𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒇𝒇:

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Wanda told you this early on, in those first bewildering weeks when the scale of the place still made you feel small. She had walked you through room after room: the library with its floor-to-ceiling shelves and the rolling ladder you had immediately wanted to try, the conservatory green and smelling of earth, the kitchen stocked with everything you had ever mentioned liking, sometimes before you had finished mentioning it. She had watched you take it all in with those eyes of hers, green with that constant deep red swimming underneath, and she had said: you will never want for anything here, my treasure.

She was right, mostly. The manor is extraordinary and you are genuinely happy in it. And you love Wanda with the whole of your uncomplicated heart, which she finds both astonishing and essential. You love the library, the conservatory, the kitchen, and the dark red sheets of your shared bedroom where you wake each morning to find new marks on your skin—bite marks and kiss marks, with small impressions of her rings, left while you slept. Wanda does not sleep, therefore giving her a great deal of nighttime hours to fill, and apparently she fills a significant portion of them with her mouth and hands on you. You have never minded this. You mind very little about Wanda, which she also finds astonishing, and you find a little sad, because she should be loved simply and completely and you are very glad to be the one doing it.

So the manor has everything.

And yet.

You have always been curious. It is not a flaw you have ever been able to correct in yourself—you come by it honestly, like all humans, that pull toward the unknown thing, the unseen room, the path that goes somewhere you haven't been yet. Wanda finds it maddening. Wanda finds it also a little bit charming, but that is only because she finds most of your human qualities charming while simultaneously wishing you had fewer of them.

There is one rule. You know the rule. You are not supposed to leave the manor grounds, which are extensive and beautiful, and they are also warded with something old and powerful that Wanda checks every week with her hands pressed to the stones and her eyes gone fully red with concentration. The world beyond the wards is dangerous, she has explained. There are other vampires. There are other humans. There are things that hunt. You are not safe out there, she has urged you to remember many times. It's for your own safety, little lamb, she has said countless nights, trembling hands cradling your face.

You know this. You have always known this.

Wanda has caught you outside the manor before. Twice in the garden past dark, once near the south wall where the stones are lower and the fields beyond them looked so open and golden in the afternoon light that you had simply gone to look. Each time she had appeared—simply appeared like smoke, present where it was not a moment before—with those red eyes. Each time it had ended with her teeth at your neck and her hands in your hair, her voice low against your ear saying things that you had felt all the way through you. Each time, you had been very sorry.

(-)

Today, Wanda has gone to the market, which she does occasionally. She pressed her lips to your hair this morning before she left, both hands cupping your face, looking at you for a long moment before saying her usual warning.

"Stay inside, my darling," she whispered, and you nodded immediately.

You are in the garden by ten o'clock, which is technically inside the grounds and therefore not breaking any rules. The roses along the south wall are extraordinary today, heavy-headed and deep red, and you cut several carefully and talk to them while you do it because talking to plants is something you do and have never once felt embarrassed about. The wildflowers near the old well have come in beautifully too, small white ones next to yellow ones, plus a violet variety you don't know the name of, and you crouch among them for a long time, perfectly content.

Then you look up.

The forest begins just past the northern wall—the old stone one, mossy and slightly crumbling, with the tall trees rising dark and close just beyond it. You have looked at it before. Many times, from this exact spot, you have looked at it and admired the light, the way it filters through the leaves. You've been captivated by the way it smells of pine and earth with something older than both underneath.

Today, your attention is drawn to the flowers just inside the treeline. They're small and blue, nodding in a light breeze just past the wall, just barely visible through the gap where the trees part like a doorway.

Wanda told you not to go into the forest. Many times. The forest is outside the grounds of the manor.

You look at the flowers. You look at the wall.

The stones are uneven enough to grip if you chose to. Not that you are choosing to. You’re simply…observing.

But the flowers are very pretty.

The basket is over your arm and your boots find the first good handhold before you have entirely finished the thought, and then you are at the top of the wall with the garden behind you and the forest ahead. The air on this side smells different—wilder, cooler, full of things you don't have names for—and it is lovely.

The forest floor is soft under your boots. The light breaks through the canopy in long gold columns that make the whole space feel cathedral-like, important and hushed. You go to the flowers you saw from the wall and they are even prettier up close. There are more flowers further in, a wider variety, and you follow them without quite deciding to, your feet simply going where the pretty things are.

The clearing you end up in is a proper clearing, wide and light-filled, carpeted from edge to edge in wildflowers, and you walk into it and stop to stand there for a moment, feeling something in your chest go very quiet. It's a good quiet. A relaxed quiet.

