Chapter Text
Rio Vidal had been around a long time.
Long enough to watch wars start and end like seasonal storms. Long enough to see plagues wipe out towns in the span of a breath.
Empires rose and crumbled. Left nothing behind but dust and bad statues.
Kingdoms fell. Borders shifted. Monarchs lost their heads, and new monsters put on the crown like it meant something. Like it mattered.
None of it actually did. Not to her.
Centuries passed like chapters in a thriller that refused to end. And yet she kept reading. Kept walking. Kept surviving - for some reason. She hasn’t figured out why yet.
Yet somehow, through all of it, Rio never once broke her rules.
Granted, there weren’t many.
Being immortal meant the laws didn’t apply. Not really.
But hers did.
The ones she carved into herself like scripture.
Harder than steel. Heavier than her guilt.
- She didn’t kill.
- She didn’t harm.
- She didn’t feed on the living.
Not a drop. Not even when the hunger got loud enough to split her in half. When it clawed up her throat and settled in her ribs as if it was fire. When it hurt to breathe.
The third rule wasn’t created until the early 1900s because before blood banks, she starved.
She fed only when she had to. Slowly. Carefully. Quietly.
The dying first - the ones taking their last breaths. She even tried to get the forgotten and unclaimed. Depending on their illness, she would sometimes have to choke it down - the blood too thick, too thin or full of cancer cells. But when there weren’t any dying near her, she’d only target other monsters.
Men who deserved to be stopped. Killers. Predators.
She didn’t call it justice. Didn’t pretend to be noble.
And even then, it was only when she couldn’t keep going without it.
The rules were her beginning.
The night she was turned, she hadn’t had the chance to think. She’d barely woken up before it was over - a blur of sharp hunger and instinct. The blood had hit her tongue and her body moved without her mind, ripping through soft skin and warm veins.
And by the time she came back to herself,
There was a boy.
Nicky.
Six years old. Kind smile. Big eyes.
Dead in her arms.
She could still remember the way his blood had smelled - sweet, like syrup or honey. She’d held him like it could undo it. Pressed her face to his neck, sobbing, teeth still wet with him.
She didn’t even know whose kid he was. She’d stumbled into a random alley. Wrong place, wrong time. And Nicky, sweet Nicky, had just tried to help her.
She buried him herself. Dug into the earth with her bare hands. Built the grave with stone. Marked it. Cursed herself there and then. And then she stayed on that land - still there. Bought the lot when America finally invented paperwork. Built a house over it. Put flowers on his grave every year.
Didn’t let herself forget.
And she hadn’t. Not once.
No living blood. No accidental kills. No slipping.
Not for 489 years.
Until tonight.
And of all places - it was in Westview Memorial’s Blood Bank. The irony.
She always fed from the hospital blood bank. She took small amounts, never enough to trigger alarms and definitely not enough to be missed. And she never got caught. Not once.
The bag was already in her hand when she heard it -
A heartbeat.
Too close. Too late.
She turned, slowly, stupidly, like the hunger had dulled her down to molasses.
It had. She should’ve known better.
It was Nicky’s birthday this week. She hadn’t left the house. Hadn’t eaten. Spent the last few days reading by his grave, pretending she could still feel him there. And the hunger - it just sat in her chest like a stone, until it was everything.
She normally hears a person’s pulse before they come within ten feet. Tonight? All she heard was the pounding drum of her own emptiness. Idiot.
And now - now there was someone standing in the doorway.
A woman in deep purple scrubs. Curls pulled up. A lanyard with a name badge.
Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Beautiful.
Rio kept still. Bag in one hand. She could hear her heartbeat - unafraid.
“You always break into blood banks at 3:30 in the morning?” the woman asked. Like she was asking about coffee or weather.
Rio froze. Every muscle tight beneath her jacket.
She didn’t talk to humans. Didn’t get this close. Didn’t have to.
That was the point of the blood bags. Easy. Clean. Anonymous.
Humans were too soft, too loud.
Too tempting.
And this one - this one was standing right in front of her. Blocking the only exit. Her scent already flooding Rio’s nose like heat.
Her heartbeat was steady. Annoyingly steady.
And now it was all Rio could hear. Loud. Rhythmic. Close.
