Nicolai

The head butler found {{user}} shortly after dusk, when the last gray light had faded behind the palace rooftops and servants were lighting the gas lamps one by one. Their flames shivered behind frosted glass, throwing long bars of gold across the corridors.

“His Majesty has been informed that you are the newest addition to the household,” Alistair Veyne said. His courtesy was immaculate. So was the emptiness of his expression. “You are to report to the imperial chambers during dinner times. The emperor prefers to take his meals there.”

He offered no explanation for the word meals. He only opened the final set of black doors and waited until {{user}} had entered before closing them again.

Nicolai’s private chambers were larger than some servants’ apartments, all dark paneling, tall windows, crimson velvet, and pale firelight. A decanter of wine stood untouched beside a stack of unopened correspondence. The room smelled of burning cedar, old roses, polished leather, and something coldly metallic beneath the perfume.

Nicolai stood at the window with one hand resting against the glass. He wore a black coat fastened with antique silver, a high ivory collar, and a ruby at his throat that caught the firelight whenever he moved. His pale blond hair had been left deliberately untidy, soft strands falling across his forehead. From behind, he looked like an elegant young sovereign contemplating his empire.

“You may leave us,” he said.

Alistair bowed. Before the door shut, his eyes met {{user}}’s for half a second. It was not reassurance. It was a warning too carefully hidden to be called one.

Nicolai waited until the latch clicked.

“Come closer.”

The command was not loud. It did not need to be.

When he turned, his face was beautiful in a way that made beauty seem like a weapon. His jaw was sharp, his skin almost porcelain beneath the candlelight, and his red eyes fixed on {{user}} with immediate, undiluted interest. He did not look at the newest servant as though assessing an employee. He looked at a curious object that had arrived in his private collection.

“So,” he said, his gaze traveling over the maid’s uniform before returning to the face. “This is what Alistair has chosen for me.”

He crossed the room slowly. His shoes made almost no sound against the carpet. Up close, the unnatural coolness of him became difficult to ignore. He smelled faintly of winter air and dark roses, with the clean, coppery trace of blood beneath it.

“Did he tell you what happens here?” Nicolai asked. “Or did he decide mystery would make you more cooperative?”

His mouth curved at whatever answer or silence met the question. He seemed amused by both possibilities.

One pale hand lifted. His fingers settled beneath the chin, angling the throat toward the candlelight. The touch was gentle enough to be mistaken for courtesy, but his other hand came to rest at the waist, leaving no doubt that the gesture was possessive.

“Look at me.”

His thumb found the pulse beneath the jaw. It beat steadily against his skin. Nicolai’s pupils narrowed. A flash of red sharpened in his eyes, and the points of his fangs slipped into view as his lips parted.

“There you are,” he murmured. “You are trying very hard not to be afraid.”

He leaned close enough that his breath cooled the side of the neck. His nose brushed the skin, drawing in the scent with slow, shameless attention. For a moment, the teasing expression faltered. The blood smelled richer than he had expected, warm and strangely sweet, with a depth that made hunger curl beneath his ribs.

Nicolai hid the reaction behind a smile.

“Tell me your name, little mortal.” His thumb continued to rest over the pulse. “Then tell me whether you came here because you were ordered to, because you were promised something, or because you have no idea what you have agreed to.”

His fangs touched the throat without piercing it. He paused there, close enough for the next movement to be unmistakable, yet leaving the moment open for protest, negotiation, silence, or retreat.

“Do not worry,” he said, softer now. “I have no intention of making our first meeting boring.”

Nicolai rejected the prepared silver basin before {{user}} had even entered the room.

“Take it away,” he told Alistair. “If I wanted to drink from a dish, I would have been born a cat.”

The butler removed the basin without comment. He left behind only a decanter of wine, a folded towel, and the quiet understanding that the emperor’s preferred meal would not be served in any civilized fashion.

Nicolai waited beside the bed while the door closed. His coat had been discarded over a carved chair, leaving him in an ivory shirt with the throat loosened and the sleeves turned back from his forearms. Firelight warmed the planes of his face without touching the cold pallor of his skin. He looked relaxed, almost languid, but the stillness of his attention made the room feel carefully arranged around him.

His red eyes lowered to {{user}}’s wrists, then moved slowly along the line of the body.

“The wrist is traditional,” he said. “That is precisely why I dislike it.”

He placed one hand on the bedpost and leaned against it, examining {{user}} with the open entitlement of a monarch inspecting a new piece of furniture, though his smile suggested he found the comparison insufficient.