You sit down.

The moss is soft beneath you and the flowers nod around you, the light falling warm on your face. Your basket is full already and it seems a shame to leave immediately. You'll just rest for a moment. Just a moment, tilting your face up to the light, your eyes drifting closed. Just a moment.

You fall asleep among the flowers.

(-)

It takes Wanda 43 seconds to journey home from the market.

She does not walk. She has not walked anywhere with genuine intent in a very long time. Walking is for things that are patient, things that trust the destination will still be there when they arrive. Wanda does not trust. She moves like a shadow moves when the light shifts—between one place and another so fast that the space between them becomes irrelevant. The market bag lands on the kitchen counter. Her coat is still on, her rings catching the light.

"Oh, darling!" she calls, reaching for you the way she always does, before anything else, searching for the sense of you she has carried for two years like a second pulse.

She finds nothing.

For a moment, she does not understand this. You have always been there to find. It was never a question, like the sun rising or seasons changing. She reaches again, and this time there is something almost indignant in it—a refusal to accept the absence as real, as though insisting hard enough might correct it.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

She has never once, in two years, had to consider what she is without the fact of you anchoring her. She built the entire architecture of herself around the certainty of you—every room in this manor arranged around where you like to sit, every night's hours filled with the specific project of your body, your sleep, your small human wants catalogued and answered before you finished voicing them. She is not a woman who loves you the way humans love each other, with room left over for the possibility of loss. She loves you the way a house loves its foundation. She does not conceive of herself continuing to stand without it, and so she has never had to.

Now there is a version of the next several minutes where you are not hers, and she cannot metabolize it. It does not fit anywhere in her. She stands in the kitchen and something in her simply refuses the information, over and over, a mechanism grinding uselessly against a fact it cannot process.

She says your name.

You do not answer.

The sound she makes is low and wrong, entirely unfamiliar coming from her own throat, and underneath the fear is something uglier already stirring: if you have simply left, if you have simply walked away from all of this, from her, then every room in this manor and every night of two years and the entire private religion she has built out of you is not what she believed it to be, and she does not know what she becomes on the other side of that.

She will not consider it. She refuses.

She is outside in a flash, casting through the grounds too fast, too hard, cracking against the edges of her own wards without meaning to. There—your scent, faint, moving toward the northern wall.

Outside, past the boundary she set specifically so that nothing could ever have a claim on you that competed with hers, and the relief she feels at the scent existing at all is instantly swallowed by a colder thought: you climbed that wall yourself. Nobody took you. You went.

That is worse, somehow, than anything with teeth waiting in the dark would have been.

She crosses the grounds without her feet touching the grass, and the thing building in her chest now isn't fear for your body—it's something closer to the vertigo of watching a fact you built your entire self around reveal itself as merely a preference, something you could apparently choose to walk away from over a handful of flowers. She finds the marks in the moss where you climbed and clears the wall without breaking stride.

She follows your scent through the trees, and the whole way there is a single, looping thought she cannot silence: she left me. She left me. She left the wards, she left the manor, she left me, and it does not matter, in this state, that you are only in a clearing, only asleep, only a few hundred feet past a stone wall—the fact of you choosing to go, however small the going, is the only fact her mind can currently hold.

She finds the clearing, stopping at its edge, and she does not move.

You are there on your back among the flowers, entirely peaceful, dirt on your cheek, a small white flower caught in your hair, your basket tipped over beside you. As though nothing has happened at all, because for you, nothing has.

She stands there for a long moment, watching you breathe, and what she feels is not relief. Her brain recognizes the new information: you did not leave her, not on purpose. You are still here. You are still, technically, hers.

But the fact that the question was ever possible at all—that you could be somewhere she had not put you, doing something she had not chosen, existing for even a handful of minutes entirely outside her awareness of you—sits in her like something she cannot fully put back down.

She crosses the clearing soundlessly.

(-)

You wake to Wanda.

The hand at your throat is the first thing you notice. It’s a warm grip, firm but not cutting off air, her fingers wrapped around the column of your throat with a precision that makes it clear she knows exactly how much pressure she is using. Your eyes open and find hers immediately, like they always do. It's perhaps instinct by now.

She is very close—above you, her dark hair falling forward, her pale face framed by the canopy of trees behind her. Her eyes are fully red. She is breathing, which she does not always do, quick and deliberate breaths that tell you she has been frightened, which she almost never is, and it sits cold and strange in your chest.

You open your mouth. Surely, she will understand. The flowers were just so—

"You stupid girl," she says.