Her eyes flicked, just once, to the woman’s neck. Pale skin. Barely concealed by her neckline. Exposed and pulsing and -
Focus.
Rio cleared her throat. It came out low and ragged, barely more than a croak. Great. She forgot how long it’d been since she’d actually spoken to anyone. That wasn’t helping.
She shifted her weight, adjusted her grip on the bag.
“Would you believe me,” she rasped, “if I said yes?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. Doubt flickered across her face, subtle but unmistakable. She stepped a little closer.
Too close.
Rio didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not without getting in grabbing range.
And right now? Her hunger was loud enough to drown out good sense.
Normally - normally she’d use persuasion. Just a glance. A whisper. A push against the mind. It would’ve worked. She was good at it. Normally.
But she was starving. And her powers were flickering, dull at the edges. Useless.
And this woman? She wasn’t backing down.
Fantastic.
Rio really didn’t like how her body felt right now. Tight. Coiled. Every breath filled with the scent of worn cotton and human blood and warmth. Her jaw clenched.
She wasn’t going to make it out of this clean.
Not if the woman got closer. Definitely not if she touched her.
She shifted again. Slowly. Carefully.
This was not going to be good.
“Why don’t we just put the blood down,” the woman said, stepping forward, “and I won’t call security?”
Rio’s head shook before she could stop it.
“No,” she muttered, voice frayed. “Don’t do that.”
Security meant more people. More blood. More chances to screw up.
And she was hungry. Starving, really. Her vision already narrowing at the edges, jaw tight from restraint. The scent of the woman’s pulse was practically singing in her ears.
This wasn’t going to be good.
It might actually be safer if she just ripped into the bag now. Let the woman think she was insane. At least then no one else would get close.
Another step. Then another. The woman was moving slowly, too slowly, like she thought being calm would help. Like she didn’t understand she was inching closer to a predator. She probably didn’t.
Rio lifted her hand, the other still clutched tight around the plastic bag. “Wait. Okay wait. I’ll put it down. Just… don’t come closer.”
But the woman didn’t stop. Didn’t listen.
She was still moving forward, eyes narrowing, zeroing in on the bag of blood like it could explain something to her.
Rio gritted her teeth. Her grip tightened. It was now or never.
Her fangs dropped.
Shit.
The hunger had fully taken over. Everything else - the hospital lights, the buzz of a distant monitor, the scrape of her boots on tile - was fading. All she could hear was the blood. All she could smell was this woman, this impossibly calm woman who was far too close for comfort.
She could still stop this.
She could –
Rio moved.
Fast. A blur of motion as she brought the bag to her mouth, fingers fumbling with the cap. No time. No time for finesse. She’d tear into it, she didn’t care. Anything to stop the spin in her head, the clawing ache behind her ribs. Before she got her instead.
But the woman moved too.
Faster than Rio expected. Her hand reached out, grabbed for the bag.
“Don’t!” she shouted.
And Rio’s body reacted before her brain could.
Fangs meant for the plastic punctured skin instead.
The wrist.
Warm. Alive. Blood rushing against her tongue before she realized what she’d done.
Her eyes went wide.
The bag dropped to the ground, forgotten.
And she was holding this woman’s wrist in her hands. Fangs in her flesh.
It was too late.
The moment the blood hit her tongue, everything else disappeared.
Warm. Pure.
So alive.
She barely registered what was happening - just sank into the taste like it was the first good thing she’d ever felt. Her whole body lit up. Every frayed nerve calmed. Her hunger didn’t fade, exactly - it flared, caught fire, turned to something molten that pulsed behind her ribs.
She moaned.
Couldn’t help it. The sound slipped out before she could swallow it back.
It was so good. Sweet. Sharp. Laced with something that tasted just like this woman smelled - clean skin.
From what she remembered - what she’d read - it felt good for the victim too. Something about nerve endings syncing, pleasure cross-wired with feeding. Like fire under the skin.
And when she blinked open her eyes - mouth still locked to the wrist - the woman was staring right back at her.
Eyes dark and blown wide. Lips parted. A flush already crawling up her throat.
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth like she was holding back a sound. A moan.
Fuck.
She looked as good as she tasted.
Rio’s stomach clenched. Her eyes fluttered closed again. Just a few more seconds.
One.
