Jenna

Shane presented his ID at the door along with Hayden. They both walked into the club. He felt his palms start to sweat. The bar had been rented out for the night. Only approved human volunteers and vampires looking for contracts were allowed in tonight. The atmosphere inside was electric, a strange mix of anticipation and nerves that made the hair on Shane's arms stand up. Low blue lighting cast everything in an ethereal glow, and a heavy bass thrummed beneath his feet. He scanned the room, trying not to look as out of place as he felt.

"Dude, stop looking like you're about to bolt," Hayden said, nudging Shane with his elbow. "You're making me nervous."

Shane swallowed hard. "Sorry."

The place was already crowded with people—humans on one side, vampires on the other, like some bizarre high school dance where nobody knew how to cross the divide. Shane could tell the vampires apart easily enough. There was something about them—a stillness, a predatory grace that made them stand out even when they were trying to blend in.

"Want a drink?" Hayden asked, already moving toward the bar.

"God, yes." Shane followed, keeping close. He ordered a whiskey, neat, and downed half of it in one go. The burn in his throat helped steady him.

A woman approached the bar beside him, her skin so pale it seemed to glow under the blue lights. When she reached for her glass, Shane noticed there was no thrumming of a pulse at her wrist. Vampire. His own pulse quickened.

She caught him staring and smiled, fangs put away. "First time?"

Shane nodded, unable to find his voice. “Yes,” he finally managed, clearing his throat. “That obvious?”

The vampire nodded, her expression neither inviting nor dismissive—just observant. "You have that look. Everyone does their first time." She signaled the bartender with a slight gesture that somehow commanded immediate attention despite its subtlety.

"Your approval status," she said, not a question but a statement. "How long have you been certified under the EFP?"

Shane blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt shift to business. "Three weeks. I got my final approval letter on Monday."

She nodded, her expression unchanged as she took a small sip from her glass. "Recent, then. Any prior feeding experiences?"

"No, this would be my first." Shane glanced over at Hayden, who had already wandered off to chat with a tall vampire in the corner. So much for moral support.

"I see." She set her glass down with precise movements. "My name is Eleanor. I've been registered with the program for eight years, no violations. I typically require feeding three times weekly with a minimum of forty-eight hours between sessions."

“I’m Shane.” Shane felt like he was being interviewed for a job rather than participating in what the brochures had described as a "mutually beneficial arrangement." The clinical nature of her approach was somehow more unnerving than if she'd been overtly predatory.

"What's your availability like? Weekends, evenings?" She pulled out her phone, opening what appeared to be a calendar app. "I prefer consistency."

"I’m, uh, a trainer. For a professional hockey team." Shane took another sip of his whiskey, grateful for its warmth. "Evenings would be fine."

Eleanor nodded. "Good. And your boundaries? The standard contract covers most scenarios, but personal limitations should be discussed in advance. Any sensitivities I should be aware of?”

"I—" Shane started, feeling increasingly overwhelmed.

Eleanor's phone chimed. She glanced at it, then looked back at Shane with a slight shift in her expression. "I should be upfront—I actually have two contracts already. I'm merely browsing tonight, keeping my options open." She tucked her phone away. "Thank you for the conversation, Shane. I suggest you prepare yourself for more interactions like this. Some vampires will be more... intense in their approach." She offered a small, polite smile. "Good luck."

With that, she turned and glided away, leaving Shane standing awkwardly at the bar with his half-empty whiskey. He exhaled slowly, only now realizing he'd been holding his breath. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," he muttered to himself, though his racing heart suggested otherwise.

He scanned the room for Hayden, who was now deep in animated conversation with not one but two vampires. His friend seemed completely at ease, laughing at something one of them had said. Shane envied his comfort in this strange new world.

Shane turned from the bar and tried to look like he belonged. Everyone else did—humans laughing too loudly, vampires watching too quietly—while he stood there with his drink like it was armor. A tall figure brushed past him. Cold radiated off the contact like stepping into shadow. Shane’s skin tingled.

"You look lost," a deep, accented voice said from behind him.

Shane turned to find himself face to face with a man—no, a vampire—with sharp features and blue eyes that seemed to assess him in a single glance. Unlike Eleanor, this vampire made no attempt to appear approachable. His posture was rigid, his expression unreadable.

"I'm not lost," Shane said, aiming for confidence but hearing the uncertainty in his own voice. "Just... observing."

The vampire's mouth twitched, almost a smile but not quite. "First timers always say that. They stand at bar, nursing drink, and pretend they're just here to watch. But that's not why you came, is it?"

Heat crept up Shane's neck. "No, I guess not."

"Ilya Rozanov," the vampire said, extending a hand that Shane knew would feel cool to the touch.

"Shane Hollander." He took Ilya's hand, surprised by the firmness of his grip. Not cold as he expected, but room temperature—as if Ilya had deliberately warmed his hand before offering it. The gesture seemed oddly considerate.

"Hollander." Ilya repeated his name slowly, as if tasting it. "You're with the Metros, yes? Their trainer."

Shane blinked in surprise. "How did you—"

“I like hockey. I played in early days.” Ilya made a vague gesture that somehow encompassed both his current state and a past Shane couldn't begin to imagine.

"You were a hockey player?" Shane couldn't keep the interest from his voice. "When?"

Ilya's expression shifted slightly, something like amusement flickering across his features. "Another century, another life. Not important now." He glanced around the room before returning his gaze to Shane. "So. Your first contract?"

Shane nodded, grateful to be back on more solid conversational ground. "Yeah. Just got approved."

"And what are you looking for in arrangement?" Ilya asked, his accent becoming more pronounced as he leaned slightly closer. Shane thought it was sounded Russian. "Some humans want thrill. Some want money. Some..." He paused, studying Shane's face. "Some are just curious."

Shane felt exposed, as if Ilya had somehow seen right through him. He felt his face grow warm.

"Curious," Shane admitted, the whiskey making him a bit more honest than he might have been otherwise. "I guess that's the main reason I'm here."

