+ Blood +

Was it the ethereal call of a forsaken siren or the lament of the newly anointed High Priestess of the Vampire Realm?

The Vampire King's eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat when he glimpsed the dagger embedded deep within the High Priestess's chest. Such a fatal wound would be the end of any mere mortal, yet here she was, barely holding on.

His mind, somehow still functioning amidst the chaos, found itself entranced by the intricate design of the dagger. It seems so familiar, he pondered, sifting through the vast archive of memories.

Drawing her closer, he inspected the hilt, delicately engraved with a name that matched its exquisite craftsmanship. "Hecate," he whispered, the name echoing softly through the eerie silence.

Could it be that the Goddess of Magic herself had gifted this blade to Luna upon her ascension to the rank of High Priestess? But then, what led to this unfortunate predicament? Did the deity present herself only to betray Luna with a stab, or had Luna turned the blade on herself in a twist he couldn't fathom?

He would only find the truth by seeking answers from the High Priestess herself. The silver lining in this dark cloud was that the dagger hadn't pierced deeply enough to threaten her spine.

Intent on tending to her wound, the Vampire King began to gently remove the soaked fabric of her attire, but he hesitated. The rain-drenched fabric accentuated the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Even though he was a seasoned monarch, having witnessed countless wonders in his immortal life, he found himself momentarily enchanted. He reminded himself of the reverence due to the High Priestess of Hecate. She wasn't just any other woman; she was sacred.

Stay focused, he admonished himself. There's no time to lose.

A sly smirk played on his lips. The Vampire King was always drawn to that which lay on the shadowy side of propriety.

He hesitated, allowing his eyes to traverse the delicate silk of her gown, which seemed almost ethereal. The way it draped over her gave a soft glimpse of her delicate form beneath. A temptation he wasn't prepared for.

Suppressing a deep exhale, he noted the subtle curve of her breasts, which seemed to call out for a tender touch. But he was no ordinary man – he was the Vampire King, the ruler of a vast empire. Yet, he must remember that despite his rank and the power it held, the High Priestess had her own sanctity.

His initial intent, fueled by desire, was curbed by the memory of the ancient lore. The High Priestess had to remain untouched to break the curse of the Blood Beast. He had to protect her purity for the sake of his kingdom.

A slight blush crept up his cheeks as he awkwardly adjusted her gown, attempting to shield her from his own lingering gaze. But in that vulnerability, he leaned in closer, her breath soft and rhythmic against his skin, a testament to her living pulse after days of her absence.

The dagger, he reminded himself, snapping back to the gravity of the situation. He grimaced, grasping the hilt firmly. In one swift motion, he removed the blade. The High Priestess let out a sharp cry, her breath shaky as crimson spilled, staining her once pristine dress.

The aroma of fresh blood tempted his deepest desires. His fangs grew, yearning for a taste. He had to muster every ounce of his willpower, reminding himself of the consequences, to ensure he didn't succumb to his basest instincts and harm the one person who could be their salvation.

He diverted his attention to the fragrance of her hair, immersing himself in the delicate notes of lotus and the refreshing scent of spring waters.

With careful precision, the Vampire King scooped up the High Priestess, intent on reaching dry land. Her head nestled against his shoulder, and the closeness stirred a familiar yet intense longing within him. The silvery strands of her hair, reminiscent of moonlit nights, gently caressed his beard.

Having experienced pleasure earlier with the company of his concubines, he was caught off guard by his body's immediate reaction to the High Priestess. There was an undeniable magnetism he felt towards her, something that surpassed mere physical attraction. This realization was, to him, both surprising and unsettling.

"What an inconvenience," he murmured.

The High Priestess's soft moans became more pronounced with every step he took. When he finally reached the sanctuary of solid ground, her breathing steadied with a whispery sigh. Gently, he laid her onto the mossy earth by the pool's edge. Swiftly tearing strips from his silk robes, which had been provided by his trusted eunuch, he began to staunch the bleeding. After ensuring the makeshift bandages were secure, he caressed her arm, marveling at its unexpected firmness.

The sharp angles of her shoulder blades and the hollowness of her cheeks painted a harrowing image of a woman who had been deprived of sustenance for far too long. This only reinforced his resolve to keep her alive.

As he lightly traced the delicate curve of her collarbone, an idea struck him. With a swift motion, the Vampire King slashed his own wrist, allowing his life-giving blood to flow into the High Priestess's mouth. Each time the wound began to close, he reopened it, ensuring she received enough to restore her strength.

Gently wiping the perspiration from her forehead, the shadow of her dark lashes cast a delicate contrast against her alabaster cheeks. She lay motionless, the flow of his pure vampire blood ceasing. While he knew his essence would aid her recovery, he had to ensure moderation. Overindulgence could transform the High Priestess into a rogue feeder – a conundrum he did not wish to address.

Drawn inexplicably to her lips, images of fervent desires consumed him, causing an intense surge of lust that threatened to overpower his senses. The ambiance around them shifted dramatically, with the air turning dense and scorching.

Almost unconsciously, his thumb grazed her pristine face. To his astonishment and delight, she leaned into his touch, her lips brushing against the rugged texture of his hand. This fleeting intimacy stirred emotions he hadn't expected. However, he quickly withdrew, acutely aware of the sanctity of her vows.

Armed with a leather canteen – a gift from his concubines – he ventured a short distance to fetch some cool water, anticipating she might thirst once revived by his blood. Behind him, a faint cough signaled her awakening. Suddenly, the distinctive sound of Hecate's dagger sliced through the air, narrowly missing him.