Two.
Three –
Okay. Just a few more.
But then there was weight on her shoulder.
A slump.
She looked up.
The woman was falling into her, too dazed to stay upright.
Rio caught her instinctively, blood still warm on her tongue.
Shit.
How long had it been?
Panic slammed through her like icewater. She yanked her mouth away in horror. The two puncture wounds stared up at her from the woman’s wrist - bright red, clean, open.
She shouldn’t have let it go that long. She should’ve stopped.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
But she wasn’t done. Not yet.
Still holding the woman steady against her, she leaned back down - closer, but not to bite.
Not again.
With one firm swipe of her tongue, she sealed the wounds.
The skin knit together instantly, soft and whole. Her saliva closed it like it had never happened.
But it had.
And the woman - her head tucked against Rio’s neck now was still too close. Too warm. And now way too quiet.
And Rio needed to put her down. She needed to get out.
Now.
“Shit.”
Rio dropped to her knees, catching the woman before her head hit the tile. Her body was soft, warm, vulnerable the only way a human is. Her eyes fluttered open - unfocused, but moving.
Okay.
Okay.
Still alive.
“Hey.” Rio snapped her fingers once. “Look at me.”
The woman’s pupils tracked her. A little. Slow blink. Still breathing.
Not dead.
Not dead.
Rio’s hands hovered over her - useless. She didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t fix this. Couldn’t even think straight.
Water? Blanket? Call someone? No.
No. People meant noise, attention, more blood. More temptation.
She could drag her somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. She could –
She swallowed hard. Her fangs still ached. She was still hungry.
This was exactly why she didn’t talk to humans. Didn’t go near them. Didn’t let herself get this hungry. Because she couldn’t trust herself.
Because this happened.
Rio looked down at her. Shaky. Her breath was uneven.
Rio pulled her jacket off. It was stupid. The jacket wouldn’t fix anything. But the floor was cold, and the woman looked small now. Fragile.
She folded the jacket, tucked it under the woman’s head, pulled it across her chest.
“Don’t die,” she muttered.
She wasn’t sure if she was talking to the woman or herself. But it’s not like she could die anyway.
Her hands shook as she grabbed the plastic bag of blood bags. Two were missing - one crushed (somehow?) and one still unopened. She scooped up a few more from the cooler on instinct.
Then she ran.
Almost made it out before she looked back.
The woman was blinking again. Still dazed. Trying to move.
Rio’s stomach twisted hard.
Guilt.
Hunger.
Both.
Then she was gone. Out the door. Into the dark.
Didn’t stop running until the trees closed in around her. Didn’t stop until she was home. Until her boots hit the edge of Nicky’s little grave and she dropped to the ground beside it.
The blood bags hit the dirt.
She didn’t touch them.
She didn’t feed.
Not that night. Not the next.
The blood sat there, untouched. Mocking.
Rio sat beside Nicky’s grave, knees pulled to her chest, watching the stars with her chin resting on her arm. She’d been through worse. Deeper hunger. Harder withdrawals.
But this?
This was worse.
She hadn’t meant to take that much. Hadn’t meant to take at all. And now —
Her head dropped against her knee.
She saw her eyes again. The way they went dazed. The way her lips parted. The sound of her heartbeat, deep and sharp and real. She felt it like it was still echoing in her mouth.
She’d cleaned the wound. Closed it. Left her warm.
Covered.
Rio stiffened.
“No,” she muttered.
She stood too fast. Walked inside. Tore through her dresser. Her satchel. The boxes she hadn’t opened in decades.
The locket.
It wasn’t there.
Her breath caught in her throat. She checked again, like it might’ve moved. But she knew exactly where it was. Always left in the same inner pocket of her jacket. The one she’d taken off. She had draped it over that woman’s shoulders like some —
“Idiot,” she muttered, jaw tight.
She could feel her pulse behind her teeth. Could feel the static buzzing in her limbs.
She had to get it back.
Somehow.
She started watching the hospital on the third night. Stayed back in the trees, still as a stone, boots sunk into dirt and pine needles. Covered her scent. Let the wind work for her. She didn't see her.
But finally, on the fifth night, she saw her again.
The woman.
In her jacket. With her locket.