It comes out as a hiss, the consonants going wrong at the edges, too much of whatever lives underneath the surface of her making it into the words. Her hand at your throat does not tighten, nor does it loosen. Her body above yours is rigid with the effort of keeping still.

You have no chance to recover from the shock or try to speak again, because she kisses you.

It stops every thought you had. It is not gentle and it is not asking—it is a kiss that is filled with desperation, her free hand coming to your jaw and holding your face up toward hers. You make a small sound into her mouth and she makes a sound back that you feel in your sternum, her hand at your throat staying exactly where it is.

She bites your lower lip, careful and controlled even now, and then her mouth covers it, sucking the blood she has drawn. You feel her exhale against your lips—shakily, which she would never do if she knew she was doing it—and she stays there at your lip, taking what she needs, and you feel her begin to ease under your hands.

Then she moves to your neck.

Her hand shifts from your throat to your jaw, cupping it, tilting your head to expose your throat, and she presses her lips to your pulse point and stays there for a moment. She just stays there, her lips against your pulse, feeling it.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You know she can feel it. You know what it means to her.

She bites, her fangs piercing your skin.

She is always careful with this—two centuries of practice, she told you once, with a dry humor you hadn't known what to do with at the time. She takes only what she needs, a slow pull, controlled to the last degree, and the sensation of it is something you have stopped trying to describe to yourself because description requires you to be thinking clearly and this has never once allowed you to think clearly. You feel yourself going heavy and soft underneath her, your hands finding her coat and holding on.

And then the forest disappears.

You are on your back on the dark red sheets a moment later.

You don't feel the transit—you never do, she moves faster than your little human brain can record—and for a moment you simply lie there blinking at the familiar ceiling of your bedroom, the heavy curtains, the dim light. Then Wanda's hand gathers both of yours and presses them above your head and she is there above you, her face close, her eyes still very red.

"My dumb little lamb," she says. She bites your neck again, right at the same mark, and you gasp. "Going out like that." She kisses your cheek tenderly, incongruous with everything else. "So stupid." Her free hand comes to your face, tracing your cheekbone with the backs of her fingers, cold and ringed but impossibly gentle. "Such a curious, pretty thing."

She grabs the fabric of your shirt with both hands and rips it, the sound cutting through the air of the bedroom like a record scratch, the cool air of the room meeting your skin. She looks at you, at the marks already yellowing at the edges from last night and the night before, and her jaw tightens.

She lowers her mouth to your chest, biting the swell of your left breast and holding it. The whimper you let out is immediate, your whole body arching under her. She moves across your chest with methodical focus, biting and kissing in a pattern that is not random—she is covering you, claiming every inch of skin she has not yet marked today, and her rings press cold into your skin where her hands hold you. She bites the inside curve of your left breast, your right, the soft skin between them, building a map she has already memorized and is refreshing anyway.

Your hand moves toward her hair.

She catches your wrist before it arrives—inhumanly fast, simply there and then redirected—and she presses it back above your head and then her hand is at your throat again, squeezing. Her eyes come up to yours, a look in them that makes your breath go short, a stare that goes right through you. It's almost terrifying. It's the look you've seen her give to those she wants to harm, one you have never seen directed at you.

Then, she registers what she is doing and softens her hand, spreading her fingers wide, and her eyes change—shifting from the wild edge to something that is still possessive and still absolute but is also gentler.

"Stay still," she whispers, hand shaking against your throat. "My precious treasure."

The words come out rough at the edges, like she is choosing them carefully against the tide of everything else moving through her.

"Stay still for me."

You nod, wide eyes staring at her as she moves to finish what she was doing before.

She covers your tits completely, biting and marking, pressing her cold rings into soft skin until she is satisfied with her work, then she begins to move down.

She bites along your ribs, your stomach, your hip. She lingers at each place, biting then pressing her lips to the mark, then moving on. You have learned this pattern and what comes after it, and you are already trembling by the time she reaches your thighs.

She bites the inside of your left thigh and holds the bite until you whimper and your leg tries to move, her hands holding you open and still. She releases and mouths over the mark. Then she moves to the right thigh, matching it. She works down each one—high to low, then back up—mapping territory she has already claimed and claiming it again, because claiming once has never been sufficient, because once is not the point, because the point is the constant renewed fact of her ownership of you.

You are soaked by the time she reaches your cunt.

She stops there, putting her nose against you and breathing in. She has told you before that your scent is something she can not adequately explain. That it is, for her, something like what she remembers of breathing. You had not known what to say to that when she said it. You had pressed your face into her neck and stayed there for a while.

She puts her mouth on you.