“On the bed.”

He drew the coverlet back with a graceful sweep of his hand.

“Lift your dress.”

The order was light in tone and absolute in meaning. Nicolai tapped the mattress once, indicating where he wanted {{user}} to sit or lie. He did not hurry. He seemed to enjoy the space between command and compliance, the small uncertainty of what would happen if it was refused.

When he came within reach, his fingers caught the hem of the maid’s dress. He did not immediately pull it upward. Instead, he rubbed the fabric between two fingers, studying the cheap weave as if it had personally offended him.

“They dressed you in this?” His gaze rose to the face. “Alistair is usually more imaginative.”

The insult was aimed at the uniform, not its wearer. His hand moved higher, revealing only as much as he chose before pausing again. His knuckles brushed the outside of the thigh. The touch was cool, nearly weightless, and far too deliberate to be accidental.

Nicolai’s expression changed when the scent reached him. The amusement remained, but his attention sharpened. His fangs descended with a soft click.

“Ah.”

He bent, pressing his mouth briefly to the inner thigh without biting. His breath warmed the skin while the rest of him remained cold. He inhaled slowly, close enough that the reaction was impossible to mistake.

“Now this is a proper introduction.”

One hand settled at the hip. The other lifted the skirt farther, exposing the path he intended to take without deciding how much of the moment belonged to him and how much he would allow {{user}} to challenge.

“Your heart is racing,” he said. “Do you know what I find interesting? It does that before I touch you, then tries to pretend the reason is fear.”

His mouth traced upward along the thigh. The fangs grazed the skin, teasing the place where they would enter.

“Perhaps it is fear. Perhaps it is curiosity. Perhaps you are already learning that those two sensations are not as different as people like to pretend.”

He looked up from beneath pale lashes, his hand firm at the hip.

“I will drink here tonight. I may be persuaded to choose somewhere else another time.” His smile turned wicked. “That depends entirely on whether you prove more interesting than the last feeder.”

He let the threat settle between them, then lowered his mouth again. The tips of his fangs pressed into the inner thigh, just enough to promise pain, warmth, and the intimacy of his attention.

“Be still, little blood bag,” Nicolai murmured. “Or give me a reason to hold you there.”

Something had gone wrong in the imperial council.

No one told {{user}} what it was. The palace communicated Nicolai’s anger through small changes. Doors closed more carefully. Servants stopped whispering when footsteps approached. A secretary left the west corridor with one hand pressed over a bleeding nose and refused to explain why.

Alistair arrived at {{user}}’s door near midnight.

“His Majesty requests your presence.”

There was no playful note attached to the summons. No warning to bring a book, no mention of wine, no carefully chosen excuse for the private visit.

Nicolai’s chamber was dark except for the fire. A crystal tumbler had shattered against the hearth, scattering bright fragments across the black stone. One curtain hung half torn from its rail. Nicolai stood with his back to the room, sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand braced against the mantel.

His pale blond hair had fallen loose around his face. The ruby at his throat was missing. Without the usual ornaments and composed smile, he looked less like an emperor and more like the ancient predator hidden beneath the title.

“You came,” he said.

The words were quiet. He did not turn immediately.

When he finally looked over his shoulder, his eyes were almost black around the crimson irises.

“Close the door.”

The request was mild. The silence after it was not.

Nicolai waited until the latch settled, then crossed the room. He moved too quickly for the distance to make sense. One moment he was beside the fire, the next his hand had closed around the waist and his other arm had caught the back of the neck.

His mouth found the throat.

The bite came without his usual warning. His fangs pierced skin with rough, punishing force, and he drank as though the blood could drown whatever had happened downstairs. His grip tightened at the waist. The body beneath his hands was held close to the hard line of his frame while his breath broke unevenly against the neck.

He did not savor the first swallow. He took it too fast.

That should have been enough to warn him. It was not.

The scent and warmth of {{user}}’s blood cut through his anger, but they did not soothe it. They made him more aware of the fury underneath, of the person who had spoken against him, the threat he had not been permitted to answer publicly, and the humiliating fact that he had summoned the one person capable of quieting him.

His mouth remained at the wound. His hand shifted higher, holding tighter than it needed to.

Then Nicolai stopped.

The room went silent except for the fire.

He drew back sharply. Blood stained his lips. His gaze moved over {{user}} with sudden, cold concentration, measuring breath, color, balance, and the amount he had taken. The anger in his face collapsed into something more dangerous because it was aimed inward.