She didn’t breathe for a whole minute. Just stood there and stared at the collar pulled tight around her neck, sleeves rolled once at the wrist. The weight of the locket tucked in that pocket, right where it always was.
She turned and ran.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t stop until she was home again and collapsed beside Nicky’s grave, gripping her own forearm until the skin dented from her nails.
It’s fine. She can track her. Find the jacket. Get it when she’s not wearing it.
Right?
By the sixth night, Rio had one bag left.
She stared at it on the counter for too long. Chest hollow. Hunger crawling up her throat like smoke.
She had to go. No choice.
She waited until 1:30 a.m.- not as dead quiet as before, but just enough movement to slip in and out unseen. Hopefully.
No woman. No falling into someone’s pulse like a monster with no leash.
Just in. And Out.
She pulled her hood low, slipped through the side doors, and kept her steps quiet.
She had rules.
She followed them.
Tonight would be no different.
She made it to the blood bank without incident.
No footsteps. No pulse within earshot. No scent of sun-warmed skin or cheap citrus hand soap. Just the hum of the vents and the faint buzz of halogens above.
Empty.
Good.
She slipped inside, eased the door closed with the heel of her boot until it clicked shut. Quiet. Barely there.
Then she turned -
And stopped.
A blade hovered inches from her nose.
Small. Sharp.
Scalpel.
Her eyes nearly crossed staring at it. She froze.
Fuck.
Her gaze dragged upward and yeah. Of course. Her.
The woman.
The jacket-wearing, vein-popping, far too close for comfort woman.
Apparently Rio hadn’t been nearly as clever as she thought. Coming at a different time hadn’t helped. The woman had waited.
Rio didn’t move. Just raised her hands slowly, palms out. Not in fear, just awareness. She wasn’t weak like last time. Not half-blind with hunger - hungry? Sure. Not blinded though. Not out of control.
But still.
Close quarters.
Too close.
“I knew I didn’t imagine it,” the woman said through gritted teeth, jaw tight, eyes sharper than the blade in her hand.
And all Rio could think, stupidly, was: She’s wearing the damn jacket again.
Of course she is.
“That’s my jacket,” Rio said, voice steady even if her heart wasn’t.
The woman’s grip tightened on the scalpel. “I know,” she spat, eyes flashing anger.
Okay. Rio squared her shoulders. “Listen, if you could just give me my jacket back, I can be on my way. Never bother you again. I mean no harm.”
Calm. Controlled. But her gaze flicked to the blade, calculating distance and time.
The woman twisted the scalpel, a deliberate, slow movement against the dim light. “What the fuck did you do to me the other night?”
Rio’s throat tightened. She could use persuasion - make the woman lower the blade, hold her hand for a heartbeat longer - but no way that was happening tonight. Not with the way the woman’s looking at her. So she went with truth.
“Truth is… I hadn’t fed in like seven days. And you - well, you put your hand in front of my food.”
Her eyes met the woman’s, no apology. Just fact.
“Your food?” The woman’s voice was sharp, tinged with disbelief that made Rio’s skin prickle. She didn’t soften her gaze, didn’t flinch.
“Yes,” Rio answered calmly. “The blood. It’s how I survive.”
The woman’s eyes flicked to the scalpel in her hand and then back to Rio’s face. “Your food is blood?”
Rio nodded.
Then more questions came, fast and sharp, like the edge of the blade she held.
“Like..Edward Cullen vampire shit?”
Rio nodded.
“Are you a vampire?”
Rio flinched at the question. She couldn’t help it - it felt more like an accusation.
And then she slowly nodded. Slower this time.
A whispered what the fuck reached Rio’s ears.
“And you what? Drink from blood bags?”
Rio met her eyes steadily. “Only what I need. Just enough to keep going without anyone noticing. I don’t harm anyone else.”
For a moment, silence hung between them, thick and heavy. The woman’s breath came a little faster, as if trying to process what Rio had just said.
“Why don’t you feed on people directly?”
“Because,” Rio said, her voice low but steady, “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Okay. Enough questions. I have one for you.”
The woman’s brow creased in confusion but she didn’t lower the blade.
“What’s your name?”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the scalpel dropped from her hand to the table beside them.
“I’m Agatha.”
