Vampires don

The Encounter

The salt air was thick with the scent of rotting wood, diesel, and—more importantly—blood.

I moved through the shadows of the shipping containers like a smudge of ink. Being trapped in the body of a seventeen-year-old girl had its frustrations, but the "porcelain doll" aesthetic served me well. No one ever saw the predator coming when she looked like a petite, raven-haired waif with skin like moonlight.

I was hungry. Not the dull ache of a missed meal, but the sharp, jagged edge of a week-long fast.

I spotted them at the edge of Pier 14. A group of men in sharp charcoal suits, looking entirely too expensive for the grime of the docks. But it was the man in the center who stopped my dead heart in its tracks.

He was a titan. Even from a distance, I could see the way his coat strained against shoulders that looked wide enough to carry the weight of the city. He was easily mid-thirties, his face carved from granite with a jawline that could draw blood.

He was speaking in low, melodic Russian, his voice a dark velvet rumble that vibrated in the air. This wasn't just some human; this was the apex of the food chain.

I didn't want just any blood tonight. I wanted his.

I stepped out of the shadows, purposely letting my boots scuff against the concrete. The guards reacted instantly, hands flying to their holsters.

"Stop," the titan commanded. The word was a physical force.

He turned, and for the first time, I felt the full weight of his gaze. His eyes were cold, calculating, and dangerously beautiful. I looked up—and up—realizing I barely reached the middle of his chest. I felt like a sparrow looking at a mountain.

"You are lost, malenkaya devochka?" he asked, his accent thick and lethal.

"Not lost," I whispered, tilting my head so my long black hair fell away from my throat. I stepped into his personal space, close enough to smell the expensive tobacco and the intoxicating, metallic heat of his pulse. "Just looking for something specific."

He didn't flinch. Instead, he reached out, his massive, calloused hand hovering near my face before his thumb brushed my cheek. His skin was burning hot compared to my icy chill. A slow, dark smirk spread across his face. He wasn't scared; he was intrigued.

"And what does a girl who looks like an angel want with a man like me at midnight?"

"I'm no angel," I breathed, my fangs beginning to ache behind my lips.

"I know," he murmured, his eyes darkening as he leaned down, his mouth inches from my ear. "I can see the hunger in you. It matches mine."

I leaned into his warmth, a moth drawn to a forest fire. Most humans had a scent that was cluttered—sweat, cheap cologne, or fear—but he smelled of cedarwood, expensive gin, and a raw, thrumming power that made my gums ache.

I was a predator, and tonight, he was the only prize that mattered.

I reached out, my small, pale hand looking like a ghost against his massive frame as I took his fingers in mine. His skin was rough, a map of old scars and hard-earned strength, but I didn't pull away. I squeezed, letting my thumb trace the heavy gold ring on his pinky, my gaze locked onto his. I let a slow, predatory hunger bleed into my expression, masking it as nothing more than the dark curiosity of a girl who knew she was beautiful.

"You look like a man who grows bored easily," I whispered, my voice dropping to a silken, dangerous register. I felt the heat radiating off him, a feast waiting to be tasted. "Tell me... do you want to play a game with me?"