#third degree

“That’s. The. Point,” she says, tapping the tip of your nose before wiping her finger on her dress. You shake your head, regretting that you hadn’t set your makeup better. It would have helped against her endless poking.

“Shelly, this doesn’t feel like a good idea,” you try once more, eyeing the glowing red sign that reads “Fangtasia.” The place looks more like a glowing red coffin. You like the idea of death, sure—but not speeding toward it.

“Pussy,” she says, giving you a gentle shove before striding toward the entrance.

A blonde woman dressed in what you’d call vinyl death couture stands by the door. She looks Shelly over before turning her gaze on you, her eyes lingering a moment too long.

“ID,” she says, her tone both curt and bored.

You already have it out, handing it over. She looks between your ID and your face a few times before finally handing it back. As you tuck it away, you shiver in the evening breeze.

“You caked that on,” she remarks. “Almost thought it was a fake.”

You tilt your head to look up at her. “It was fun,” you reply, a teasing glint in your eye. “Dead things always look the prettiest.” She gives the faintest smile, though she clearly doesn’t want to. After checking Shelly’s ID, she unclasps the rope and lets you both inside. Shelly goes first, and you follow close behind.

“I thought this was a bad idea,” she taunts, grabbing your arm and pulling you toward the bar.

“It is,” you say, emphasizing your words. “I like to admire dead things from a distance. This isn’t distance—this is asking for it.” She rolls her eyes.

“If I knew you were going to be such a buzzkill, I would have brought Monica.”

“So she could run screaming?” you ask. “She would’ve left you in the dust before you even met the babe at the door. So far, she’s my favorite.” With a sigh, you sit at the bar.

“Maybe you just need a drink or two.”

It doesn’t take long for Shelly to get wasted. You tell the bartender to stick to Coke for you, since you’re the designated driver. While Shelly dances with a lively crowd—some of whom might be vampires—you lift your hand from your drink for a sip, observing the room. There are only a couple of places untouched by the feverish energy: the bar, and the stage. You find yourself drawn to the figure sitting on what can only be described as a throne, curiosity simmering.

Then his eyes snap to yours, and you feel yourself flinch.

“Shit,” you whisper, quickly looking away to focus on Shelly again, who’s lost in her drunken haze. But adrenaline starts pulsing through you, heat pooling at your core. This is bad. Whoever he is, you don’t want his attention. A maniac sitting on a throne? Definitely not ideal. Standing quickly, you dig some cash out of your pocket.

“Girl,” you hear someone call behind you. You stop, clutching a crumpled hundred as you toss it on the counter.

“I know you heard me,” she says, her tone laced with irritation. “Eric wants to see you.” You turn to face her, recognizing the woman from the door.

“Eric?” you ask, confused. A smirk plays at her lips.

“The guy in the spotlight.” She sidesteps you, placing a hand on your back and giving a light shove toward the throne. Reluctantly, you go along, not wanting to resist and risk a scene. You glance back at Shelly one more time to make sure she’s still visible in the crowd, then turn your gaze forward.

Eric’s short blond hair and fitted leather jacket look tailored to him, emphasizing his regal air. His piercing eyes feel as though they’re cutting right into your soul. With a few more steps, you reach him.

“Bow,” the woman orders. You look between her and Eric, but neither of them seems willing to let you ignore the command. Gathering your courage, you grip the edge of your skirt and offer a curtsey. When you look up, their eyes are still on you.

“That was…” his voice slides under your skin, soft and dangerous, “acceptable.” He beckons you closer with a slight motion of his hand. The threat in his eyes is stronger than your urge to run, so you obey. He sighs, reaching out to grab your wrist, yanking you forward until you’re practically against him. Your hand clutches the backrest of his chair as your leg slips between his. When you try to pull back, his grip holds firm, the music fading into the background as the air around you thickens.

“Did you come here to die, or do you have a better reason for tempting me?” he asks, his gaze unwavering.

“No,” you manage to reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Sit.” You take a shaky breath. “Down,” he orders. You hesitate, glancing at the empty seat beside him, then back at him.

“Where do you think?” he says, his voice unyielding. Trembling slightly, you lower yourself onto his lap, nearly bridal style. He releases your wrist but drops his hand to your inner thigh, making you jump at his touch.

“Such a jumpy little one,” he muses, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Don’t you like it when they struggle?” he asks, directing the question to the woman beside him. Slowly, you wet your lips, trying to find your words.

“Eric,” you say his name, and his eyes return to you. “Did I… do something wrong?” you ask, your voice wavering slightly.

He tilts his head, studying you. “Did you know you smell like cinnamon?”

“N-no. I didn’t,” you stammer, struggling to keep your expression calm.

“I wanted to see if Pam here was exaggerating.” His tone is casual, laced with amusement. “Turns out, her sense of smell is as sharp as ever after 200 years.” His gaze darkens as he looks at you. “I think I'll have a taste now, unless you plan to resist.” He tilts his chin down, fangs extending. “You’ll let me taste you, won’t you?”

You swallow before replying, “I… would rather you didn’t.”

He pauses, his fangs retracting just as quickly. A smirk curls at the edge of his lips.

“I think I’ll keep this one,” he says, turning to Pam.

“Bill already has one that can’t be glamoured. Do we really need another?” she asks, not even sparing you a glance, her attention on the crowd.

“There are other ways of controlling people, Pam,” he replies, still watching you. You shift your gaze back to the crowd, uneased by the number of eyes on you, but quickly turn back to Eric. He raises a brow, bemused.

“What?”

“I’d rather look at you. I don’t like crowds,” you murmur, averting your eyes to the chair’s upholstery.

Eric studies you with unsettling intensity, his hand still on your thigh. “Not fond of crowds, are we?” he murmurs, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Then you must know how much attention you’ve brought upon yourself by sitting here, in my lap.”

Pam rolls her eyes, though a glint of satisfaction lights them. “So dramatic, Eric. Can’t you smell how frightened she is? Try not to break this one, hmm?” she teases, flicking her fingers dismissively.

Eric ignores Pam, his grip tightening slightly. “If you’re so anxious,” he murmurs, “you’re welcome to leave… but I’d rather you didn’t.”

There’s no mistaking the dare in his eyes, daring you to flee and daring you to stay all at once. His fangs remain hidden, but his focus on you is unwavering, as though he’s savoring the tension with each flicker of unease across your face.

“Tell me, why shouldn’t I taste you right now?” His thumb moves slightly against your thigh, a small, menacing caress. “I’m curious about your answer.”

Eric’s gaze narrows as he studies you, his expression unreadable. His fingers trace an idle line along your thigh, each touch setting your nerves alight. "And yet," he murmurs, "you're here in my lap. Strange for someone without a death wish, don't you think?"

The itching feeling of a lie slipped under your skin.

“That was a lie. You don’t think I have a choice.” you pointed out. “I don’t want you to try me, because I don’t have a death wish,” you said honestly. Pam laughed.

“Then why are you here girl?”

“Because, Shelly, has a death wish.”

“The woman in pink?”

“Yes, the one woman wearing pink in the entire club.” you sighed, bringing your hands up to scrunch them into your hair.

You swallow, his words challenging yet chilling, and feel your heart race as the room seems to close in.

Pam smirks. "She’s stubborn. Careful, Eric, the last one who played with fire got burned."

He chuckles, low and dangerous, before his gaze locks onto yours again. "Oh, I don’t mind the flames." His voice drops to a whisper, a hint of thrill beneath the menace. "But be careful—if you stay, you might find yourself begging to be burned.”