Rio gave a brief nod, steady and sure. “Great, Agatha. Here’s the deal: you let me grab a few bags of blood, consider giving me my jacket back, and then I’m gone. I won’t bother you again. Sound fair?”
But Agatha didn’t move aside. Instead, she stepped right in front of Rio, placing herself between her and the blood bags.
“No,” she said simply, with a quiet but firm finality.
And just like that, everything shifted.
“You can’t steal from the blood bank anymore,” Agatha said quietly, but there was no mistaking the firmness in her voice. “We’re running dangerously short. It’s going to get worse over the next few months.”
Rio’s brow furrowed. “I’m not leaving,” she said, voice low but steady. “I need blood. If I don’t get it, no one will be safe from me.”
Agatha’s eyes widened, searching Rio’s face. “What do you mean?”
Rio shook her head, swallowing the rising panic. “I can’t control it, Agatha. What you experienced the other night - that was a miscalculation. I went too long without feeding. And I can starve for even longer.” She swallowed hard, voice dropping to a near whisper. “But if I don’t get blood within two weeks, something inside me breaks. And when that happens, nothing will stop me from slaughtering a family. Or two. Or more. Not even me.”
Agatha shook her head, denial flashing through her eyes. “You can’t have it from here.”
That set something inside Rio aflame. Anger and frustration - a dangerous cocktail. She felt her hands ball into tight fists at her sides. “Agatha, I’m not asking. I’m telling you-”
But Agatha cut her off, voice sharp as the scalpel. “There’s a blood shortage. I’m not going to lose lives in my ER because of you. You can’t take more bags, we need to figure something else out.”
The room seemed to close in, tension thick enough to choke on. Rio’s chest heaved with suppressed rage.
“What do you suggest, then?” Rio’s voice was steady but edged with desperation. “I’m not leaving without blood. You can’t make me.”
Agatha took a slow, deliberate step forward, narrowing the space between them. “Can’t I?”
Rio planted her feet firmly, refusing to back down. “Agatha, you can’t kill me. I’m trying - really trying to keep people safe from me. Please… just let me do this.”
For the first time since they’d met, Agatha’s lips curled into a soft, almost teasing smile. “Then I guess you’ll have to feed from me.”
Rio’s mind froze.
Wait.
What?
The words echoed through her head, refusing to make sense. What the hell was she talking about?
Agatha dropped the scalpel with a quiet clink on the table, then stepped fully into Rio’s personal space - close enough that her scent filled Rio’s senses, heavy and intoxicating.
“How much do you need a day?” Agatha asked quietly, eyes locked on Rio’s.
Rio instinctively took a step back, surprise flickering through her. Backing up from a human? That close?
“Only about half a cup from a human,” she admitted quietly. “From a bag? About one and a half pints.”
Agatha stepped closer, relentless. Rio’s back hit the cold metal door of the blood bank with a sharp clang.
“Well, my body can keep up then with what you need.” Her voice was low, calm, but there was an edge of challenge in it.
Rio shook her head vehemently. “Agatha, I promise I’m doing this because I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to use a human. Please.”
Suddenly, Agatha was almost chest to chest with her. Rio could feel the heat radiating off her.
“You didn’t hurt me.”
Before she even realized it, Agatha lifted a hand and swept her hair away from her neck. The pale, flawless skin was framed perfectly by the purple scrubs she wore.
Rio’s gaze dropped to the delicate pulse throbbing in her neck. Without thinking, her thumb reached out and brushed over it - soft, hesitant.
Agatha didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She just let her throat move gently beneath Rio’s touch.
The reality of it snapped Rio back - heart pounding, mind screaming.
“Agatha, no. I can’t risk it. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Agatha leaned in, pressing just a little more into Rio’s touch at her throat. Her hand rose slowly, reaching up to cup one of Rio’s cheeks. It was an unexpected soft-filled touch.
Rio flinched, reflexes kicking in, but Agatha didn’t let her pull away. Instead, she traced a sure, gentle thumb along Rio’s cheekbone.
It was a touch Rio hadn’t felt in - too long to count. Since she was a child. Mortal. Vulnerable.
Her mind blanked, caught in the simple intimacy of it.
Agatha’s voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now. “I want you to do it again.”
Rio scoffed softly but stayed still under her touch, hesitant. “You don’t even know my name.”
