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Darkness enveloped New York, the only things piercing it were the lights from the streetlamps outside the buildings. On the 17th floor of the skyscraper, they were like fireflies in a forest, but inside, the only source of light was a single lamp burning in the corridor outside the editor-in-chief's office but it seemed to falter before reaching her, as if unsure it was welcome.
At this time of night the floor was almost empty, most of the offices were locked and the noises that floated during the day were just echoes rumbling in the silence.
Not everyone, however, had left the glass walls of this floor. One of such people was a white-haired woman, sitting in her armchair, her legs folded over each other, her back comfortably resting on the backrest. On the desk in front of her lay the latest issue of Vanity Fair, open somewhere in the middle. The article published on that page seemed to be looking at her, but also at her companion sitting across from her.
“You should never have let her go,” a male voice cut through the silence, “I still consider it your biggest mistake.”
The faint sound of enamel grinding filled the air, too sharp for something human. The woman sitting across from him didn't show her emotions at all, keeping them bottled up inside, not giving anyone access to them. She'd already revealed too much, as it had led to the situation they were currently in. A few minutes earlier, he'd found her staring blankly at an article written by her former assistant. She should never have let this happen, but something kept her from tearing her eyes away. She felt she'd made a mistake letting the girl go, letting her spread her wings, but what else was she supposed to do?
"I'm not a monster, Nigel.” The words left her lips softly, but the way they lingered in the air felt ancient, like something she’d told herself too many times before. „She didn't want to be here from the very beginning, I just gave her a chance, which she took advantage of." The woman's voice was quiet, tired, but also contained a hint of sadness that no one else would have sensed, but the man sitting across from her was very aware of it.
Nigel sat in silence for a moment, studying her face. The light from the corridor stretched across the glass desk, catching the faint shimmer in her eyes. It took him a second to notice that the color wasn’t quite the same as before. The pale blue had darkened, deepened into something colder, almost black.
He drew in a sharp breath and leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
“You know,” he said, voice deliberately casual, “I spoke to someone from Vanity Fair a few days ago. An old friend of mine. He’s been pestering me about an interview.”
Miranda’s gaze shifted, but only slightly. “And?”
“I wasn’t interested,” Nigel went on, pretending to inspect his cufflinks. “But then I thought, maybe there’s a way to make it… worth my time. I could agree, on one condition. That the person handling the interview is Andrea Sachs.”
The room fell utterly still.
The faint hum of the city below seemed to vanish, leaving only the sound of paper rustling faintly beneath Miranda’s hand. When she looked up again, the change was impossible to miss. Her eyes had turned the color of fresh blood, glowing faintly in the half-light.
Nigel’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Ah,” he said quietly. “So that’s how it is.”
Nigel rose from his chair, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Alright, Miranda. Leave it to me. I will take care of everything.”
He turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Alone, she pressed her palms to her face, closing her eyes. Fury and frustration twisted inside her. How could Andrea have such an effect on her? Decades of control, discipline, and detachment, and yet a single name sent a ripple through her chest she could not ignore.
A few moments later, she straightened, reaching for her phone. Her fingers hovered briefly before typing a quick message to Roy, telling him to pick her up. When she finally slid into the car, the city sprawled around her, lights glittering off steel and glass, indifferent to what moved unseen among them.
Miranda let her gaze drift to the streets below. Humans had heard of vampires, whispered tales and old legends, yet few truly knew they shared the world with creatures like her. Vampires had walked these streets for centuries, evolving in silence. Sunlight no longer killed them, though it still weakened the young or the newly turned, leaving them prone to migraines. Every sense was sharpened beyond human measure. A heartbeat across a crowded room, a subtle shift in emotion, a trace of fear or desire — all were as obvious to her as the hum of the car engine beneath her.
She could not love in a human way, and yet when she did, it became a mark she could never erase. Andy lingered in her thoughts, in her dreams, in the smallest impulses of her day. Born vampires were rare, stronger than any others, and capable of turning a human fully into one of their kind. She was one of them, ageless and impervious to time, able to slow or even reverse aging if she drank enough human blood.
Hunters existed in the shadows, whispered about only to those who needed to know. The rest of the world moved on, oblivious, while beings like her walked among them, silent and eternal.
Miranda returned to the empty house, and the silence hit her immediately. Her daughters were at their father’s, leaving the place too still, too quiet. Every step she took echoed unnaturally through the rooms, emphasizing the emptiness.
She hadn’t drunk human blood in a long time. She considered herself a being above others, above their simple needs, but the cost was clear. She felt irritable, easily tired, and the body that had gone decades without sleep now demanded rest with a force she could no longer ignore. The control she had relied on for so long was slipping, harder and harder to maintain.