Ilya nodded, his expression unreadable. "Honest. Good. Too many come with... expectations." He gestured toward the bar. "Another drink?"

Shane glanced down at his nearly empty glass. "Sure."

As they waited for their drinks, Shane found himself studying Ilya more closely. Unlike Eleanor's pristine appearance, Ilya had a certain roughness about him—his golden-brown hair slicked back yet slightly disheveled, his clothes expensive but worn with casual disregard. There was something magnetic about him, a kind of contained power that made Shane acutely aware of his own humanity.

"How long have you been..." Shane trailed off, not sure of the polite terminology.

"Vampire? Long time." Ilya accepted his drink from the bartender—something dark red that Shane decided not to ask about. "Longer than most here." He nodded toward the other vampires in the room. "Many are new. Last century or so."

The casual way Ilya mentioned centuries made Shane's head spin. He took a sip of his fresh whiskey, trying to wrap his mind around talking to someone who might have been alive during events he'd only read about in history books.

"Does it get easier?" Shane asked. "The feeding, I mean. For humans."

Ilya's eyes flickered to Shane's neck momentarily before meeting his gaze again. "Depends on human. Depends on vampire." He shrugged one shoulder. "Good match makes difference. Some humans even enjoy it. Makes sex great.”

Shane choked on his whiskey. "Sorry," he sputtered, trying not to cough. "They don't exactly cover that part in the orientation."

Ilya's lips curled into a smile. "Government pamphlets leave out best parts."

Shane felt heat creep up his neck at the implication. He'd read about the physical effects of vampire feeding—the release of endorphins, the light-headed euphoria—but the EFP materials had been clinical, carefully avoiding any mention of sexual pleasure.

"I—I'm not sure that's what I'm looking for," Shane said, though he wasn't entirely convinced of his own words.

Ilya shrugged, seemingly unbothered. "Not requirement. Just... bonus for some." He took a sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving Shane's. "Tell me, why hockey? Why not doctor, lawyer?"

The abrupt change of topic caught Shane off guard, but he welcomed it. "I played in college. Was good enough to go pro, but I took a bad hit during a game. Messed up my back.” He shrugged. “Being a trainer lets me stay close to the sport.”

"You fix bodies," Ilya said, nodding. "Strong hands, then."

Shane flexed his fingers unconsciously. "I guess so. Years of working with athletes."

"Good circulation too, I think." Ilya's gaze dropped briefly to Shane's wrist, where his pulse was visible. "Very important.”

The casual reference to Shane as essentially food should have been unsettling, but something about Ilya's directness was refreshing after Eleanor's clinical approach.

"How does it work?" Shane asked, lowering his voice despite the noisy room. "The feeding, I mean. Practically speaking."

Ilya considered him for a moment. "Depends on contract. Some prefer scheduled times, clinical setting. Others..." He gestured vaguely. "More natural. I call, you come. Or I visit. We talk, maybe drink. Then I feed."

"Two or three a times week. Not much each time." Ilya's eyes traced the line of Shane's neck again. "Would not leave marks where others can see. Unless you want."

The thought sent an unexpected shiver down Shane's spine. "No visible marks," he said firmly.

Ilya nodded, respecting the boundary. "Of course. Many options." He touched his own wrist lightly. "Here is good. Inner thigh too.”

Shane's mouth went dry at the intensity in Ilya’s eyes. He took another sip of whiskey. "What about you?" he asked, trying to regain his footing in the conversation. "What do you do besides... this?"

“I own club,” Ilya said nonchalantly. “For fun mostly. But it makes money.”

Shane blinked in surprise. A club owner. Of course this vampire would be wealthy; most of them were, having had decades or centuries to accumulate assets.

"Which club?" Shane asked, genuinely curious.

"The Ice Palace." Ilya's mouth curved into a half-smile. "Near downtown. You know it?"

Shane's eyebrows shot up. "That's yours? That's like the hottest club in the city." He'd never been inside—the line was always around the block, and Shane wasn't the type to wait hours just to get into a club—but everyone knew about The Ice Palace.

"Come sometime," Ilya said with a casual shrug. "As my guest. No waiting."

The offer hung between them, and Shane found himself wondering if it was merely polite conversation or something more. The way Ilya's eyes lingered on him made Shane's skin warm.

"So," Ilya continued, his voice dropping slightly, "you think about contract? With me?"

Shane swallowed hard. He hadn't expected to be propositioned so directly, especially not by someone like Ilya. He'd imagined he'd meet a few vampires, exchange information, maybe schedule follow-up meetings. The immediacy of Ilya's interest caught him off guard.

"I... I'm not sure," Shane said, his voice sounding strangely distant to his own ears. "This is all pretty new to me."

Ilya took a sip of his drink. He glanced down at Shane’s lips before looking back at his eyes. “You’re cute.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black business card. "My number. When you decide."

Shane took the card, his fingers brushing against Ilya's. Even that brief contact sent a jolt through him.

"Thanks," he managed. The black card felt heavy in his hand, embossed with silver lettering that caught the blue light. Just a phone number, no name or title. As if Ilya was confident Shane wouldn't forget who the number belonged to.

"I'll think about it," Shane added, slipping the card into his pocket. His heart was racing, and he wondered if Ilya could hear it. The pamphlets had mentioned enhanced senses—could vampires really hear heartbeats?

Ilya smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that made Shane's mouth go dry. "Good. Don't think too long." He leaned in slightly, close enough that Shane could smell him—an unexpectedly warm scent, like cedar and spice. "Best contracts are ones where both sides want something."

Shane's gaze dropped involuntarily to Ilya's mouth. He caught himself and looked away quickly, but not before noticing Ilya's smile widen.

"I should find my friend," Shane said, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears. He gestured vaguely toward where he'd last seen Hayden.

"Of course." Ilya stepped back, giving Shane space. "Enjoy rest of your night, Shane Hollander."