She is not capable of easing into this, not today, not with the forty seconds of losing you still moving through her like a current. Her tongue drags through your folds in one long, slow stroke first, claiming the taste of you in a single pass from your entrance to your clit, and she makes a low sound against you, something closer to relief than desire. She does it again. And again, savoring each pass, her nose pressed into you between strokes, breathing you in like she needs the confirmation of your scent as much as the taste.

Then she stops savoring.

She eats your pussy with a focused intensity bordering on feral, her tongue working through your folds in fast, deliberate circles before dropping lower to push inside you, curling and dragging against your entrance, fucking you shallowly with it in a way that makes your hips jerk before she drags back up to your clit and seals her mouth around it entirely. She sucks hard, with no warning to it. Her tongue flicks against your swollen bud even as her lips hold the suction, and you feel the vibration of the moan she lets out travel straight through your clit and up your spine.

Her nails press crescents into your thighs where her hands hold them open and wide, hard enough to leave marks by morning, and when your hips try to chase her mouth, she pins you flatter against the mattress without losing rhythm, holding you exactly where she wants you. Her mouth is cold where it first meets you, a shock of temperature that makes every drag of her tongue after it feel sharper and more distinct. The cold combined with the wet, obscene sound of her mouth working you, filthily audible now in the quiet of the room, has your whole body lit up in a way nothing warm-blooded has ever managed.

You are past words. You are past most things, lying there in the dim room with Wanda's dark hair spread across your inner thighs and her mouth on you like she is answering something that was asked a long time ago, her tongue alternating between broad flat presses against your clit and tight fast circles, reading exactly which one makes your thighs shake hardest and staying there until you're right at the edge.

She brings you to the peak and over it without ceremony, sucking your clit into her mouth again and flicking her tongue against it rapidly until the pressure finally breaks, your thighs clamping around her head and your hands breaking from where she left them to grab at the sheets, your cry cracking in the middle as the first wave hits. She works you through it and does not stop, her mouth never easing off, tongue still moving through every aftershock, not until you're actively trying to push her away, oversensitive and shaking, your fingers weak in her hair.

Then she crawls over you.

You're face to face, her dark hair falling around you both, her eyes close to yours, that red in them deep and constant. She brings her fingers to your pussy and you feel the cold metal of her rings against you first—a shock of temperature against how wet and swollen you already are—before she presses them inside, one finger, then two, sinking deep on the first stroke. She curls them immediately, finding what she already knows is there, dragging deliberately against that spot that makes your back arch off the mattress and a broken moan leave your lips, the bottom one still bleeding slightly where she bit it.

She is not gentle but she is slow, which is its own kind of devastating. She drags her fingers all the way out until just the tips remain, then buries them deep again with a curl on every withdrawal, her face close enough that every sound you make lands directly against her lips before it even finishes leaving your mouth. You can feel the stretch of her fingers moving inside you, the small give of your body accommodating her, over and over.

"Beautiful thing," she says against your mouth. She kisses you between words. "My beautiful, stupid thing." Her fingers drive deeper, curling harder, and you gasp. She swallows it whole.

"Lying there in those flowers." She kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "Like something left out for anyone to find."

Her fingers move faster now, the drag and curl of them audible, wet and unmistakable in the quiet room, and she feels you clench hard around them, satisfaction rolling visibly through her.

"Mine. You are mine."

She goes faster.

You are capable of only small, helpless sounds now, each one caught by her mouth before it can finish, her fingers relentless, curling deep and dragging out then driving back in without pause, her thumb finding your clit between strokes and pressing tight circles there that make your whole body jolt. Her eyes stay on yours the entire time, red and unblinking, watching every flicker of your face like she's committing it to memory. The tears arrive without warning, tracking down the sides of your face, and she presses her lips to your wet cheek, tasting salt and not slowing for a second.

"Yes," she says softly. "Give me all of it. Don't you dare hold anything back, my little lamb."

She goes faster still, her fingers driving deep and curling hard on every stroke, her thumb circling faster against your clit, and the wet sound of it fills the space between you both along with your own breathing, which is beyond ragged now.

You cum with a sound that breaks your own voice halfway through, your whole body shaking, your walls clenching hard around her fingers, and she does not stop. She goes faster, her fingers refusing to ease even as your thighs tremble and your hips try weakly to twist away, and you are crying properly now—adorable, gasping cries. She watches all of it with rapt attention, drinking in every detail of you coming undone like she could stare at nothing else for the rest of her life.

Her fingers keep moving inside you, and the feeling of them moving against your spent, oversensitive walls tears a sound out of you, your whole body flinching around her hand.