She didn’t linger. Her coat fell to the floor as she moved toward her bedroom. In the bathroom, she let the warm water wash over her, letting the sensation ground her for a moment. The quiet of the house pressed against her, unnatural and heavy, and before she could resist, she let herself fall into the bed.
Almost immediately, sleep claimed her, and in the darkness of dreams, she heard it the laughter of the girl. Andrea’s voice, bright and teasing, echoing in her mind. And those eyes, deep brown and alive, stared back at her from the shadows, refusing to be forgotten.
The next day, Miranda looked as impeccable as always. Every hair, every crease in her tailored outfit, every subtle detail was perfect, flawless in a way that drew attention without effort. Yet beneath that polished exterior, exhaustion gnawed at her from the inside, a deep, relentless fatigue that no makeup or posture could hide. Only Nigel’s eyes seemed to notice, sharp and observant, reading the cracks she fought so hard to conceal.
The day unfolded as usual. Miranda moved through the office like a force of nature, demanding, directing, correcting. Each word, each gesture reminded everyone around her that she held power in every corner of the floor. She terrorized them silently, efficiently, leaving no mistake unnoticed, no hesitation unremarked. And as the hours passed, the usual clamor, the rush of the office, the chatter and typing and ringing phones slowly gave way to a fragile calm.
It was then that Nigel approached her, his movements quiet but deliberate, his presence immediately demanding her attention even without words. “I spoke with my friend,” he said, his voice calm, measured, carrying just enough weight to make her lift her eyes from the papers she had been reviewing. “At first, Andrea agreed. But when I mentioned that the interview would take place here, at Runway, she was a little put off. She said she knew someone better suited for it.”
Miranda listened, nodding slightly, her face perfectly composed, but inside her mind the wheels were turning, grinding thoughts she refused to voice aloud. Nigel continued. “My friend reminded her that it would be easy. After all, it’s me conducting it. She knows Runway, she’s worked here before, and it’s really quite simple. In the end, she agreed. The interview will take place Friday. I’ve arranged the timing so it won’t be too busy.”
Miranda nodded again, silent, absorbing every word while her mind tangled itself in uneasy knots. She did not want to admit, even to herself, how unsettled she felt hearing that Andy had initially resisted. That subtle twist of discomfort that curled in her chest, the tiny flare of emotion she was determined to suppress, threatened to rise, but she let it remain locked away, unseen, untouchable. Her head tilted slightly, a simple gesture of acknowledgment to Nigel, and nothing more passed between them.
Yet in the quiet of her thoughts, she could not stop the images and questions from circling. How had it felt for Andy to hesitate, to doubt herself? Did she feel forced, cornered, or awkward? And why did the idea of her presence here, in her domain, stir something sharp and foreign in Miranda’s mind that she could not name? She pushed it away, folding it into the same place where she stored all the impulses and distractions that might compromise the perfect control she clung to.
Later, when the office had quieted almost completely and the clatter of the day had faded to a distant murmur, Miranda remained at her desk. The room was emptying around her, and she let herself lean back in the chair for a moment, though her posture stayed perfect, shoulders straight, expression controlled.
Her mind replayed the conversation with Nigel over and over, each repetition sharpening the edges she refused to acknowledge. Andy had hesitated, had questioned herself, and even though Nigel’s explanation made it simple, the unease that stirred inside Miranda refused to settle. She did not give it a name, would not allow herself to name it. She simply felt the pulse of something unfamiliar, a faint tug beneath her calm exterior that she had not felt in years.
She closed her eyes briefly, the faint hum of the office around her receding. Her senses, always alert, caught subtle shifts a footstep in the distance, the whisper of a paper being moved, even the faintest stir of life from someone walking past the floor below. But beneath all of that, a different presence seemed to flicker at the edge of perception, invisible yet insistent, and her chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with hunger or fatigue.
Memories surfaced unbidden, fragments of Andrea’s face, the sound of her laugh, the color of her brown eyes when they had met, fleeting moments that had seemed inconsequential at the time but now pressed against the edges of Miranda’s mind. She could almost hear the echo of that laughter here in the quiet office, almost see the warmth and life that seemed to defy her control, as if Andrea’s essence had slipped past all her defenses and settled somewhere inside her consciousness.
The thought made her lips press into a tighter line, a subtle tightening that no one would notice, not even Nigel, who had already left. She could not allow herself to feel it, could not allow herself to admit that her mind, her body, even the quiet shadows of her immortal senses, were already responding, reaching for the memory of Andy in ways she could neither control nor resist.