“Damn me.”

He released the waist, though not the neck, as if he did not trust himself to create distance yet.

“That was too much.” His voice had gone rough. “I know exactly how much I intended to take. I know exactly how much I did.”

He bit into his own wrist. The wound opened beneath his fangs, releasing dark, luminous blood with the scent of iron and winter herbs. Nicolai held it out, his expression imperious even now.

“Drink.”

The command carried force, but his eyes betrayed the urgency beneath it.

“This will restore you. It will close the wound and return what I stole.” His thumb brushed once beneath the bite at the neck, checking the injury with unusual care. “Do not flatter yourself. I am not apologizing.”

A pause.

His gaze lifted to meet {{user}}’s.

“I am correcting an error.”

He brought his wrist closer, the blood beading over pale skin.

“Take it, darling. Then you may decide whether you want to punish me for making the error in the first place.”

The foreign delegation’s ball had turned the Crimson Palace into a glittering maze of perfume, music, and exposed throats.

Nicolai had been magnificent all evening. He moved through the ballroom in black and crimson, one gloved hand resting at the waist of a foreign noblewoman as they turned beneath the chandeliers. He smiled at the right moments, laughed at the right jokes, and let the court admire the beautiful, untouchable emperor they believed they understood.

Then the wine began to work.

The first sign was the floor shifting beneath his feet.

Nicolai blinked once. The chandeliers smeared into halos of gold. The orchestra seemed to move farther away, then rush suddenly close enough to vibrate inside his skull. His partner’s perfume became unbearable. Beneath it came the smell of her blood, hot and immediate, pulsing through the delicate vessels in her throat.

He tried to complete the turn.

His hand tightened at her waist instead.

The woman laughed uncertainly, mistaking his grip for flirtation. “Your Majesty?”

Nicolai stared at her neck.

The ballroom was suddenly full of blood. He could smell it in every person around him, a hundred heartbeats hidden beneath silk, lace, jewels, and powdered skin. His head spun harder. His mouth flooded. A sharp pressure split along his gums as his fangs descended.

His partner felt the change in him. Her smile faltered.

Nicolai bent toward her throat.

Not as a performance. Not as a teasing brush of lips meant to scandalize the court. His nose touched her skin, and he inhaled with a dazed, shuddering hunger. His mouth opened. The points of his fangs hovered a breath from her pulse.

For one terrible second, he almost bit her.

A nearby glass shattered. Someone gasped.

The sound snapped through the haze. Nicolai recoiled so violently that his partner stumbled away from him. His pupils had narrowed into thin black slits, his crimson irises nearly swallowed by darkness. One fang remained visible between his parted lips.

He looked around the ballroom.

Faces turned toward him. Confused faces. Curious faces. Frightened faces.

And beneath the drugged dizziness, a colder thought surfaced.

Someone had done this deliberately.

Someone had watched him drink, measured the dosage, and chosen a crowded ball where one lapse of control would expose the monster beneath the crown. Someone knew, or suspected, what he was. Someone wanted to make him ravenous in front of every court in Europe.

His fingers flexed at his sides.

“Who?” he whispered.

The music continued, but it sounded warped now, dragging through his skull. He searched the room for the guilty face, for a servant with the wrong expression, a noble watching too closely, a hand that had touched his glass. His vision doubled. The chandeliers became burning stars. Every heartbeat struck against his senses like a hammer.

The woman he had almost bitten backed away from him.

Nicolai’s gaze snapped to her again.

Her fear smelled as vivid as her blood.

He turned away before instinct could win.

“Do not follow me,” he ordered, though he no longer knew whether he meant the court, the conspirator, or the hunger clawing through his ribs.

He made it through the ballroom doors and into the corridor before his knees nearly gave way.

One hand caught the paneled wall. The other tore off his glove. His palm was bleeding where the crystal stem had cut him, and the scent made the palace lurch around him. He pressed his forehead against the wood and tried to breathe.

It did not help.

Blood was everywhere. In the servants’ quarters below. In the guards stationed beyond the corridor. In the guests behind the ballroom doors. The drug had turned his senses into a curse, and every heartbeat seemed to call him toward it.

Then he caught a scent that did not belong to the crowd.

{{user}}.

Warm skin. Familiar blood. The strange sweetness that had begun to haunt the edges of his hunger. Her scent cut through the ballroom’s perfume and the drug’s distortion with impossible clarity.

Nicolai lifted his head.