The way Ilya said his name—letting each syllable roll off his tongue—made Shane's skin prickle with heat. He nodded awkwardly and turned away, scanning the room for Hayden. He spotted him near the back, still deep in conversation with the same vampires as before.

As Shane made his way through the crowd, he felt Ilya's eyes on him. He resisted the urge to look back, though his body seemed to want to turn toward the vampire like a compass needle seeking north.

"There you are," Hayden said as Shane approached. "I was beginning to think you'd bailed."

"Not yet," Shane said, trying to sound casual. "Just talking."

Hayden's eyebrows shot up. "With who? Did you get any offers?"

Shane hesitated, his hand unconsciously touching the pocket where Ilya's card rested. "Maybe. I'm not sure yet."

"Who was it?" Hayden persisted, craning his neck to look past Shane.

"Some guy named Ilya. Owns The Ice Palace."

Hayden's jaw dropped. "Ilya Rozanov? Are you serious? He's like... vampire royalty or something. Been around forever. Super exclusive with his contracts."

"You know him?" Shane asked, surprised.

"Know of him. Everyone does." Hayden lowered his voice. "They say he used to be some kind of enforcer for the old vampire councils before all this went public. Scary dude."

Shane frowned, glancing back towards where he'd left Ilya, but the vampire was gone. A strange mix of relief and disappointment washed over him.

"He didn't seem that scary," Shane said, though something about the way Ilya had looked at him—like he was seeing more than just Shane's surface—had certainly been intense.

"What did he say to you?" Hayden asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"Just... talked about contracts. Asked what I was looking for." Shane didn't mention the comment about feeding making sex better, or the way Ilya's eyes had lingered on his neck. Those details felt too private somehow, too intimate to share even with Hayden.

"And? Are you going to call him?"

Shane fingered the card in his pocket. "I don't know. Maybe."

Hayden shook his head in disbelief. "Dude, if Ilya Rozanov gave you his card, you'd be crazy not to call. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position?"

"It's not that simple," Shane protested. "This is a big decision. I'm literally offering up my blood to a stranger."

"A rich, powerful stranger," Hayden corrected. "Look, I'm just saying, you could do a lot worse for your first contract."

Shane sighed, taking another sip of his whiskey. The alcohol had warmed his body, but his mind still raced. He couldn't deny the strange attraction he'd felt toward Ilya—something beyond mere physical appeal, a pull that seemed almost magnetic.

"What about you?" Shane asked, eager to change the subject. "Any luck?"

Hayden grinned, gesturing toward the vampires he'd been chatting with. "Possibly. They're partners—Helena and Lucien. They share contracts sometimes. Seems like a good setup."

Shane raised an eyebrow. "Share? As in..."

"Nothing weird," Hayden laughed. "They just alternate feeding days. Gives the human more recovery time between sessions, apparently."

The casual way Hayden discussed it made Shane wonder if he was overthinking everything. Maybe this was simpler than he was making it out to be—just a transaction, a mutually beneficial arrangement as the pamphlets had described.

But something about Ilya had felt different. More personal. More dangerous.

"I think I need some air," Shane said suddenly, feeling claustrophobic in the crowded room.

"Want me to come with?"

"No, stay. Talk to your potential partners." Shane managed a smile. "I'll just be outside for a minute."

He made his way through the crowd, careful to avoid eye contact with any vampires who might interpret it as an invitation. The cool night air hit him as he stepped outside, and he took a deep breath, leaning against the brick wall of the building.

The bouncer gave him a nod, recognizing him from earlier. "Everything alright?"

"Fine, just needed a moment," Shane told the bouncer, running a hand through his hair.

He pulled the sleek black card from his pocket and stared at it. The silver lettering caught the streetlight, almost seeming to glow. Would he actually call? The thought of seeing Ilya again sent a strange flutter through his stomach—equal parts excitement and terror. Shane slipped the card back into his pocket and pushed himself off the wall. Time to go back inside and find Hayden. He'd promised himself he'd at least stay until midnight.

***

A few days later, Shane wiped sweat from his brow as he finished wrapping ice around Josh Sanderson’s ankle. The Metros' star forward had taken a bad hit during practice.

"Keep it elevated tonight," Shane instructed, standing up from his crouched position. "And no weight on it until tomorrow, got it? I'll check it again in the morning."

Josh nodded glumly. "Coach is going to have my ass if I miss the game on Saturday."

"Let me worry about Coach," Shane said, patting the player's shoulder. "Just focus on resting that ankle."

After Josh hobbled out on crutches, Shane cleaned up the training room, his mind wandering as he worked. He'd been distracted all week, the memory of Ilya's intense blue eyes following him into his dreams. The black business card sat on his bedside table, untouched but impossible to ignore.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably Hayden, who'd been texting him nonstop since the night at the club. He'd already signed a contract with the vampire couple, Helena and Lucien, and couldn't understand why Shane was hesitating to call Ilya.

But when Shane pulled out his phone, the number was unknown.

Coming to Ice Palace tonight? the text read. VIP entrance, no waiting. -Ilya

Shane's heart stuttered in his chest. He hadn't given Ilya his number.

As if reading his mind, another text came through: Got number from EFP database. Hope you don't mind.

Shane's fingers hovered over the screen. Was that even allowed? Then again, vampires seemed to play by different rules, especially older ones like Ilya.

He should say no. He had an early practice tomorrow. He should be professional. Responsible.

What time? Shane typed instead, hitting send before he could change his mind.

Almost as soon as he sent his response, his phone buzzed again. Whenever you want. I'm there all night.

Shane stared at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. He should be sensible about this. He had work tomorrow. The team needed him fresh and focused.

Before Shane could reply, another text: Come around 10. Best time. I'll put your name on list. Just show ID.

Shane exhaled slowly, feeling a mix of anticipation and anxiety swirling in his stomach. What was he so nervous for? This was just about exploring the possibility of a feeding contract. It was what he had wanted, right? It was why he had signed up. And Ilya seemed to know exactly what to do which was more than Shane knew. So it was fine. Yet, he suddenly felt like he didn’t want to show up to the club alone.