When she finally stood, the movement was smooth, deliberate, precise, and yet a fraction slower than usual, a trace of the fatigue that had been creeping through her all morning. She moved through the empty corridors, past the echoing silence of the office, her mind still circling Andy’s presence, and by the time she reached her car, the city lights reflected across the windshield, indifferent to the stirrings of a single immortal inside it. She sat, hands resting on the leather steering wheel, and allowed herself a single, quiet exhale.
Even in that brief moment of solitude, she felt it again the pull, subtle and relentless, the sense that Andrea’s presence was there, lingering just beyond perception, threading through her thoughts and dreams, a constant reminder that some bonds could not be broken, some connections were not hers to command or dismiss. She started the engine and drove into the afternoon, alone, but not truly alone, as the city flowed around her and the ghost of someone she could neither name nor claim followed, quietly threading herself into the rhythm of Miranda’s day.
The days seemed to stretch endlessly for Miranda. Work consumed her as always, each interaction carefully orchestrated, every misstep in the office punished with a subtle glance or a perfectly timed correction. Yet once the last papers were signed, the last phone calls made, the office emptied around her, the hours that followed felt impossibly long, a quiet expanse of time she could not fill with her usual distractions.
She spent those evenings on FaceTime with her daughters, the familiar routine of seeing their faces, hearing their laughter and little complaints, grounding her in a way nothing else could. It was comforting, necessary, and yet, somehow, insufficient. The laughter and chatter reminded her that she had a world outside the office, a world that moved on without her, and she found herself counting the hours until Friday.
Friday. The word repeated itself in her mind like a faint drumbeat. Despite the unease she had felt earlier, the slight tightening in her chest when Nigel had spoken of Andrea’s initial hesitation, she found herself anticipating it, looking forward to the encounter in a way she could not allow herself to admit. She would not speak the thought aloud, would not even acknowledge it fully to herself, but every quiet moment, every idle glance at the clock, brought her mind back to it.
The week dragged on, hours bleeding into one another, and she moved through it as if half-present, waiting, observing, every interaction tinged with a subtle impatience that no one around her could detect. Beneath the perfection, the composure, the meticulous control, her thoughts ran relentlessly toward Friday, toward the presence she could neither summon nor banish from her mind. And though she refused to name it, though she would never allow herself the word, she felt a restless anticipation, a need that gnawed quietly at her, threading through the long, empty spaces of her days.
After three endless days, Friday finally arrives. One of the conference rooms is ready for two people, and the hours remaining until the interview seem to drag on forever. Nigel sits in Miranda's office, arms folded, his gaze piercing her from the inside.
Nigel sat across from her, legs crossed, the faint sound of his pen tapping against his knee filling the silence. Miranda stared at the papers in front of her, but her mind was somewhere else entirely. The hunger that had been clawing at her for days made it nearly impossible to focus. Every sound felt too sharp, every heartbeat too loud.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying to collect herself. It didn’t help.
“I have no idea how I’m supposed to even speak to her,” she said finally, her voice quiet but steady. “Anything I say would look… suspicious.”
Nigel raised an eyebrow. “You could always ask about Paris,” he offered, his tone light, teasing.
Miranda looked up at him sharply, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Yes, because that would be perfectly in character for me. Small talk, Nigel. How utterly ridiculous.”
He chuckled, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. He studied her for a moment longer, the humor fading. “You’re starving, aren’t you?”
She didn’t answer, but the flicker in her eyes was enough.
“Miranda,” he said softly, setting his pen aside. “If you can’t bring yourself to do anything about Andrea, then you need to stop torturing yourself and feed. Properly. Find someone. Anyone. Because you won’t last like this, and you know it.”
Her gaze hardened. “I don’t need your concern.”
“You do,” he replied calmly. “And you need blood. It’s written all over you. I’ve seen that look before.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping. “When I was in your position, I let go of my pride for a while. Fed on what I could. It wasn’t elegant, but it kept me alive.”
Miranda’s jaw tightened, her fingers curling slightly against the desk. “I’m not you.”
“No,” Nigel said with a faint smile, “you’re much worse.”
The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t tell him to leave either. Outside the glass walls of her office, the hum of the city carried on, oblivious to the quiet struggle unraveling behind the polished facade of Runway.
Once most of the employees had left their workstations, The sound of the elevator reaching the seventeenth floor was soft, almost inaudible, yet Miranda heard it. Her pen stopped mid-sentence. A faint vibration ran through the air, one she had learned to ignore long ago, but not this time.
Then came the heartbeat. Slow at first, then quicker, steadier, human.