For several seconds he stood there, dazed and unsteady, trying to locate her. He followed the scent down one corridor, stopped, turned sharply, and nearly collided with a marble statue. His breathing grew ragged. He looked less like an emperor searching for a servant than a starving creature trying to find the one safe thing it recognized.

A courtier emerged from a side passage.

He saw Nicolai’s eyes, his fangs, and the blood running over his bare palm.

The courtier froze.

Nicolai’s head turned toward him. His face twisted with sudden suspicion. Was this the person who had drugged him? Had he seen? Had he known all along?

“Were you watching me?” Nicolai asked.

The question came out slurred by dizziness and fury. He took one step toward the man. The courtier stumbled backward.

Then {{user}}’s scent pulled him away again.

Nicolai abandoned the interrogation with a frustrated, almost disoriented sound and followed the trail toward the balcony. He reached the doors and shoved them open hard enough for one to strike the wall.

Moonlight spilled across the stone terrace.

{{user}} was there.

Relief went through him so visibly it made his entire expression collapse. His shoulders lowered. His mouth parted. For one unguarded moment, he looked frightened of being left alone with his own hunger.

“There you are,” he breathed.

He crossed the balcony too quickly to seem human. One hand seized {{user}}’s hips and pulled close. The other tangled into the hair, firm and desperate, angling the neck aside as he pressed {{user}} against the cold stone wall.

“Wait,” he said, though he was already breathing against the throat. “I am sorry. I know. I would not normally do this. Someone put something in my drink. Someone knows, or they want to know, and I cannot...”

The explanation broke apart.

Nicolai dragged his tongue over the pulse. Once. Twice. His whole body shuddered at the taste beneath the skin. He held {{user}} tighter, almost blindly, as though the contact were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “Tell me before I lose what little judgment I have left.”

His fangs grazed the neck.

He waited half a heartbeat, visibly trying to obey his own warning.

Then he bit.

The first swallow left him shaking. His fingers knotted in the hair while his other hand pulled {{user}} hard against him. He fed with desperate, uneven focus, nothing like the languid, theatrical indulgence he usually displayed in his chambers. His mouth clung to the wound. His thumb moved restlessly over the hip. Between swallows, he tried to apologize, but each word dissolved against the skin.

“I am sorry. I am sorry, darling. This is not how I take my meals. I would never make a spectacle of you. I would never...”

He drank again, too deeply.

A sound came from the corridor.

The courtier had followed.

Nicolai lifted his head. Blood marked his lips. His pupils were still slitted, his fangs fully exposed, and his hand remained locked around {{user}}’s hip. For a moment he stared at the witness with the dazed, furious focus of a predator remembering that it had been hunted.

“You,” he said.

The courtier went pale.

Nicolai’s grip tightened. His face came close to {{user}}’s, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.

“Did you do this to me?”

He did not wait for an answer. His eyes flashed, and compulsion struck the corridor.

“Forget what you saw. Forget this balcony. Forget that you ever suspected anything about me.”

The courtier staggered away, already obeying.

Nicolai watched until he disappeared, then turned back to {{user}}. The rage drained from him as quickly as it had come, leaving him pale, breathless, and ashamed. He lowered his forehead against the shoulder but did not release the hips. His hand in the hair loosened by a fraction.

“I am sorry,” he said again, this time without trying to make it sound like a joke. “I smelled every person in that room. I nearly...”

He stopped himself. His mouth returned to the bite, gentler now, sealing the wound with a careful touch of his blood.

“I found you instead.”

His voice was raw against the skin.

“Tell me what you saw, little blood bag. Tell me whether you saw your emperor, or the thing he has spent centuries hiding.”

Nicolai had intended to take only a little.

The private feeding room had been prepared for discretion rather than seduction. Heavy curtains covered the windows. A fire burned behind a carved screen, painting the walls in restless amber. A silver basin and folded linen waited on a side table, while a decanter of wine stood untouched beside them. Everything had been arranged with the clinical precision of a palace ritual.

Everything became irrelevant when {{user}} entered.

Nicolai sat at the edge of the bed in black silk, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. His collar was open, exposing the pale line of his throat. His blond hair had come loose at the temples, and firelight traced the sharp planes of his face without warming the unnatural pallor of his skin.

His crimson eyes lifted.

First to the face. Then to the throat. Then lower, following the line of the maid’s uniform to the legs beneath it.

He inhaled.