Can I bring my friend? Shane typed. Hayden would go with him. He would barely have to ask.

Of course. Bring whoever you want. I will add plus one.

He typed back a simple "OK" and pocketed his phone, trying to ignore the way his pulse had quickened. He had hours before he needed to leave for the club. Plenty of time to talk himself out of going.

But he knew he wouldn't.

***

The Ice Palace loomed before him, its modernist glass facade illuminated with blue and white lights that made the building appear as if it were carved from actual ice. The line of hopeful patrons stretched around the block, people dressed in their finest club attire, shivering in the cool night air.

"Holy shit," Hayden breathed beside him, craning his neck to take in the full scope of the building. "I've never seen the line this long. We'd be out here all night."

Shane nodded, his mouth dry. He checked his phone again—9:58 PM. Punctuality had always been important to him; showing up early was showing up on time, and showing up on time was showing up late.

"Come on," he said to Hayden, walking past the long queue toward the VIP entrance where a mountain of a man stood guard, his face impassive beneath the blue glow of the exterior lights.

As they approached the bouncer, Shane felt underdressed in his dark jeans and navy button-down. He'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear, finally settling on something that walked the line between casual and put-together.

"ID," the bouncer said, his face impassive.

Shane handed over his driver's license, trying not to fidget. Hayden did the same. The bouncer examined it, then checked something on his tablet.

“Shane Hollander plus one,” he said with a slight nod. “Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov is expecting you. Through here.”

The door swung open, revealing a dimly lit hallway with deep blue carpeting. Shane and Hayden stepped inside, immediately enveloped by the rhythmic thrum of bass that vibrated through the floor. A hostess materialized beside him—human, he noted, by the flush in her cheeks.

"This way, please," she said with a practiced smile. "Mr. Rozanov has reserved a table in the VIP section."

She led them through the main dance floor, a vast space filled with writhing bodies and flashing lights. Shane noticed that unlike other clubs he'd been to, the atmosphere here wasn’t frantic or chaotic, though Hayden seemed to have a hard time keeping up, trying to look at everything they passed. There was an elegance to it, a sense of controlled excitement. He spotted several vampires among the crowd, their preternatural stillness making them stand out even as they moved with the music.

The VIP section was elevated above the main floor, separated by a glass barrier and guarded by more security. As they ascended the stairs, Shane caught glimpses of private booths draped in sheer curtains, offering the illusion of privacy while still allowing occupants to observe the dance floor below.

"Here we are," the hostess gestured toward a circular booth in the corner. The table offered a perfect view of both the dance floor below and the rest of the VIP section. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket beside it, two glasses already poured.

"Mr. Rozanov will join you shortly," she said before disappearing back into the crowd.

Shane slid into the booth, Hayden following close behind. The leather seats were buttery soft against his palms.

"Dude," Hayden whispered, leaning in close. "This is insane. Do you know how impossible it is to get VIP access here? People literally bribe the staff."

Shane nodded, his throat dry. He reached for one of the champagne flutes, needing something to steady his nerves. The champagne was crisp, cold, and expensive. "Is it always like this?" he asked, gesturing at the crowd below them.

"Every weekend," Hayden said, his eyes wide as he scanned the VIP section. "Look at all these people. I think that's Melissa Chen—the actress? And that guy over there looks like the tech billionaire who's always in the news."

Shane nodded, only half-listening as he searched the crowd for a particular face. His stomach tightened with each passing minute. What if Ilya had changed his mind? What if this was some kind of joke?

"Shane Hollander," a familiar accented voice said from behind him. "You came."

Shane turned to find Ilya standing at their booth, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked custom-made for his broad shoulders. No tie, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone. His golden-brown curls were slicked back, but a few strands had escaped to fall across his forehead. He looked simultaneously polished and slightly disheveled, as if he'd just run his fingers through his hair.

"I said I would," Shane replied, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt.

Ilya's eyes—that impossible blue—flickered to Hayden, who was staring at him with undisguised fascination.

"Your friend," Ilya said, extending his hand. "Welcome to Ice Palace."

"Hayden," he said, shaking Ilya's hand with enthusiasm. "This place is amazing. I can't believe we got in so easily."

Ilya slid into the booth across from them, his movements fluid and economical. "Friend of Shane is welcome here anytime." His gaze returned to Shane, who felt the weight of that attention like a physical touch. "You like champagne?"

"It's good," Shane said, taking another sip to hide his nervousness.

"French. From small vineyard." Ilya gestured to a server who appeared instantly at his side. "Bring the Macallan 18. Three glasses."

The server nodded and disappeared. Shane recognized the name of the scotch—expensive, even by professional athlete standards.

"So," Ilya said, leaning back in his seat, "you think more about contract?"

Hayden's eyes widened, darting between them. Shane felt heat rise to his face.

"I've been... considering it," he admitted. "But I still have questions."

Ilya nodded, as if he'd expected nothing less. "Of course. Ask anything."

The server returned with three crystal tumblers and a bottle of amber liquid. Ilya waited as she poured two fingers into each glass before dismissing her with a nod.

"How long do your contracts usually last?" Shane asked, reaching for the scotch. It burned pleasantly going down, warming him from the inside.

"Depends," Ilya said, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Minimum is six months by law. But I am okay with going longer.” He took a sip, his eyes never leaving Shane's face. “Like the scotch?”

Shane’s hands tightened on the glass. “Yeah, though I wouldn’t really know. I don’t drink much.” Fitness wasn’t just his job. He liked to practice what he preached.

"You're not a drinker. This is good. Cleaner blood,” Ilya replied with a slight smile.

Shane felt his face flush at the casual mention of his blood. He'd almost forgotten why they were really here—almost.

Hayden leaned forward, apparently unable to contain himself. "So what exactly does a contract with you entail? Like, specifics?"

Ilya's gaze slid to Hayden, assessing him briefly before returning to Shane. "Standard feeding schedule. Three times weekly. I am careful, take only what I need. Payment is generous."