She didn’t need to see her. The scent was enough. Subtle traces of coffee, paper, and something warmer, something distinctly hers. It threaded through the corridors, reaching her before the echo of footsteps did.
Andrea Sachs.
Miranda inhaled carefully, as though testing the air. It was ridiculous, she told herself. Impossible, even. But she could feel it the presence that had haunted her thoughts now made real, breathing the same air again.
Somewhere down the hall, Nigel’s voice greeted her, warm and bright as always. Miranda could hear every word clearly, every shift in tone, the faint flutter of nervous laughter that followed. Andy’s laughter. That sound familiar, alive, and utterly disarming sent a pulse through her that she didn’t anticipate.
Her body reacted before her mind could restrain it. Hunger twisted inside her, sharp and immediate, curling through her chest like smoke. She pressed her nails lightly into her palm, grounding herself in the faint sting.
She should have stayed away. She should have sent Nigel to another floor, locked herself in her office, done anything but sit here and listen. Yet she didn’t do it.
The human heartbeat down the corridor grew fainter as the door to the conference room closed. The scent lingered, though faint, persistent, clinging to the air like a ghost she could neither summon nor dispel.
Miranda turned her gaze back to the papers on her desk. The words blurred. Her hand trembled once before she forced it still.
There was no reason for her to be affected. None at all. And yet, beneath the polished surface of her calm, the beast inside her had opened its eyes again.
Miranda didn’t remember standing up. One moment she was sitting behind her desk, pretending to work, and the next she was already moving, drawn forward by something she didn’t want to name.
Her heels were silent on the polished floor as she reached the edge of the corridor. The glass walls of the conference room stretched ahead, and beyond them, Andrea sat across from Nigel, her notebook open, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips.
For a heartbeat, Miranda stood still. Watching felt dangerous, forbidden, yet she couldn’t look away.
The air between them shifted. Miranda felt it like a current under her skin Andrea’s pulse, steady and human, faltering just slightly as if her body remembered before her mind did.
Then Andy looked up.
Their eyes met through the glass.
The noise of the office faded. Miranda could hear nothing but the rapid thrum of that pulse, the rush of blood that called to her in a way she had long forgotten. It wasn’t fear. It was something softer, more uncertain a tremor that ran through both of them, connecting them across the distance.
Nigel’s voice broke the moment. He turned slightly, his gaze flicking to the reflection in the glass. A knowing smirk curled his lips, sharp and unspoken.
Miranda didn’t need to hear his thoughts to know what he was thinking. She straightened her posture, her expression cool and detached once more, as if nothing had happened.
But when she turned away, she could still feel the echo of Andrea’s heartbeat pulsing in her veins.
She should have left. She knew that. There was no reason for her to linger by the glass wall, to listen. And yet she did.
Nigel’s voice carried clearly through the air, low and calm, laced with that teasing tone he used when he wanted something.
“So tell me, Andrea,” he said, “have you ever thought of speaking to her again?”
There was a pause. Then Andy’s voice softer, uncertain. “I don’t think she’d want to see me. And honestly, I’m not sure I’d want that either.”
Nigel chuckled quietly. “You’re lying.”
Miranda’s eyes flicked up, her gaze narrowing.
“I think,” Nigel continued, “there’s something between you two. Something that doesn’t quite let you rest.”
Andy laughed, though Miranda could hear the tremor underneath it. “That’s ridiculous. You really think you can read me that easily?”
“More than you realize,” he said simply.
The silence that followed was thicker than before, heavy and charged. Miranda could almost see it the flicker of confusion crossing Andrea’s face, the faint quickening of her heartbeat.
She took an unsteady breath, the scent of human blood and emotion mixing in the air, threading through her restraint like a blade. Every word, every heartbeat reached her as if the walls were nothing at all.
She went to her office before she did something foolish.
After a half an hour she heard knock. The knock was soft, hesitant too polite for this office.
Miranda didn’t look up from her papers. “Come in.”
The door opened, and the familiar scent reached her before the footsteps did. Coffee, ink, a trace of rain. It hit her like a memory she had tried to bury.
“Miranda.”
Andrea’s voice. Steady at first, but the faintest tremor lingered beneath the surface. Miranda finally lifted her gaze. She looked exactly as she remembered perhaps a little older, perhaps a little wiser, but still carrying that same mix of defiance and uncertainty that had once fascinated her far too deeply.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Andrea said quickly, stepping further inside. “Nigel… insisted I should come talk to you.”
“Did he now?” Miranda’s tone was even, cool as glass. She leaned back slightly, fingers resting on the desk. Underneath, her other hand had curled into a tight fist, knuckles white.