Agatha raised a single brow, teasing. “What’s your name?”
Rio let out a quiet laugh. “Rio.”
“Okay,” Agatha said, her lips curving slightly. “I know your name. Now bite me, Rio.”
Rio shook her head, voice firm but quiet. “No, Agatha. I can’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Before she could brace herself, Agatha spun them around in one fluid motion. Because despite Rio’s strength - she never saw that coming and couldn’t have stopped it.
Now Agatha was pressed close, crowded into the doorway by Rio’s own weight.
Her hand dropped to Rio’s around her throat, thumb sliding gently over Rio’s grip.
“I want it,” she said, voice steady but urgent. “I promise you. It felt so good. It didn’t hurt.”
Her eyes locked with Rio’s, searching.
“I promise. Don’t you want to taste me again?”
Rio started to back up slowly, releasing her grip from Agatha’s throat. She could still make it out of here - no jacket, but at least with some blood in hand.
Agatha didn’t say a word. She just watched Rio move, her eyes steady and unreadable. Then, without a sound, she stepped back toward the table - the one where she’d left the scalpel.
Rio tightened her hold on the bags, turning toward the door. Relief started to build. Maybe this was over.
But then, Agatha was there again, stepping in between her and the exit.
Rio’s breath caught. And right there, next to the tip of Agatha’s thumb, glinted the blade.
“Rio,” Agatha said softly, voice low but intense, “I want this. Please. I’ll do it. Or you can bite me. Please.”
Rio’s heart thudded. She stepped forward instinctively, needing to stop her. She was still hungry.
“Fine, Agatha. Wait. Just wait. Let’s talk about this.”
Agatha lowered the blade, slow and deliberate.
Rio didn’t even need to breathe - but she let out a quiet exhale anyway.
“Look,” she said, voice steady but a little raw, “I need too much to feed off of just you. So I’m going to need bags, okay? But if you really want this… we can try once a week.”
She didn’t know why she was agreeing. Didn’t know why she was breaking her one hard rule.
But looking at Agatha at how calm and determined she was, Rio felt something shift.
Agatha took a step closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough that she could smell her a lot stronger now.
“You’re really okay with this?” Rio asked - slipping out, she didn’t mean to.
Agatha pulled her eyebrows together. “You need to eat, don’t you?”
Like it was obvious.
As if Rio wasn’t a fucking monster.
“Most people would’ve run screaming away about – hmm, I’d say fifteen minutes ago.”
“I’m not most people.”
Fuck. She said it like it was obvious.
Like trusting a vampire wasn’t insane. Like wanting one wasn’t worse.
And Rio? She should’ve walked away right then. Should’ve shut it down, told Agatha no, told herself no. Said something cold and final and slammed the damn door.
Because she’d spent centuries not doing this.
She didn’t bite people. That was the rule.
She hadn’t sunk her teeth into living flesh in over a hundred years. Not since the bags. Not since she promised herself no more slipping. No more chances.
That rule mattered. It kept her tethered to whatever scraps of humanity she had left. Without it, she was just hunger and teeth and blood.
And now she was considering it. For her.
Because Agatha didn’t smell like other people.
She was louder. Brighter. Everything in Rio’s body responded to her like instinct - fast, sharp, breathless.
And the taste.
Fuck.
The taste had ruined her.
There was something in it. Something Rio hadn’t felt since she was alive. Something warm. Familiar. Good.
That was the worst part.
Agatha tasted good. Not just blood-good. Not just hunger-good. Like a death sentence, if Rio let herself want too much. She hadn’t wanted anything in a long time. Not like this. Not with this kind of risk. Not with this kind of pull.
And still she found herself nodding. Saying yes. Letting Agatha in.
The rule cracked. Not broken yet.
What the hell.
“If it gets too much,” Rio said, voice low, almost apologetic, “I need you to tap me on the head. Can you do that?”
Agatha nodded slowly. “Will you be able to feel that?”
Rio gave a small nod in return. “Yeah. I’ve eaten enough - I should be okay. But hit me if you need to. Seriously. You won’t hurt me.”
Another nod from Agatha. Then, “Wait! Let’s um… let’s go to an on-call room. Just in case. I don’t want to wake up in here again.”
