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Malachi freezes.

My breath rattles through my chest. The command should have been effortless, yet it costs too much. The mark burns deeper, and for a second I see nothing but red-black light and Eira’s throat.

Then she is in front of me.

No one moves quickly enough to stop her because none of us expect it. She crosses the sigil ring and plants one hand beside the mark.

Heat detonates through me as I catch her wrist.

Eira freezes, but she does not pull away. ‘Don’t,’ she says quietly, for me alone. ‘Whatever you’re about to do, don’t.’

I look down at her hand. So small. Strong. Warm. Her touch steadies the pain and worsens the hunger.

That contradiction nearly makes me laugh. ‘You do not know what I am about to do,’ I say through clenched teeth.

‘I know that face. You’re deciding whether to command, bite or break something.’

The accuracy irritates me enough to help. I release her wrist. She removes her hand slowly, and the loss of contact scrapes through me in a way that’s interesting, dangerous and damning.

‘Step back,’ I say.

This time she obeys, though her eyes remain locked on mine.

‘I need blood,’ I say.

The room shifts into motion at once.

‘Fresh?’ Aaron asks.

‘No.’

Malachi’s gaze sharpens. ‘Sire⁠—’

‘No feeding.’ My voice cracks around the order, and fury rises with the weakness. ‘Bags. Now.’

The humiliation of it is immediate.

Bagged blood is functional, sterile, a ration for travel, injury, delicate negotiations and circumstances in which discretion matters more than pleasure. It sustains. It does not satisfy. For one of my age, it is nearly insulting.

But if I put my mouth to living skin right now, I do not trust myself to stop. If I put my mouth to her skin, New York may not survive the result.

Aaron vanishes and returns within seconds with two dark medical bags and three sealed blood pouches, chilled but potent. Old emergency stock. High quality.

Still inadequate.

I tear open the first pouch and drink. Vile, flat, dead but useful.

My body absorbs it greedily despite my disdain. Strength returns in a slow, grudging wave. The tremor in my muscles eases. The mark remains hot, but the world steadies around the edges.

I drain the second. Then the third. By the time I finish, my fangs have retracted and speech no longer feels like dragging a blade up my throat.

Eira watches me with concern, curiosity, guilt and something softer she would no doubt deny under threat of dismemberment.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

‘Better?’ she asks.

‘No.’