Andrea hesitated, her eyes flicking to the floor, then back up. “He thought it would… help, somehow. To clear the air, I guess.”
Miranda’s lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “And do you believe there is anything that requires clearing, Andrea?”
The sound of her name in Miranda’s voice still had the same effect. Andy swallowed, her throat dry. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Maybe.”
For a long moment, silence filled the room not awkward, but dense, electric. Miranda studied her, every heartbeat, every flicker of emotion. She could hear the rush of blood beneath her skin, the slight unevenness in her breathing.
“You seem nervous,” Miranda said finally, her voice deceptively calm.
“I’m not,” Andrea lied, too quickly.
“Of course.” Miranda looked down at her papers again, pretending to read, though the words blurred. “Then why are you here, if not out of obligation to Nigel’s insistence?”
Andrea shifted, fingers gripping the strap of her bag. “Because maybe he’s right. Maybe there’s… something unresolved.”
Miranda’s gaze lifted again, sharp and cold enough to still the air between them. “I can assure you, Miss Sachs, I do not dwell on the past.”
Andrea’s lips parted, as if to argue, but no sound came out. She looked at her instead really looked and for a fleeting second, Miranda saw recognition flicker in her eyes. The same awareness that twisted in her own chest.
Neither spoke.
The silence stretched until it became unbearable. Miranda forced her fist to unclench beneath the desk, the faint sting of her nails in her palm grounding her back in control.
Finally, Andrea nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Right. Well. I suppose that’s all I needed to hear.”
She turned toward the door, her steps unsteady. Miranda didn’t stop her, though every instinct screamed to do so.
When the door clicked shut, the office was silent again.
Miranda exhaled slowly, staring at the empty space where she’d stood. Her pulse was steady, her posture perfect and yet her reflection in the dark glass looked nothing like control.
The door burst open so hard it rattled against the wall. Miranda didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
Nigel’s voice sliced through the silence. “You ruined your chance.”
She stayed still, the pen between her fingers motionless. He was breathing hard, furious, but beneath it she could hear his pulse steady, controlled, unlike hers.
“You could have said something,” he continued, striding closer to her desk. “Anything. You could have reached for her. Instead, you sat there and let her walk away.”
Miranda’s hand tightened around the pen until it snapped in half. Black ink bled down her fingers like veins. Slowly, she looked up.
“And what,” she asked softly, “would you have had me say?”
Her voice was calm, but the air around her shifted, heavy and charged. Nigel froze mid-step. Her eyes normally that icy blue had darkened several shades only to turn red after a few seconds, storm clouds gathering behind them.
She rose from her chair, the motion precise but trembling with restraint. “Should I have told her what I am?” she continued, her tone still low but colder now. “Should I have confessed that I can barely keep myself from tasting her blood? That every time she speaks my name, I want to sink my teeth into her skin and see what she’s made of?”
Nigel’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“That she turned my head,” Miranda went on, the words spilling sharper now, faster. “That I cannot forget her, no matter how many years have passed. That her scent follows me home, that her heartbeat plays in my head like a curse.”
Her pupils dilated, swallowing the pale gray until only a faint rim of silver remained. The hunger beneath her skin burned, pulsing in time with her words. She turned away sharply, gripping the edge of her desk. The wood creaked under the pressure of her fingers.
Nigel exhaled slowly, the faintest trace of pity in his eyes. “You need to feed,” he said quietly. “Before this gets worse. Before you make a mistake you can’t fix.”
Miranda laughed once short, sharp, without humor. “You think it’s that simple?”
He took a cautious step forward. “I think you’re pretending you’re above what you are. And that pretense is killing you.”
Her gaze snapped to his, and for a moment the predator in her broke free. The air shimmered with it that ancient, cold power that no human could ever name but every living thing would fear. “Do not presume to tell me what I am,” she hissed.
Nigel didn’t flinch, though his pulse betrayed him a single quick jump of fear that she caught instantly. It was enough. She forced herself to breathe, to blink, to let her eyes fade back to their usual color.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was calm, distant. “Leave me, Nigel. Now.”
He hesitated, then sighed and turned toward the door. “You can’t hide from this forever,” he said without looking back.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Miranda stood in the silence that followed, the faint hum of city lights below bleeding through the glass. She could still smell Andrea faint traces clinging to the air from where she’d stood earlier. Her reflection in the window stared back at her, eyes still a shade too dark.
She closed them, inhaled deeply, and the only thing she could taste was hunger.
She could not stay in that office another second. The walls felt too close, the air too heavy. Without a word, she gathered her things and walked out, her heels striking sharp against the marble floor.