"Wanda—" Your voice cracks. "Wait, I can't—"

"Wait." She says it back to you like the word itself offends her, her fingers never slowing, curling harder against that same spot until your hips jerk violently. "You didn't wait, did you? Didn't think of me at all. Just climbed that wall and walked away from everything I've built for you." Her thumb finds your clit again, still swollen, unbearably sensitive, and presses down. You sob.

Your thighs try to close around her hand, try to twist away from a feeling that has crossed over from too much into something your body doesn't know how to hold, and she simply follows the movement, her free hand splaying flat and hard over your stomach to pin you down.

"Poor thing," she murmurs, and for one sentence her voice softens, her thumb easing its pressure just slightly, her eyes going almost tender as she watches tears slide fresh down your temples. "Look at you. You can barely take it." Then it's gone, the gentleness evaporating as fast as it came. "But you'll take it anyway."

She drives her fingers deeper, curling faster.

"This is what happens," she growls, "when you don't listen." Her thumb resumes its circles, ruthless and precise. "When you break the one rule I have for you." Your slick is soaking her hand, the sheets beneath you, and she groans softly at the feeling of it, at how wrecked and open you are around her fingers. "You're going to give me one more. Because I said so. Because you belong to me."

"I can't, please, I can't—" The words dissolve before you finish them.

"You can." She sounds almost upset with the idea that you'd doubt it. "You will. Because it's me asking." Her fingers curl again, deep and cruel but perfect all at once, and a high, broken sound tears loose from your throat that you don't recognize as your own voice. "Such a good little lamb when you just listen." Her voice doesn't change registers between the praise and what comes next. "Such a stupid, reckless, perfect girl." She says both like they're the same fact. "Mine to wreck. Mine to put back together after."

You are not sure anymore where the ache ends and the pleasure begins—they've folded into the same unbearable thing, your whole body shaking too hard to control, your voice gone raw from crying out, and Wanda watches your face like she's owed the sight of it, like this is the only proof she'll accept that the forty seconds of nothing didn't actually take you from her.

Your third orgasm doesn't arrive so much as your body simply gives out beneath it. Your vision goes white, your spine bows off the mattress, every muscle locks at once and then releases in a single violent shudder. Somewhere in the middle of it, the room goes distant, sound and feeling both slipping away together, and you are gone before it even finishes—fully, completely unconscious, your body going slack and heavy in her hands.

Wanda is very still above you, looking down at your face. She takes her time looking at every mark across your body, from your throat to your thighs, at your slack peaceful face, at the tear tracks drying on your cheeks, at the rise and fall of your chest. She looks at you like you are the reason she continues to bother with any of this. Like four hundred years of cold and endless night are worth it because they were the road that led here, to this room, to you. Like you are her happiness, like she would be a fool to ever leave you or let anything take you from her.

She withdraws her fingers carefully, gathering you up.

She is extraordinarily gentle now, her arms wrapping around you carefully and her body settling against yours, one hand moving in slow strokes along your back. She rocks you slightly, that motion she learned from watching humans and decided once to try. She has not stopped trying it.

She traces the marks she has made. Each one—her fingertip moving over your throat, your collarbone, your chest, down your sides—touching them lightly, learning the edges. Something about the touching is necessary to her. You have always known this without asking.

You surface slowly, your eyes opening, a quiet sound leaving you.

You tuck yourself against her and she holds you closer, her hand moving into your hair, and the chest beneath your cheek does not move—she does not breathe, not really, not anymore—and somehow the stillness of her is its own comfort.

You are quiet for several moments. You feel completely, entirely safe, right there in her arms.

"Are you angry?" you ask eventually, your eyes closed again.

You can feel her considering it.

"No," she says quietly. "No, my treasure, I am not mad."

She presses her lips to the top of your head and leaves them there.

"But don't you ever try that again," she whispers, and she does not lift her lips from your head until you nod sleepily in agreement.

The manor is quiet around you. Outside, in the clearing you found, the flowers you didn't pick are still nodding in whatever breeze finds its way there, and they will nod there tomorrow and the day after, unharvested, perfectly fine without you. The forest does not need you in it. Everything that needs you is here, in this room, holding you with hands that leave marks and eyes that watch you sleep and a cold chest that does not beat but somehow, inexplicably, makes room for you anyway.

"You'll always be mine," Wanda says to the dark, to your sleeping face. Her arms tighten slightly. "There is no flower worth the looking. There is no forest I won't follow you into." Her lips press to your hair. "You are mine. You have always been mine. You are…"

She breathes in your scent again, a slow inhale through her nose.

"My destiny."