"How generous?" Hayden asked bluntly.

Shane kicked him under the table, embarrassed by his friend's directness, but Ilya seemed amused.

"Six thousand per month, plus expenses. Health insurance, of course." He gestured around them. "Access to club whenever you want. Other perks."

Shane's eyes widened. The pamphlets had mentioned compensation, but that amount was far more than he'd expected. It was nearly as much as his salary with the Metros.

"That's..." He trailed off, searching for words.

"Fair," Ilya finished for him. "Your blood is valuable. Should be compensated accordingly."

Shane took another sip of scotch, his mind racing. The money was tempting—he could pay off his student loans in a matter of months, maybe even put a down payment on a house instead of renting. But this wasn't just about money.

"And where would we...?" He couldn't quite finish the question.

"My place usually. Or yours, if you prefer." Ilya leaned forward slightly. "Privacy is important."

Shane nodded, trying to imagine Ilya in his modest apartment. The image didn't fit—this powerful, ancient creature sitting on his IKEA couch, drinking from his wrist. The thought sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.

"And what about..." Shane swallowed, glancing at Hayden before continuing. "The actual feeding? Does it hurt?"

Ilya's eyes darkened slightly. "First time, maybe discomfort. After that..." He shrugged one shoulder. "Many find it pleasant. Some very pleasant."

The implication hung in the air between them. Shane cleared his throat, using the moment to collect himself.

"And what about... intimacy?" Shane asked, his voice lower now. "The pamphlets mentioned that some contracts include..." He trailed off, unsure how to phrase it delicately.

"Sex?" Ilya supplied, his directness catching Shane off guard. "Optional. Never required." He leaned forward slightly. "But available, if both parties want."

Hayden cleared his throat loudly, looking between them with raised eyebrows. "Well, this just got interesting."

Shane shot him a warning glance. "I'm just trying to understand all the parameters."

"Of course," Ilya said, his expression unreadable. "Important to be clear. No surprises." He took another sip of his scotch. "Feeding creates... connection. Physical response. Cannot be helped. But what happens after is choice."

Shane nodded, trying to appear more composed than he felt. The thought of Ilya's mouth on his skin, drawing blood, sent a confusing mix of fear and an arousal he didn’t understand through his body.

"Would you like a tour?" Ilya asked, his eyes fixed on Shane. "Of club."

"Sure," Shane said, sliding out of the booth. The scotch had left a pleasant warmth in his chest, taking the edge off his nervousness.

Ilya stood with that same fluid grace, buttoning his suit jacket with a single practiced motion. "Follow me."

As they moved through the VIP section, Shane noticed how people's eyes followed Ilya—some with curiosity, others with a deference that bordered on fear. A path cleared for him without him having to say a word.

"This level is VIP only," Ilya explained, gesturing to the plush seating areas and private booths. "Celebrities, wealthy clients. Mixture of human and vampire."

Shane noticed small red lights above certain booths—subtle, easy to miss if you weren't looking for them. From behind one curtain came a sound—half laugh, half breath—and Shane’s grip tightened on his glass before he even realized.

"What are those lights for?" he asked, nodding toward one.

"Privacy indicators," Ilya said, his voice matter-of-fact. "Red means feeding in progress. Staff knows not to disturb."

Shane swallowed hard. The casual way Ilya spoke about feeding—as if discussing drink orders—was both unnerving and strangely compelling. “What if…someone goes too far?” Shane asked hoping it wouldn’t offend.

It was no secret that not every vampire agreed with the EFP. There were still plenty of humans who turned up dead and drained of blood though the numbers were significantly less than they used to be.

"Security team watches every booth," Ilya explained, his expression hardening slightly. "Anyone violates rules is removed immediately. And dealt with.”

Shane nodded, though his spine stiffened. He was sure he didn’t want to know how violators were ‘dealt with’. He glanced at Hayden, who was trailing behind them, eyes wide as he took in the exclusive surroundings.

"What about that door?" Hayden asked, pointing to a sleek black entrance guarded by two imposing figures.

"Private rooms," Ilya said, his tone neutral. "For those who prefer complete privacy."

Shane's imagination filled in the blanks. He looked away quickly, focusing instead on the dance floor below. The music had shifted to something with a deeper bass, the crowd moving in hypnotic unison beneath pulsing blue lights.

"Come," Ilya said, placing a hand lightly on Shane's lower back to guide him. The touch, though brief, sent a jolt of electricity up his spine. "Show you downstairs."

They descended a curved staircase that offered a panoramic view of the main floor. Shane once again noticed how the crowd seemed to part instinctively as Ilya approached, like schools of fish making way for a shark.

"This is main area," Ilya gestured to the vast space. "Dance floor, three bars.”

The bass pounded through the floor as they navigated through the crowd. Despite the mass of bodies, Ilya moved with so effortlessly that it made everyone else seem clumsy by comparison. Shane found himself hyper-aware of Ilya's presence beside him.

"Bar is stocked with everything," Ilya continued, gesturing to a sleek counter where mixologists performed what looked like choreographed routines with bottles and shakers. "Special menu for vampires too."

Shane caught sight of dark red glasses being served to patrons with the telltale stillness of vampires. His stomach tightened.

"Is that...?" he began.

“Donated,” Ilya answered before he could finish. "Mixed with alcohol. For recreational use only. EFP has strict rules."

Shane nodded, relieved. He wasn't sure why the sight of vampires drinking blood cocktails bothered him when he was literally considering letting one drink from him regularly.

"Do you... drink those?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Ilya's mouth quirked into something almost like a smile. "Sometimes. For taste only." He leaned closer, his breath cool against Shane's ear as he spoke over the music. "Fresh blood is... different. Better."

A shiver ran down Shane's spine. He glanced at Hayden, who was chatting animatedly with a bartender, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling between Shane and Ilya.

"One more place to show you," Ilya said, his hand returning to the small of Shane's back. The touch felt more deliberate this time, lingering just long enough to make Shane's pulse quicken.