The elevator ride was slow, the hum of machinery grating against her nerves. By the time the doors slid open, she was one breath away from breaking.
And then she saw her.
Andrea stood by the entrance of the building, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her hair catching the faint light from the street. She looked out of place among the crowd, too bright, too alive.
Miranda stopped. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. The hunger hit her like a wave, dark and deep, curling around her ribs. It filled her lungs, clouded her thoughts. Every heartbeat from the girl in front of her felt like a pulse beneath her own skin.
Andrea turned, eyes meeting hers. “Miranda,” she said, her voice quiet, uncertain.
Miranda blinked once, fighting for control, her nails digging into her palm until she felt the sting. “What are you doing here?”
Andrea hesitated. “I was leaving, but… I don’t know. Something told me I shouldn’t. That we needed to talk.”
Her voice trembled slightly, but it was honest. The words sank under Miranda’s skin like a spark on dry paper.
She could not think clearly anymore. The part of her that had fought for control all evening was losing ground. Her throat ached, and the scent of Andrea’s skin was maddening, warm and sweet and painfully close.
“Then come with me,” Miranda said before she could stop herself. “We can talk at the townhouse. It’s quieter there.”
Andrea’s brow furrowed. “Now?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. Miranda could hear her heart quicken, could taste the indecision on her breath. Finally, Andrea nodded. “Alright.”
The car ride felt endless. The city lights slid across the windows, painting fleeting shadows over Andrea’s face. She sat in silence beside her, looking out at the blur of buildings, unaware of the storm unraveling next to her.
Miranda’s hands gripped the car seat too tightly. Every breath was an effort. The scent of her filled the confined space, a slow, intoxicating current that wrapped itself around her like smoke. Her hunger clawed at her from the inside, whispering, urging, promising relief if she would just stop pretending.
Neither of them spoke. The silence was thick, electric. The only sound was the soft rhythm of Andrea’s heartbeat, steady but quick. Miranda could feel it echoing through her veins, syncing with her own pulse until she could no longer tell them apart.
When they finally stopped in front of the townhouse, Miranda didn’t wait. She was out of the car before the engine had finished humming, her heels clicking against the stone steps as she made her way to the door.
Behind her, Andrea followed, slower, hesitant, unaware that each step closer was another crack in Miranda’s fragile restraint.
When the door closed behind Andrea, the sound echoed through the townhouse like a warning. Miranda stood still in the middle of the room, her back straight, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She could feel every beat of Andrea’s heart. It was steady but fast, a delicate rhythm that pulled at something deep inside her.
She tried to focus. To breathe. To pretend that she was still in control.
Andrea looked around, unsure. The silence between them stretched thin.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said finally, her voice soft, almost fragile. “Nigel just… insisted.”
Miranda nodded once, forcing her expression to stay composed. “He tends to do that.”
A quiet laugh left Andrea’s lips, nervous and fleeting. “He said I should talk to you. I think he hoped we’d… fix whatever was left between us.”
“There is nothing to fix,” Miranda replied, too sharply. The words came out colder than she intended.
Andrea frowned. “Then why does it feel like there is?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and uninvited. Miranda opened her mouth to respond, but the scent of Andrea’s pulse hit her all at once, warm and intoxicating. The color drained from her face. She turned her head slightly, hoping to hide the shift she felt rising within her.
But it was too late.
Andrea’s eyes widened. “Your eyes,” she whispered.
Miranda froze.
“They’re… red.”
Andrea stepped back, her breath catching in her throat. “Miranda… are you-” She could not finish the question.
Miranda’s voice was low when she spoke. “Do not move.”
Andrea’s body tensed.
“Please,” Miranda said, softer now. “Do not run. I will explain everything, I promise.”
Andrea hesitated, torn between fear and curiosity. Miranda could see it in the trembling of her hands, in the pulse that beat wildly beneath her skin.
“I am not human,” Miranda began, her tone even, deliberate. “You were right. What you see in my eyes is not a trick of the light. It is hunger. Control. Decay. Whatever you wish to call it. And you…” She paused, struggling for air she did not need. “You make it worse.”
Andrea’s lips parted slightly. “Worse?”
Miranda took a careful step forward. “You do not understand what you are to me. I have lived longer than you can imagine, surrounded by people, by noise, by silence. Nothing ever touched me. Until you.”
Andrea’s breath caught again, but she did not move away.
Miranda’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “When you left, something in me broke. I tried to forget, but you haunted me. I could feel you even when you were miles away. That should not be possible. Not without blood. Not without a bond.”