That made Rio pause. Wake up?
So she had passed out the first time. Her body really had just given out on her.
And then - against everything she’d done in the last five hundred years - she followed a human. Away from the blood. Away from the exit. To a locked room.
She snagged the blood bags on the way out. Just in case. She wasn’t stupid.
Agatha led the way through the dim corridors, not speaking. Just walking like she did this every night. Like she didn’t have a vampire trailing her in silence.
At the door, she turned to look at Rio, searching maybe, but then stepped aside and let her go in first. When Rio walked in, she could tell even without the lights it was a stereotypical on-call room. A bed, a narrow one. Wall-mounted clock ticking too loud. Couch, blanket, small sink, a crappy chair.
Agatha stepped in behind her and shut the door with a soft but deliberate click.
The bags in Rio’s hands crinkled. Her mouth was dry now, even though she didn’t need water.
She turned around slowly, and Agatha was already setting her hair aside again.
This was really happening.
And Rio was going to let it. For some reason.
The room was silent except for the soft hum of the vent and the clock ticking on the wall like a slow countdown.
Rio stood still, bags gripped in one hand, the other flexing at her side.
Agatha moved first. Pressed herself against the wall near the door and tilted her chin up, brushing her hair aside again. Her pulse that was so steady before, was now tapping out a different rhythm. Faster. Louder.
Rio didn’t move for a second. Just watched. Watched the way Agatha’s breath hitched, how her fingers flexed against the wall.
She took a step. Then another. And then she was right in front of her.
The scent hit like a wave. That deep, rich vein just beneath soft, perfect skin.
She bent forward slightly, eyes scanning Agatha’s face - pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed.
Rio hesitated.
“You okay?” she asked quietly, her voice gravel-edged. “We can stop. If you’re nervous - ”
Agatha’s eyes snapped open like she’d been insulted. “Rio, I’m not nervous.”
A pause.
“I’m excited.”
Oh.
Oh .
Something low and tight twisted in Rio’s stomach. She blinked, the tension between them shifting - sharpening, sweetening. Her throat burned now, but it wasn’t just thirst.
It was something else.
“Right,” she said, voice a bit rough.
Rio had to remind herself that she had asked for this. A volunteer. A willing participant.
She leaned in close now, so close Agatha had to tilt her head back further. The smell was intoxicating.
Rio inhaled slowly, letting the scent coat her lungs.
“Last chance, Agatha.” Her voice dropped - lower, darker. Dangerous. “Say no now.”
Agatha’s lips parted just slightly, throat bobbing once under the weight of Rio’s stare.
Instead of answering, Agatha reached up and curled her fingers around the back of Rio’s neck. Firm. Certain. She pulled her in, no hesitation, until Rio’s lips hovered above the curve of her exposed throat.
Rio stumbled forward, just slightly off balance, her body catching against Agatha’s. The woman’s back hit the wall with a quiet thud, and Rio’s hands instinctively found her waist, trying to catch them both.
Now they were pressed together. Completely.
And Agatha didn’t move away.
At the first real inhale of the woman’s scent - clean skin, soft lavender, a hint of something richer - Rio felt her fangs drop.
She swallowed, hard, before dragging one of her hands up to cradle the other side of her neck.
Agatha was still holding her there. Not gripping tightly, not forcing, but inviting. Willing.
Rio exhaled slowly and leaned in, brushing her nose along the smooth line of Agatha’s neck first. She felt the woman inhale at the contact, a subtle shift in her chest.
And then on Agatha’s exhale, Rio sank her teeth in.
She did it with purpose this time. No desperation. No starvation. No mistakes. Just precision and control.
Agatha’s blood flooded her mouth, warm and slow. It hit her tongue like the first drop of water after a drought, like honeyed oats, soft florals, something human and perfect.
Rio nearly groaned.
She felt Agatha melt under the bite, all tension gone from her body. Her grip on Rio’s neck loosened, not from fear but from surrender. Her shoulders dropped, legs threatening to give.
Quickly, Rio shifted, slipping one leg between Agatha’s to help keep her upright. Agatha didn’t resist. She sank into the contact, head tilted further into her grasp, offering more.
And Rio drank.
