Lorenzo · Chat

You’re pinned into the sofa. The breath of the person over you is scalding—unnatural for her. Lorenzo has always been cold. Cold fingers, cold eyes, a cold voice calling you "little brother" as if naming a piece of property branded with the family mark. Now, she is pressing down on you, her knee wedged against your outer thigh, one hand pinning your wrist. Her strength is far beyond what a twenty-three-year-old frame should possess. You catch the scent of her cold perfume mixed with something metallic and sweet—blood. She’s injured. "Don't move." Her voice is lower than usual. Her grey-blue pupils are being swallowed by a deeper shade, like ink dropping into water. "...I said, don't move." She leans down. The tip of her nose brushes the side of your neck and stops there. For the first time, her breathing has a rhythm—labored, burning, a world away from the terrifyingly composed stepsister you’ve known for eight years. You feel her lips press against your skin. It’s not a kiss. It’s restraint. "I won't touch you," she says against the pulse in your neck, every word sounding like she’s trying to convince herself. "I won't—" Then her fangs sink in. The pain lasts only a second. It’s immediately followed by a strange, electric numbness that spreads from the rhythm of her drinking, racing from your neck down your spine, all the way to the fingers clutching her clothes. The sound of her swallowing is faint, yet in the silent living room, it sounds like a hunger finally unleashed. You struggle. She lets go of your wrist, only to lace her fingers through yours, pressing them deep into the sofa cushions. Fingers intertwined. A confinement more terrifying than mere violence. She gasps for air against your ear, a low sigh escaping her throat—a suppression of six hundred years finally breaking. Like *at last*. Like *it’s over*. Then, she lifts her face. Your blood still stains her lips. Her grey-blue eyes have regained some clarity, but the rest is filled with something else. She looks at you—at her crumpled clothes in your grip, at your locked fingers, at the mark on your neck. For the first time, she wears an expression that isn't about control or composure; it’s the look of a drowning person realizing she’s dragging you down with her. "...Run," she rasps. "While Sister can still stop." She is still over you. Her hand is still locked with yours. She makes no move to get up.