Andrea looked down at her shoes, her chest rising and falling unevenly. Her heartbeat was still fast, though calmer than before. “Why?” she asked quietly. “Why me?”
Miranda closed her eyes. “I do not know. I have never felt anything like this. Not in all my years.”
Andrea shook her head. “I thought it was just me,” she murmured. “That I was losing my mind. When I left Paris, I kept thinking about you. I couldn’t stop. I thought it was guilt or obsession or something stupid. But it never went away.”
Her gaze lifted to meet Miranda’s, wide and searching. “Is that because of what you are?”
Miranda’s throat tightened. She looked away, then back at her. “Perhaps,” she said slowly. “But I am not certain. Whatever this is, it feels… real.”
Silence again. The kind that hummed between them like a live wire.
Miranda took a step closer, then another, until the space between them was small enough for her to feel the heat of Andrea’s skin. “You must know,” she said quietly, “that I would never have shown you this side of me if I had a choice. I have not fed on human blood in years. I believed I could be something more than what I am. But lately…”
Her eyes darkened again, the red bleeding through the blue. “Lately it has been harder to control. Especially around you.”
Andrea’s gaze flickered to her lips, then lower, to her throat. Slowly, without fear, she lifted her hand and touched her neck. Her fingertips brushed over the place where her pulse was strongest.
“Here?” she asked softly.
Miranda’s entire body went still. The sound of that single heartbeat filled the room.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Exactly there.”
Andy's hand remained at the junction of her shoulder and neck, while her gaze drifted to Miranda's.
"I would never hurt you, I won't do anything until you let me." Her eyes searched for permission, which they couldn't find at that moment. "You can go, I won't chase you, I won't look for you, and we'll both forget what happened here."
The younger woman's pulse slowed again, and Miranda could feel a glimmer of calm settle between them. Andrea wasn't as stressed or frightened by her presence as she had been a few minutes ago.
"Will this be a one-time thing? If I give you permission to drink now, will we forget about each other and never have this happen again?" Her voice was quiet but steady.
For a moment, Miranda didn't know what to say, but she knew this wouldn't be a one-time thing. She knew she wouldn't be able to forget Andrea, and she knew she'd want more. She didn't want to lie to the girl. As she'd said earlier, she'd give her a chance to leave, so she shook her head, closing her eyes as she did so. She didn't want, or rather, couldn't, look at Andrea's face.
"I won't be able to forget you. In my deepest dreams you live somewhere by my side, we live together," the last word came out in a whisper so much that Andy had to concentrate hard to hear it.
Andrea’s breath trembled in the quiet space between them. For a moment, Miranda thought she would step back. Instead, she closed the distance.
“Then don’t,” Andrea whispered. “Don’t forget.”
Miranda’s eyes opened. The red still glowed faintly beneath the blue, like embers refusing to die. Andrea was standing so close now that Miranda could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking for,” Miranda murmured. Her voice was low, almost pleading. “If I start, I may not stop.”
Andrea’s lips curved, just slightly. “Then I will stop you.”
The words hit her like fire. Something inside her broke the thin barrier of control she’d been clinging to. Miranda moved before she could think, one step, then another, until her hand found Andrea’s jaw, her thumb brushing against the corner of her mouth. Andrea’s eyes fluttered shut.
The scent of her, the heartbeat, the unsteady rhythm of her breath it was too much. Miranda leaned forward, her lips hovering just above the soft skin of Andrea’s neck.
“Last chance,” she whispered.
Andrea’s voice was barely audible. “Do it.”
Miranda gently kissed Anda's skin, then sank her fangs into it. At first, the girl's body tensed, only to relax completely. One of her hands went to Miranda's back, the other to her hair.
Miranda took the first sip of her blood, which sent her head spinning. In that moment, she felt everything, every emotion coursing through the girl's body, felt her heart speed up, felt Andy pressing her closer and closer. She couldn't stop the wave of power and euphoria that hit her harder and harder with each sip. The sounds Andrea was making made stopping pointless. Soft moans and whimpers soothed nerves that had been on the edge of unbearableness for who knows when.
Only when she felt the girl's heart begin to slow a little too quickly did she stop. She pressed the girl to her chest and listened to every breath Andrea took. She was afraid she'd drunk too much, that she'd hurt Andy, but that fear was soon silenced by the girl's voice.
"You were right, you didn't hurt me." She let out a quiet laugh right after. "It's a strange feeling, I feel drunk."
Miranda looked at her, her cheeks were all pink and eyes half-lidded, pupils dilated with that dizziness.