They moved toward the far end of the club, where another set of stairs led upward. Unlike the main staircase, this one was discreetly tucked away, with another security guard standing at attention.

"My office," Ilya explained as they climbed. "Best view of club."

The staircase opened onto a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire venue. One wall was dominated by shelves filled with books that looked ancient, their spines worn with age. A massive desk carved from dark wood occupied one corner, while a seating area with low leather couches filled the center of the space.

"Wow," Shane breathed, moving toward the windows. From this vantage point, he could see everything—the writhing mass of dancers below, the VIP section with its glowing red lights, the bartenders performing their elaborate mixing routines.

"You can see everyone, but they cannot see you," Ilya said, coming to stand beside him. "One-way glass."

Shane turned to find Ilya watching him, studying him. The silence stretched between them, the bass from the dance floor a distant thrum through the thick glass.

"What are you thinking?" Ilya asked, his voice softer now that they were alone.

Shane swallowed hard. "That this is all a bit overwhelming." He gestured around them. "The club, the contract, all of it."

"You are nervous," Ilya stated rather than asked. He moved closer, closing the distance between them by a step. "Is natural. First time always is."

Shane's heart hammered against his ribs. He was acutely aware that Ilya could probably hear it.

"I've never done anything like this before," Shane admitted, turning back to the window to gather his thoughts. "I'm not even sure why I'm considering it."

"Because you are curious," Ilya said, coming to stand beside him again. "You wonder what it feels like. To be connected to someone like this."

Shane glanced at him, surprised by the insight. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just out of my mind."

A small smile curved Ilya's lips. "Many say same thing. Especially when they meet me." He reached out, his fingers hovering near Shane's arm without touching him. "May I?"

Shane nodded, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to. Ilya's cool fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning his arm until the underside was exposed. His touch was so delicate compared to the power he controlled. His thumb pressed lightly against the veins. The touch should have been clinical, but it was somehow more intimate than anything Shane had experienced. His pulse quickened under the pressure.

“Strong heartbeat,” Ilya murmured, his eyes fixed on the lines visible beneath Shane’s skin.

Shane swallowed hard, unable to look away from Ilya’s face. The vampire's expression was focused, almost reverent as he studied Shane's wrist.

“Here would be good,” Ilya said, his thumb tracing a small circle over the pulse point. His free hand reached up to caress the other pulse point at Shane’s neck, making him inhale sharply. “Less painful than here. Easier to hide.”

Ilya’s touch was cold, but Shane didn’t find it unpleasant. It was erotic in how careful he was being. Shane found himself wanting Ilya to touch him more. His mouth went dry at the thought. “You can feel my pulse?”

“Of course.” Ilya’s eyes meet Shane’s in an intense gaze. “Can hear it too. Getting faster now.”

Heat crept up Shane's neck. The idea that Ilya could hear his racing heart was both embarrassing and strangely intimate.

"Sorry," he said, not sure why he was apologizing.

Ilya’s lips curved into a small smile. “Don’t be.” He released Shane’s wrist slowly but his fingertips still trailing along the skin of Shane’s neck. “I make you nervous.”

It wasn’t a question. Shane flexed his hand at his side, still feeling the ghost of Ilya’s touch.

“A little,” he admitted. “But not in a bad way. More like…” He searched for the right words. He couldn’t even really describe what he was feeling right now. “Exciting but terrifying.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Ilya’s face, but it was quickly masked. “Honest. I like this about you.”

Ilya broke Shane’s gaze to move towards his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. He walked back over and handed it to Shane, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Even that brief contact sent electricity up Shane’s arm.

“Standard contract,” Ilya said motioning to the folder, “Take home, read. Call if you decide to sign.”

"Thank you," Shane managed, clutching the folder like a lifeline. "For showing me around. And for considering me."

Ilya tilted his head slightly. His voice dropped lower. “You are special, Shane Hollander.”

Shane’s skin prickled with heat. Special? Him? He wanted to ask what Ilya meant, but the words stuck in his throat.

"I should..." Shane gestured vaguely toward the stairs, suddenly aware that Hayden was still downstairs, probably wondering where he'd disappeared to. "My friend is waiting."

"Of course." Ilya stepped back, giving Shane space. "Tell security to bring him up if you want."

"No, I should probably head down." Shane clutched the folder tighter, using it as a shield between them. "It's getting late, and I have work tomorrow."

Ilya nodded, his expression unreadable. "I understand. Early practice. Team needs their trainer.”

A flutter ran through Shane’s stomach. He backed toward the stairs, unwilling to turn his back on the vampire just yet.

"Thank you again for the drinks. And the tour," he added. He hoped he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt.

"My pleasure." Ilya remained where he stood, watching Shane with that same intense focus. "Read contract carefully. I will answer any questions."

Shane nodded, finally turning to descend the stairs. Each step away from Ilya felt strange, as if he were fighting against an invisible current pulling him back. When he reached the bottom, he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The music crashed over him again as he navigated through the crowd, searching for Hayden. He found him at the bar, chatting animatedly with a tall woman whose pale skin marked her as a vampire.

"There you are!" Hayden shouted over the music when he spotted Shane. "I was about to send a search party. Where'd you go?"

"Ilya's office," Shane replied, nodding toward the stairs. "He gave me this." He held up the folder.

Hayden's eyes widened. "No way. Is that—"

"The contract, yeah." Shane tucked it under his arm, suddenly conscious of the curious glances from nearby patrons.

"And? Are you going to sign it?"

Shane shook his head. "I don't know yet. I need to read it first."

Hayden rolled his eyes. "Always the responsible one." He drained the last of his drink and set the glass down with a thunk. "So, staying or going?"

Shane glanced around the club. Every surface, every face seemed to remind him of Ilya—the blue lighting that matched his eyes, the dark wood of the bar that echoed his office furniture. Even the air felt charged with his presence.

"Going," Shane decided.

