The Fox in the Henhouse (1)

The morning sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains in Lena's room, casting muted shadows on the floor. She had been dead asleep, the kind of sleep that only the truly exhausted or the truly numb could achieve, when a persistent knocking rattled her from her slumber. Her eyes snapped open, and for a split second, the room felt unfamiliar, like she had woken up in someone else's skin.

Another knock came, more insistent this time, shaking her from her daze. Who the hell is that? Her mind immediately went dark with irritation, her instincts flaring. She sat up, groaning under her breath as the cold air hit her skin. If they don't stop pounding on that door, I might just drain them dry...

Lena ran her fingers through her disheveled hair, pushing herself off the bed. Her body still ached from the restless sleep, but her annoyance was sharper than any lingering fatigue. Why now? Of all times, why do people feel the need to disturb me when I'm trying to get a damn moment of peace?

Her thoughts spiraled as she padded toward the door. The idea of draining someone's blood crossed her mind more than once. She could already feel the hunger pulsing beneath her skin, a dull throb that had become so familiar over the years. Wouldn't take much. Just a little bite. Just enough to silence them...

Another knock.

Her irritation peaked, and she reached for the door handle with a sharp tug, her fingers tightening around it as though it were person's neck who was knocking she was gripping. The door swung open, and there he stood—Gregory. The eager innkeeper, his face flushed with excitement, his eyes immediately dropping to take in the sight of her.

Gregory's breath hitched. His gaze lingered far too long on her body, still draped in that provocatively altered dress from the night before. It clung to her in all the wrong ways—or perhaps all the right ones, depending on who was looking. Gregory, clearly, was not immune.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts racing faster than he could control. God, she's something else... His eyes roamed her figure. The hem of the dress was still high, exposing her legs, and the neckline dipped low, revealing just enough cleavage to make his heart skip a beat. He felt a rush of heat in his body, a primal urge he hadn't felt in years, not since his wife had passed.

What would it feel like to touch her? To feel her skin against mine? Gregory quickly tried to shake the thoughts away, but they clung to him, nagging at the edges of his mind. His hands trembled slightly, and he cursed himself for it, feeling like a schoolboy caught staring at a girl in class.

Lena's sharp voice cut through his wandering thoughts. "Why are you knocking at my door?"

Gregory blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question, his tongue tripping over itself. "Uh... I—" He struggled to remember why he was even standing there. His mind had been completely swept away by the sight of her, and now her voice had snapped him back to reality.

"I said, why are you knocking at my door?" Lena repeated, her irritation palpable, like the very air around her had grown thicker with tension. She folded her arms across her chest, waiting for him to respond, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Gregory cleared his throat, trying to gather his composure. "I... I came to ask what you'd like for breakfast, miss." His voice wavered, and he hated how weak he sounded in front of her.

"Anything," Lena replied curtly, her patience wearing thin. "Is that all?"

Gregory's eyes darted to hers, then quickly down again, unable to hold her gaze for too long without his mind wandering back to those indecent thoughts. He licked his lips nervously, feeling like he should say more, like he should make some kind of polite conversation. But the words wouldn't come. All he could think about was how good she looked standing there, her hair slightly tousled from sleep, the dress hugging her body in ways that made his chest tighten.

"When would you like it served?" Gregory stammered out. "And... where? In your room or down in the dining area?"

Lena sighed, clearly not in the mood for all the questions. "In the room. At 9."

Gregory nodded eagerly, still not fully trusting his voice. He was grateful for any excuse to be near her again, to stand in her presence and drink in the sight of her. He found himself already anticipating bringing her the breakfast, just for another chance to knock on that door and maybe catch her in another revealing moment.

"Is that all?" Lena asked, her tone sharp and biting, the question feeling more like a dismissal.

Gregory hesitated for a moment, staring at her, unable to look away. "Yes," he finally managed, his voice barely a whisper.

Lena's eyes narrowed again, her irritation practically radiating off her. She could feel his gaze clinging to her like a second skin, and it disgusted her—but in a way that made her want to toy with him. He was so easy to manipulate, so hungry for something he couldn't have.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Lena adjusted her dress, pulling the neckline down just a little further, her fingers grazing the exposed skin of her chest. She watched Gregory's eyes widen slightly, his breath catching in his throat. Then, without warning, she raised one leg up, resting it against the edge of the doorframe, her posture both casual and calculated, knowing full well what kind of reaction she was provoking.

Gregory's face flushed red, his hands twitching at his sides as he struggled to keep his composure. His mind was a whirlwind of lustful thoughts, the desire he had been trying so hard to suppress bubbling up uncontrollably.

What I wouldn't give... he thought, his throat dry, his heart pounding. She knows exactly what she's doing...

Lena smirked, her eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction. "The show's over," she said softly, her voice dripping with disdain. "Buzz off."

And with that, she closed the door in his face, the sound of the latch clicking echoing in the narrow hallway. Gregory stood there for a moment, stunned, his mind still racing, his body tense with unfulfilled desire. He swallowed hard, trying to shake the image of her from his mind, but it clung to him like a fever he couldn't break.

He turned on his heel and walked away, heading down the hall. His steps were heavy, and his thoughts were a tangled mess of shame and lust. As much as he tried to push it down, the image of her standing there, teasing him with every movement, refused to leave his mind.

"Breakfast," he muttered to himself, trying to focus. "She wants breakfast..."