Unable to stand on her own, she clung to the older woman's body with all her strength. Miranda didn't mind quite the opposite, she lifted Andrea effortlessly, and the younger woman laughed again, a soft, breathless sound that filled the room like music.
“Easy,” Miranda murmured, her hands steady and strong around Andrea. “I’ve got you.”
Andrea’s laughter softened into a sleepy chuckle. “You always do,” she whispered, her voice light and unsteady.
Miranda carried her up the staircase to the second floor, each step deliberate, careful not to jar her. Once in the bedroom, she lowered Andrea gently onto the bed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Andrea’s fingers reached out, brushing against Miranda’s hand, almost as if seeking permission to stay close.
Miranda’s eyes caught the small line of blood still glistening at Andrea’s neck. Without thinking, she leaned down and licked it away, the warm metallic taste lingering briefly on her tongue. Andrea shivered and let out a soft, helpless laugh.
“You’re impossible,” Andrea murmured, her voice faint, her pulse still racing from what had just happened.
Miranda’s gaze softened. She reached for the bedside drawer, retrieving a small first aid kit. Carefully, she cleaned and bandaged the tiny wound, her fingers gentle against Andrea’s skin.
Andrea wiggled slightly, still half-dazed, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You’re too serious,” she said, her voice giggling, teasing. “Let me help. Or tickle you. Or something.”
Miranda froze for half a heartbeat, then let out a quiet laugh of her own. The younger woman’s unsteady amusement was irresistible, and she couldn’t stop looking at her. Every little movement, every sleepy grin, every sparkle in Andrea’s eyes pulled at something deep inside her.
“You’re ridiculous,” Miranda said softly, shaking her head, but she didn’t move her gaze. Andrea’s laughter tickled the air between them, light and intoxicating, and Miranda realized she could watch her like this forever drunk, playful, completely unguarded, and yet utterly hers in a way she hadn’t expected.
Andrea’s hand slid along the sheet, fingertips brushing Miranda’s wrist. “Don’t stop staring,” she whispered, teasing in that soft, unsteady way. “I like it.”
Miranda leaned closer, a low hum of amusement and hunger curling in her chest. “You are impossible,” she said again, but this time it was full of warmth, affection, and something she could not quite name.
Andrea laughed softly, leaning back against the pillows, watching Miranda with that bright, unsteady gaze. And Miranda, despite herself, could not stop. She traced the line of Andrea’s jaw with her eyes, memorized the curve of her lips, the blush in her cheeks, the way her pulse fluttered beneath her skin. Every small detail was hers now, and she could not look away.
Miranda leaned closer, her lips barely brushing Andrea’s ear. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but firm. “From now on, you are mine. Only mine.”
Andrea’s eyes widened for a heartbeat, then she smirked, a little daring, a little mischievous. “I like that,” she said softly, a playful challenge in her tone.
Miranda laughed, a quiet, warm sound, and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Andrea’s forehead. “You should sleep,” she murmured, turning away.
But then she felt it Andrea’s hand curling around hers, gripping lightly. Miranda froze, half-smiling, half-amused, and turned back to look at her.
Andrea’s lips curved into a mischievous grin. “On the lips,” she said softly, almost imperceptibly.
Miranda blinked, confusion flickering across her face for a brief moment, then realization dawned. Slowly, carefully, she lowered herself until her lips met Andrea’s. It was soft, hesitant at first, an exploration, then firmer, warmer, a taste of something electric and tender all at once.
Pulling back slightly, Miranda rested her forehead against Andrea’s for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of her hair. “Sleep now darling,” she whispered, a hint of amusement and affection in her voice.
Andrea’s hand still held hers, but she didn’t resist. Miranda stood, smoothing the sheets, and made her way to the bathroom, glancing back to see Andrea’s half-lidded, dazed smile. Her heart, though long immortal, skipped a beat anyway.
Miranda stood in the bathroom, staring at her own reflection. Her eyes glowed a deep, unrelenting red, fangs peeking slightly whenever she parted her lips. She studied herself, motionless, but every sense was focused elsewhere.
She could hear it Andrea’s heartbeat, steady, unchanging, echoing in her mind like a metronome. It was constant, precise, living, and impossibly real. She could not believe the girl lying in her bed, just behind the door, belonged to her.
For a moment, Miranda closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the rhythm of that pulse, the sound filling the quiet bathroom, the scent lingering faintly in her mind.
When she opened them again, the red was gone. Her eyes were clear, pale blue, serene. The fangs had retracted, hidden, as if the hunger and heat of moments ago had never existed.
She stared at her reflection a little longer, the image of calm and control returning, but deep inside, she knew the heartbeat she had just followed would never leave her.