Your voice is solemn and heavy as you sigh before starting, “I don’t do this very often,” you say, “I hope this is okay.” Your eyes lowering shamefully as you stop. It’s only the first sentence and you’re finding it hard to continue. It’s almost as if there are needles piercing into your throat. “I just feel so embarrassed,” you admit.

Then you pause.

No response from him comes after.

Only silence fills the dark and hallow space of the wooden confession box. Only your thoughts, every creak you made on the built-in bench, and the light wind that rustled from the cracked door were heard.

You wait a second longer.

Hoping.

But still, nothing.

Part of you was suspecting that Gabriel would have been more inviting, telling you it’s okay; and doing so with his kind and gentle voice, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t doing anything it seemed. You only saw the silhouette of his face when you walked inside— the outline of a nose and mouth, really. He seemed to be sitting as far from the small barred window as he could, but you didn’t dare look again. You didn’t even turn on the light fixture in the corner. Your fear was all too big, and his unwavering quietness made it worse.

Maybe you had come at the wrong time, maybe you interrupted him. You almost wanted to ask. But maybe confessions happened in complete silence… you didn’t know anymore, but at this point, you were hoping so. You had already wasted five minutes and managed only one sentence. Perhaps he heard the fear in your voice and was just trying to be a good listener… yes, maybe, you pretend as you urged yourself to start again:

You breathe in sharply, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words come out in an uneasy, hushed whisper. “It happens a lot and I know it’s wrong. And you’re probably going to look at me differently after this, but I have to tell someone so I can stop.”

Your eyes screw shut, the next phrase coming out jumbled and continuous as you try to explain yourself quickly: “I’ve journaled about it and told myself it’s wrong but it’s not helping.” You start to weep, almost laughing at yourself, “I feel so stupid.”

You sigh and you almost think you hear him do so too, but you keep going.

“I’ve been thinking about someone,” you finally say. “For a long time. And I know it’s bad, I know it, but I do it anyway. It's all I think about.”

Another pause.

You catch your breath.

You wait.

But nothing.

So, you start again.

“I think I love him sometimes.” And if you couldn’t get any more timid, your cheeks flush, and your voice grows quieter, “I like his hair, and his eyes, those button-downs he always wears…” you smile at yourself, these were silly things, “Even his beard.”

And then you hear him shuffle, and a light sound is emitted.

It startles you, but silence ensues again thereafter. Maybe you imagined it.

“I like his kindness too. People would usually say strong or giving, but that’s what I like to tell him— that he’s kind. I think he’s kinder than other people give him credit for. He’s just protective. Everyone, and especially himself, we put a lot of pressure on him to make the hard decisions, but, really…” and there it is, “that's not the only way I think about him. There are things–” your throat tightens again– “ things that I think about. And things that I do.” Your eyes screw tight as you force yourself to say it, “I touch myself.”

Another bout of silence comes before the question.

One you’d never suspect.

“Can you describe it?” The voice asks, dark and curious.

The cool spring air of the night turns cold, but it adds no relief to the summer heat that burns in your heart as it begins to beat painfully. The texture in his voice, the inflection at the end that lined the sentence as a request, it rings through one ear and out the other and back again in a cycle.

You knew who it was.

“What?” You shriek so lightly as if playing dumb would help you now. He knew who you were talking about, you made it so desperately obvious.

“Can you,” he repeats steadily, “describe it?”

“I… shouldn’t.”

“What other better time could there be?” You can’t tell if he truly means it. His voice remains firm and lets out no hints of his true intentions, but despite doubt, you start anyway. He’s right after all, you’re in here because there hasn’t been a better time.

“I- I start by touching up my thighs, trailing up slowly… I always get so nervous… I never do it fast because I know I shouldn’t do it while thinking about you- about him,” you correct yourself, squeezing your thighs together, your hands gripping the bench tightly.

“But you do it anyway.”

“I do,” you reply meekly.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I can't.”

“What happens when you finally reach all the way up?”

“Gotta touch myself.”

He puts his hands on his knees, making sure his voice stays leveled. “Where do you start?”

“Rubbing my clit.”

“Do it.”

And then you do. You truly can’t help it. Your fingers slide down your hips to the front of your heat, chilly fingers pressing up against your lips over your underwear.

He hears the little sigh as you finally allow your finger to reach your clit in between.

“How does it feel?”

“My fingers are cold right now, so,” a quick breathy laugh leaves you, “ good, really good.” You rub your fingers in slow circles, but your hand and hips jerk, forcing you to speed up, but you try, try to not seem so pathetic to yourself as if there was any attempt at going back now.

His voice’s a slight strain as he asks, “And what do you think about?” He starts to rub his thighs, feeling his cock stir to the side of his jeans, making the material feel tighter than it truly was. His fingers trail closer, knuckles brushing against his erection. He’s pretending like he can stop himself too. “What does he do in your head, sweetheart?”

“He watches,” you say as your movements speed up again. You really can’t help it now, his voice edges you on. Your hand goes under the band of your underwear, fingers collecting wetness below to bring up to your clit, “He’s standing at the edge of the bed,” you tell him, “he’s unbuttoning his shirt, and then he starts taking off his belt… He’s smiling.”

If only you knew that hearing how bad you wanted him was making him do the same thing on the other side.

You’re panting now, one foot comes up to the bench as you slide yourself over to press your back into the corner of the wall, your head tilting back as well, using the assistance to grind into your hand. “He thinks I’m pretty.”

“That's cause are.” He’s lowered his pants now and takes his cock out from under his boxers. Your words make his mouth gape and his eyes close as he begins to stroke himself. “You really are.”

His smile fades as he bites down on his lip lightly. You’re so needy for him and so desperate to admit it. It makes him feel powerful. Almost God-like, despite you both starring as the other’s tempter. So sweet and sinful the sounds you’re making are. How could he not give in? How could he not make you wet for him even at church and stroke his cock as it happens? You’re making it so easy with every whine and little moan you try to withhold. He could hear you getting restless, but he wants to make you want it more, “Keep goin’,” he tells you. “What’s happening now?”