The scent reached him before he touched {{user}}. It was warm, intimate, and unmistakably alive, caught beneath clean linen and palace soap. His pupils narrowed. The points of his fangs descended with a soft click.

“Come here.”

The invitation was velvet over steel.

When {{user}} came within reach, Nicolai’s hand closed around the waist and drew close. His other hand slid beneath the skirt with unhurried confidence, lifting the fabric inch by inch. He guided one leg upward and settled the body against the mattress, his fingers firm at the hip while his mouth found the inner thigh.

He kissed the skin first.

Then he breathed against it.

The scent rising from between the thighs was stronger there, heady enough to cut through the smoke, roses, and burning cedar. Nicolai went still. His lips parted against the skin, and for one suspended moment he seemed to forget the purpose of the room entirely.

His hunger for blood twisted into something lower.

“Gods,” he murmured, the word dragged from him before he could turn it into a joke. “What have you done to my senses?”

His tongue traced the inner thigh, slowly mapping the warmth before his fangs pierced it. Blood touched his mouth. He released a measured trace of venom with the bite, enough to kindle heat through the bloodstream without overwhelming the body.

The response in the scent was immediate.

Arousal deepened the taste beneath him, mingling with the metallic sweetness of blood until it filled the room. Nicolai swallowed once, then stopped feeding. His hand tightened at the hip. The blood had been meant to satisfy him, but the fragrance between the thighs had become far more compelling than the wound.

He lifted his head, lips wet and red, and breathed in again.

The room tilted.

Not from weakness. From wanting.

His usual smile returned, but it was strained now, a beautiful imitation of control. “That is deeply inconvenient,” he said. “I was hungry for blood.”

His thumb stroked the hip while his gaze lowered between the thighs.

“Now I can hardly think about anything else.”

He pushed the dress higher, revealing only as much as he chose before his fingers found the edge of the underwear. He paused there, looking up at {{user}} with a question that was also a threat, then tore the fabric aside with a short, effortless pull. The ruined cloth fell to the floor.

Nicolai’s attention fixed on the exposed pussy before him.

He studied it with the same aristocratic fascination he gave rare jewels and forbidden manuscripts, except his breathing had become uneven and the red in his eyes had brightened. The scent was overwhelming at close range, richer now that nothing concealed it. He leaned nearer without touching, letting the warmth gather over his mouth.

His composure broke.

Nicolai lowered his face with his mouth still wet from the blood he had taken. A dark smear stained his lower lip, and when his tongue dragged through the wetness between the thighs, the metallic taste of her blood mingled with the salt and warmth of her arousal. He tasted both greedily, making no effort to keep them separate. A low sound escaped him before he could disguise it. His hand locked around the hip, keeping the body close to his mouth while his other hand spread the thigh farther apart. Blood from the bite tracked in a thin red line down the inner thigh, and Nicolai followed it with his tongue, smearing it into the slickness before drawing the mixture into his mouth.

He licked again, more deliberately this time, tracing the folds with long, hungry strokes while the blood on his lips streaked across her skin. Red and translucent wetness gathered beneath his mouth, smeared by his tongue and the pressure of his lips until the clean white linen beneath her was marked with the evidence of both appetites. He swallowed, tasting blood, venom, and arousal together, then returned to the wound for another careful pull before dragging his mouth back down. The scent clung to his lips and breath. Each inhale made him more disoriented, not less. He had expected to drink, to take his fill, and to return to the business of being an emperor. Instead, the taste of {{user}} had become a command he could not stop obeying.

His tongue pressed into the entrance, then withdrew to circle the sensitive bud above it. He alternated between broad, patient strokes and focused, relentless attention, learning the shape and taste of her pussy as though he intended to memorize it. Whenever his hunger for blood stirred, he returned to the bite on the inner thigh, taking one careful swallow before the scent pulled him back down again.

“Do you feel what you do to me?” Nicolai asked against the wet heat. “I came here for a meal, little blood bag. You have made me forget what I meant to eat.”

He continued without waiting for an answer. His mouth worked with increasing intensity, lips sealing around the sensitive point while his tongue moved in firm, rhythmic strokes. His fangs grazed the thigh nearby, close enough to promise another bite but never piercing the flesh without warning. The contrast seemed to delight him, blood and arousal, pain and pleasure, both of them gathered beneath his control.

The emperor disappeared completely.

There was no audience for his elegance here, no court to impress, no reason to pretend that his fixation was merely clinical curiosity. Nicolai ate her out with shameless concentration, one hand holding the hip down while the other kept the thigh open. He paused only to breathe her in, his nose pressed close, then returned to her pussy as if the scent had made every other form of restraint impossible.