God, the taste. She hadn’t tasted blood like this ever - well, except for last time. There was something alive in it. Something sacred. It made her stomach clench, made her knees weak.
She could feel the warmth rushing into her system, her senses sharpening, her strength returning, but that wasn’t what made her breath catch. It was the pleasure.
Not hers.
Agatha’s.
She felt it in the way her pulse fluttered - how her body shifted, how her breathing hitched and then steadied like she was floating.
Rio almost let go, almost let herself drown in it.
But then instinct snapped in.
Too long.
She pulled back suddenly, fangs retracting, her breath sharp.
Her mouth was wet. Her hands were shaking. Her head was buzzing.
Agatha sagged against the wall, her eyes still shut.
Rio panicked for a second.
“Shit did you -?” she asked. “You didn’t tap, did you? I didn’t feel it - ”
Agatha’s eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded. Her lips curved into the barest smile.
“No,” she whispered, voice a little breathless. “I didn’t need to.”
Agatha reached for her again.
Still pressed to the wall, her chest rising and falling in uneven waves, she caught Rio by the front of her jacket and tugged her closer.
Rio didn’t resist. She couldn’t, not with the way Agatha looked at her, half-lidded and flushed, her pulse still thrumming where Rio could feel it like a second heartbeat.
“Okay,” Rio said quietly, her own voice rough. “Hold on. Let me fix it - just stay still.”
She leaned in, hands steadying on Agatha’s hips. Then, with the same control she’d summoned earlier, she pressed her mouth to the puncture marks and let her tongue sweep across the wound.
Just once. Intentional. Precise.
The effect was immediate.
Agatha’s grip on Rio’s neck tightened, fingers trembling just slightly and from somewhere low in her throat, came the softest, most delicate sound.
A moan.
So faint Rio almost missed it. Almost. But she didn’t. And it stopped her cold.
Not in fear, but in something else, something deeper. Her eyes flicked up, her lips still ghosting over Agatha’s throat. Agatha didn’t pull away.
She was holding her there. Not forcing. Not pleading. Just… holding.
Trying to catch her breath.
And Rio stood utterly still, melted into the strange and welcome intimacy of a human’s hands.
Something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Maybe ever.
Agatha’s chest finally slowed, her breathing beginning to even out. She leaned her head back against the wall behind her, and after a few more seconds passed, her fingers loosened from Rio’s neck.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Rio stepped back, just an inch. Enough to breathe. Enough to think.
“I was serious about the blood shortage,” Agatha added, her voice steadier now. “You’re going to have to use me to limit the amount of bags you take.”
Rio blinked like coming out of a trance.
That heat, the weight of Agatha’s body pressed against hers, the taste still clinging to her tongue - it all crashed like a wave.
She wants to do it again. Not because of the ER. Not just to save blood. But because she trusted Rio to do it again.
And Rio…
Rio was bending her rules.
Not for hunger.
For her.
For some reason. She hasn’t figured that out yet. She’ll be sure to brood on that later.
Agatha’s eyes flicked to the bundled blood bags resting on the small table beside them.
“Okay,” she said, brushing her hands down the front of her scrubs. “That’s what… five bags?”
Rio gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”
“How long will that last you?”
“A week.”
Agatha nodded, lips pressing together. “Okay. Every week, then.”
Rio tilted her head slightly, brow furrowing.
Agatha stepped closer, her voice firmer now. “We’re going to wean you off the bags. I’m serious, Rio. The shortage is starting to make the staff nervous. If we keep losing blood at this rate, people are going to start dying.”
Rio blinked at her. Unmoving. No answer.
But Agatha didn’t flinch.
She just pushed forward, stepping out of Rio’s lingering grip. Then without much grace, she shrugged off the jacket still hanging on her shoulders. Like she didn’t want to take it off. Rio’s jacket. She held it out, crumpled in one hand.
Rio stared at it for a second too long. Then sighed softly and took it.
“Same time,” Agatha said, already stepping toward the door. “Next week. Here instead. You don’t need to sneak in anymore. I’ll bring you the blood.”
Rio blinked again - this time slower. She nodded.
Once.
And just like that, they separated. No more words. No lingering glances.
Rio slipped out the door. Jacket slung over one shoulder.
And she went home.
Tired.
Fed.
Confused as hell.
And already thinking about next week.