. Charm it so once it pierces skin, it doesn't come out unless I give the release word.
Should be simple.
Right?
(Insert nervous laughter here.)
I muttered the incantation under my breath three times, tracing the sigil of binding onto the tubing with chalk soaked in moonwater. The needle pulsed faintly once the charm took root. Good sign. Unless that was the needle waking up and becoming sentient. I'd cross that bridge if it started whispering to me.
Then came the hard part.
The trickery.
I had to lie to Dracula's gym-sculpted offspring. Tell him I needed just a little bit of his blood. Just a tiny, magical donation. One vial. Two max.
"Five bags," I muttered, adjusting the drip bag.
That's how much I needed to complete the ritual that would obliterate the magical bloodline of my enemies. Five whole units of vampire vintage—aged in soil, sun-sterilized, kissed by death. Perfect for unholy spellwork.
Of course, there was zero chance in hell he'd willingly give that much blood unless I sold him a believable lie. Like, I dunno—
"I'll let you go if you promise not to hurt me."
Ha.
I could already hear Salem's dry voice in my head.
"Yeah, and I promise to poop only in my litter box. We both know that's a lie."
Vampire promises are about as reliable as politicians in a burning city.
They'll say anything with their silky, honey-drenched voices, stare into your soul with those dark abyss eyes, and suddenly your pants are off, your blood is gone, and your house is on fire.
I know.
Been there. Done that.
Definitely don't want to talk about the ending.
But this time?
This time I was smarter. I had rules. I had prep. I had a spell-forged needle that was going to stick in him like the truth sticks to liars. I had...
…a mild heart attack forming in my chest as I realized I'd have to go down there and pretend to be sincere while holding medical equipment and not pissing myself.
This was fine.
Everything was fine.
Time to go lie to the undead.
And that was when I started breaking my rules—
One by one.
Like a dumbass.
Rule one: Don't talk to the vampire.
Yeah. Shattered that one the second I opened my damn mouth.
I should've written down a script. Should've kept up the silent act. Should've waited for Salem, my black-furred sass factory slash emotional support feline, to back me up.
But no.
Stupid me decided to wing it. Alone. In a basement. With Dracula's hotter, smarter, fully-awake descendant.
I stood there clutching the blood transfusion kit like it was some magical shield and not just glorified medical tubing. Salem had said he was coming. Probably got distracted plotting my funeral.
"Hi," I blurted, the word tripping out of my mouth like a toddler in heels.
The vampire's eyes widened. Not by much, but enough to show that I'd surprised him.
"She can talk," he muttered, smirking like he'd just won a bet with himself.
Why was his voice so fucking hot even when it sounded like someone grating velvet over gravel?
"Let's make a deal," I said, praying to every god on record—including the shady ones in the footnotes. "I need just a little bit of your blood. A vial. That's all. Then I'll let you go... if you promise not to hurt me, okay?"
Lie. Lie. Lie.
I smiled like it wasn't a lie.
Please let centuries of coffin rot have ruined his bullshit detector.
"She has a nice voice," he said to no one in particular.
What the hell? Was he narrating? Performing a monologue? Had solitary undead confinement driven him into permanent commentary mode?
"Come closer, little witch," he said, voice sliding down my spine like honey laced with knives.
"I promise I won't bite."
Fang flash. Check.
Smirk. Check.
Irrational urge to throw holy water at his face. Double check.
"Do you agree to my request?" I asked, standing very still and wishing I had brought garlic-scented pepper spray.
He tilted his head slightly. "My blood? You just want a little of it?"
I nodded like an overenthusiastic bobblehead.
"Okay. Come closer then. I'll only give you a little of it. After all..." He gave me a slow once-over. "...it's not like you fed me enough to regain my strength."
That sounded like agreement.
Possibly.
Vampire speech is vague and always sounds like it's hiding a death threat in every syllable, but I was choosing to believe that was a yes.
He lifted his arm, the movement smooth and taunting.
"Are you always so slow?" he asked, grinning like this was foreplay.
Nope. Nope. This wasn't seduction. This was war.
Magical, basement-level blood war.
And I was not going to get close enough for his eyes to eat my soul.
"I'll throw you the needle," I said, inching forward, every step like walking through an emotional minefield.
"You inject yourself. I'll be over there. Far over there. After I collect enough, I'll let you go, alright?"
I sounded like someone trying to soothe a hungry lion with vague promises of future meat.
He smirked again—so much smirking, seriously—and nodded. That was as close to consent as I was going to get.
Here goes nothing.
I threw the needle.
It sliced through the air like a silver arrow.
He caught it with inhuman ease, one-handed, casual, like it was just a coin I'd tossed him and not the beginning of his temporary magical entrapment.
And now… now all I had to do was pray that charm worked and he didn't instantly realize he was about to become a glorified juice box.