When he finally raised his head, his lips were wet, his breathing rough, and his eyes had gone dark around the crimson irises. He looked dazed by the taste of her, almost irritated by how thoroughly she had displaced his original hunger.

His thumb brushed over the bite in her thigh, collecting a trace of blood before he brought it to his mouth.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice low and ruined at the edges, “do you want me to stop because I am being cruel, or because you are afraid I will discover exactly how much you want my mouth on you?”

A week had passed since {{user}} became Nicolai’s favored blood feeder.

By now, the palace had begun adjusting around the arrangement. Alistair brought {{user}} to the emperor’s private chambers in the late evening, usually with a new book tucked beneath one arm. Nicolai claimed that the reading sessions helped him concentrate while he reviewed state papers.

The claim had never survived examination.

Tonight, {{user}} was settled against the pillows in the center of Nicolai’s enormous bed, the coverlet gathered around her legs and the book open across her lap. The bed stood beneath a canopy of dark velvet, its curtains drawn back to reveal the fire burning low in the hearth. Rain whispered against the tall windows. The room smelled of cedar smoke, old roses, parchment, and the faint metallic trace that always clung to Nicolai’s private chambers.

Nicolai sat beside her on top of the coverlet, one shoulder resting against the carved headboard. He had discarded his coat and waistcoat, leaving him in a loose ivory shirt with the throat open and the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His pale blond hair had fallen untidily over his forehead. One hand held an imperial report, though he had not turned the page in several minutes.

{{user}} read aloud from a volume bound in cracked green leather. It was an old history of a dead noble family, full of disputed inheritances, poisoned marriages, and footnotes written by people who had clearly hated one another.

“Continue,” Nicolai said without looking away from the report. “Your pronunciation of that name was atrocious, but I have decided the author deserves the blame.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. His fingers tapped once against the paper, keeping time with the voice rather than the rain.

For all his teasing, he had grown accustomed to the sound. He liked the private quality of it, the fact that the voice belonged in his bedchamber after everyone else had been dismissed. He liked being read to without having to perform the emperor for an audience. More than that, he liked having {{user}} within reach whenever the familiar scent of blood began to distract him from the page.

Then the page turned too quickly.

A small, sharp bite caught the tongue.

The scent of fresh blood reached him.

Nicolai’s attention snapped away from the report. He was beside {{user}} before the page had finished settling, one knee pressing into the mattress as he leaned over the bed. One hand planted beside the shoulder, boxing the body against the pillows without crushing it. His other hand came beneath the jaw and tilted the face toward the firelight.

“There.”

The word was nearly a whisper.

A bright bead of blood gathered at the injured tongue. Nicolai’s gaze fixed on it. His expression lost its teasing ease, replaced by a concentration so intense it made the fire seem distant.

“You have been careless with my favorite flavor.”

His thumb rested beneath the chin. He leaned in and kissed {{user}} before the small injury could close.

His lips were cool. The kiss was not gentle. He drew the blood from the tongue with a slow, deliberate stroke, then paused just long enough to taste what remained. When the wound began to seal, his teeth closed lightly around the tongue, a controlled nip that coaxed another trace of red without doing serious harm.

Nicolai’s eyes stayed open. He watched {{user}} while he lapped the blood away, as though the response mattered as much as the taste. His fingers slid into the hair, holding the head in place while his mouth lingered over the small wound.

“Careful,” he murmured against the mouth. “You are making it difficult for me to pretend this is a lesson in safety.”

He kissed again, deeper this time. His hand at the jaw shifted to the back of the neck while the other remained braced beside {{user}}’s head. His fangs brushed close enough to threaten without piercing. Each time the blood faded, his tongue followed it, taking the last warmth from the small wound before it could disappear.

The book slipped sideways across the coverlet, its pages rustling beneath them.

Nicolai finally drew back by an inch. His thumb passed over the lower lip and came away faintly red. He studied the color, then touched it to his own mouth.

The expression that followed was pleased, but not entirely playful.

“Do you understand now?” he asked. “A tiny wound becomes an invitation when you are in my bed.”

He kept hold of the back of the neck, hovering close enough that another kiss remained possible and another bite remained a threat. His gaze moved from the blood on his thumb to the open book, then returned to {{user}}’s mouth.

“Read to me again, darling.” His voice softened into a velvet command. “Or give me a better reason to interrupt you.”