He caught the needle like it was nothing, fingers curling around the metal with a grace that made my stomach twist. Too smooth. Too calm. Like he already knew what I was planning.
But he didn't… right?
Don't panic. He's just cocky. That's how they are.
"Just a little," I reminded him, voice shaking only slightly. "That's all I need."
"Of course," he said, eyes glittering with amusement as he examined the needle. "Just a little."
Liar. We were both lying.
He rolled up the sleeve of the worn T-shirt I'd forced him to wear, exposing a forearm that looked way too alive for someone who was technically dead. Pale skin, faint blue veins, and the kind of muscle tone that screamed I used to crush skulls for fun.
"Here?" he asked, like he was being helpful.
I nodded, backing away so fast I nearly tripped over my own boots. "Y-yeah. That's perfect."
"You're trembling, little witch. I thought you were brave," he teased, tapping a vein like a fucking pro.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My heart was thundering too loud, and if I said anything now, it would come out as please don't murder me, thank you.
He slid the needle in without flinching.
My charm ignited the second it pierced his skin—glowing faintly blue as it latched to his body like a magical leech. A ripple of energy shimmered across the room. The spell took hold.
He blinked. Looked at the tubing. Then at me.
"You said a vial," he said softly.
Oh. Shit.
"I—I know. It's just precaution. Magic's... tricky."
Lie. Weak, obvious lie.
"You're draining me," he said, calm. Too calm.
A slow smile spread on his lips. Not his usual smug smirk—something darker. Older. Like he'd just remembered who he was before the coffin.
And I'd just reminded him.
"You've planned this," he murmured, voice lowering into that deliciously dangerous register that made my brain cells short-circuit. "All of it. You woke me. Fed me. Dressed me. Lied to me."
The blood was flowing now, the bag half full. My hands were clenched into fists behind my back. The charm was holding. The needle wasn't budging.
He tilted his head, golden eyes fixed on me like I was a puzzle he'd just solved.
"Why, little witch?"
I didn't answer. Because Rule Two was now broken, too: Don't let him engage you. Don't talk.
Too late.
"Why go through all this effort to trap me in flesh and blood," he continued, "if you're just going to bury me again?"
Gods. How the hell did he figure that out?
"You want my power. Not me."
The blood bag filled. I had what I needed. But I couldn't move.
He leaned back against the coffin, still tethered by the needle, his lips curling in amusement.
"Take what you need, witch. But know this—blood is memory. Power. Connection."
"You have mine now."
"And I will come for it."
The transfusion bag glowed faintly with magic.
After the first bag filled, I moved toward the equipment, fingers trembling as I reached for the second blood bag.
It wasn't enough.
Not nearly enough.
The spell I had to cast needed more—much more. I kept my eyes down, refusing to look at him. My shame was a tangible thing, heavy and thick in the room like smoke.
"What happened to just a little?"
His voice broke the silence.
Smooth. Cold. Amused.
I froze. My spine locked up as his words slithered across the room and curled around my chest like a noose.
"Guess all witches are evil," he added, still light, still casual—but the way he said it...
The words rolled off his tongue like a prophecy, dark and ancient and whispered into the abyss.
Goosebumps erupted across my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck rose like they were trying to flee before I could.
I looked up.
Gods help me, I looked up.
His eyes met mine—not amused anymore. Not charming. Not human.
There was something hungry and hollow inside them now. Not for blood. For justice. For revenge. For something deeper.
I watched, frozen, as he grabbed the tube—and tried to pull the needle out.
My heart stopped.
But the charm held.
It didn't budge.
His brows furrowed. His expression darkened.
That's when I realized my magic had actually worked.
For once, my spell hadn't fizzled into glitter and regret.
But instead of celebrating, I panicked.
Because now he knew.
"Clever little witch," he murmured, low and bitter.
And then—he reached for the tube.
Wrapped his fingers around it and twisted.
Tied it.
Fuck.
The blood stopped flowing.
I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't prepared for this.
My feet wouldn't move. My brain screamed at me to do something—anything—but I just stood there like an idiot holding a plastic bag of forbidden vampire blood.
He stepped forward.
And another.
And another.
Toward the bars of the cage.
*******
He started walking toward the cage bars.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My breath caught in my throat as I dropped the second blood bag and stumbled back—heart racing, mind spinning. The fucking tube was clamped shut in his hand, blood no longer flowing. He gave it a little shake, just to prove his point, then met my eyes with a calm that was infinitely more terrifying than rage.
Each step deliberate.
Measured.
Like he wasn't just walking—he was claiming the space. The room. Me.
"You think magic can hold me forever?" he asked, voice quiet. "You're not the first to try, little witch."
His fingers gripped the iron bars.
Knuckles white.
Eyes blazing.
"And none of them lived."
The air in the basement shifted—colder. Heavier. Darker.
The shadows seemed to breathe with him, curling inward, whispering promises of what he'd do once he got out.
My knees buckled slightly.
"You think blood is the cost?" he asked, stepping even closer. "No. Blood is just the beginning."
His face was inches from the bars now, and gods help me, there was still a hint of a smile on his lips.
Not mocking.
Knowing.
He was already planning his revenge.
And I—I'd handed him the weapon.
"You know, for someone so terrified of me, you're awfully reckless."
He was right. And that was the worst part—I knew it.
I had pushed my luck. Thought my magic was enough. My fear enough. My plan airtight.
"You're not the first witch to try and use me," he murmured, voice low like silk dragging across a blade. "They all thought they were clever too."
His eyes flicked down to the clamped tubing.
"But none of them got this far. So congrats, little witch. You've earned a special place in the fucked up hall of fame."
My brain screamed at me to move. To run. To do something—anything—but all I could do was stare as he took another step forward, one hand still holding the clamp, the other gripping the bar.
"Now. You can either open this cage and explain what the hell you're doing with my blood—"
"—or I can wait until your charm breaks, drain you dry, and figure it out myself."
And somehow… I believed him.
This wasn't just a threat. It was a promise. One he fully intended to keep the moment the balance tipped in his favor.
Where the fuck is Salem?!
I cursed inwardly, sweat trickling down my back.
He tapped the bar once with his knuckle. "Tick tock, witch."
My eyes darted to the blood bag. One full. Four still empty. Four more and I could finish the spell. Bury him again. Wipe my hands clean of this whole blood-soaked mess.
I bent down slowly, trembling fingers reaching for the second bag.
"Don't." His voice was soft but laced with iron. "Don't insult me again by pretending this is still a deal."
I froze.
He unclamped the tube.
The blood started to flow again.
"I want to see just how far you're willing to go."
I didn't understand. Why… why would he—
"Let's see how evil witches really are."
My heart thudded. Not from fear this time—but from the game that had just begun.
He was calling my bluff.
And I was dangerously close to playing right into his hand.