“I put two fingers in,” you whine, “not big enough. Never enough.”

You let your two fingers stay inside you as you press your palm down on your pussy, rubbing your clit with the underside of your hand. You stop for a moment to take off your pants and underwear entirely, discarding it on the floor before you return to your spot. You put one leg up on the bench as you continue to finger yourself.

“I want him so bad.”

“How bad, sweetheart? What would you let him do?”

“Anything, Rick.” You say it louder than you intend, you’re losing yourself. “Anything for him.”

“Anything?”

“Everything.”

After that only nonsense comes out, simple sounds of desire and pleads. It was becoming too much to talk.

Rick felt the same. His hand on his shaft made quick and short movements, his lips parted and pink, more red on the bottom than the top from when bit his lip again at the words anything and everything for him. He repeated it in his mind, listening to your sweet little whines in the present. His head tilts so far back that it bangs on the wooden wall and he hisses.

It reminds him to compose himself.

Even after you let out another moan of his name, and he swears he could almost hear just how wet you are now, the squish of your fingers going in and out, louder and louder.

He swallows hard and takes a breath before he says, “What if I say I want you in here right now?”

That’s when your movements completely stop. You can hear the wind swirling again. You were speechless.

He turns to the netted window. You two can’t see each other but you know he’s looking. “C’mere.” He says slowly. “Now.”

And after that, your body takes control. Swift and instantaneous you move from your door to his, shutting it hard. You don’t even take a moment to look at him, it was too dark anyway, and that’s not what mattered. You’ve already dreamed of his curls, and the pierce of his blue eyes. You knew what he looked like. It’s time to know how he felt.

Rick takes off his shoes and fully lowers and discards his pants. Before he could even consider his shirt, you’re on top of him. You’re kissing his face, your lips and tongue missing his lips by just a little, but it doesn’t matter.

You begin to rock, your wet pussy making the length of his cock and thigh slick before it's even inside of you. You couldn’t help yourself and it makes him laugh, all cocky and proud. Something that you’d cross your arms to, even quip back at in any other situation but right now, it’s so fucking hot.

His hands latch onto your hips, his legs slide back to hit the wall. He raises your frame and you grab him. Your sticky fingers lace around his dick and then you both lower yourself down onto him.

You try to bottom out fast, but his nails dig into you, slowing you down. Your face reaches back with a pout and a whine as he says, “Wait,” even after he’s inside of you.

Your pussy quakes around him. You’re both trying to hold it together, but he’s faring much better than you.

His hand holds your jaw, thumbs caressing your cheeks and a tear falls from your eye, all the sensations becoming too much.

His eyes trail the sight as it rolls down and he tells you, “You’re right. I do think you’re beautiful.”

And he kisses you. Tongue slipping past your lips just as quickly as they depart, going to whisper in your ear: “Go on now,” he smiles, “show me everything.”

You begin to rock against him instantly. Initiating the kiss this time, your tongue slips into his mouth but his goes on top of yours. He grabs the back of your neck, deepening it, and you continue to take charge below as you ride him.

You squeeze around his cock tightly with every movement forward and you hear a strangled groan come out of him as his dick twitches at the sensation.

It makes you moan so loudly, you could wake somebody up.

But it doesn't matter.

You could even come right now just from feeling him inside you for the first time.

And it doesn’t matter.

“I've wanted you for so long, Rick!” You tell him.

He’s all that matters.

“You’ve got me.” He tells you breathlessly, kissing down your neck with his hand tugging on your hair. “You always could’ve.”

Now you know you’re all that matters too.

Your head tilts to the side, eyes closed, and mouth open for each pretty sigh and slight hiss that come out as he bites and kisses.

His hands lower to the hem of your shirt and he pulls it off. You start to undo the buttons on his too.

It’s fast and rushed and messy, but now your chests can meet. You press into him. Your hips are rocking hard. Your clit meets his pelvic bone making you whine and moan again. “Really good,” you say.

Rick’s hands slide to grab your ass, helping you go faster until they rise to your hips again. His thumbs press into the crevice of your hips and legs and he starts to bounce you on him.

You grip onto his arms, assisting him in his efforts. Your eyes are still closed, you’re smiling— already in a state of bliss, yet relishing in the fact that he was pushing you further and further into the dream-like feeling that was to come: your orgasm was close, and the string of airy moans made it evident to you both.

The way his hands move to caress your waist, trail up your back, roll over your arms, and back down again feels like gliding on ice. You felt him everywhere.

“Come on,” he tells you.

“I'm trying, I want to.”

“I know,” he affirms. He takes hold of your upper arms, letting his hands slide down to yours that tightly gripped his biceps and placed them on his shoulders.

You bounce yourself down on him harder, switching it up to rock on him and give your clit attention, then repeat it again.

Once you’re back to bouncing Rick takes one hand on your hip, helping you go faster while the other rubs your clit as vigorously as he can.

Your mouth is open wide, pants and squirms, and pleads coming out wildly. You almost feel like you’re making the whole box jump along with you as you bounce, and bounce, and bounce, and then… there it is: you shout his name and he speaks back to you, you both come together and ride out your high.

A glow emits as you smile, your head crashing into his as you catch your breath.

Then a noise erupts.

The church door closes.

Steps become louder and louder until they reach the open confession box door.

Rick puts his finger to your lips, silently quieting you both. Your eyes are owl wide knowing what the person in the next section would find in there. You almost squirm but Rick slots his finger into your mouth to stop it. “Quiet,” he mouths as the person next to you drops the wet garments they just touched, almost running out of the place as fast as they could.

You lower your face to his shoulder. Embarrassed, you sigh, “What are we gonna do now?”

Rick is unfazed: “Well,” he starts, picking you up by the hips, securing your legs as you wrap them around him, “we could do this one more time.”

He locks the church door and then walks you down the aisle and onto the podium, placing you gently on the ground. He’s standing above you. Just like it all your daydreams.