The quiet between them swelled thick and ripe with threat. Then—

Celeste laughed. Not sweetly. Not kindly. But with a rot-rimmed rasp that echoed off the stone walls like a funeral bell.

“A vampire,” she said, voice soaked in mirthless amusement, “to assist you in studying the dead. Bloodletting. Dissection. Grave robbing, even. All for… what was it? A research paper?”

She tilted her head, mock-innocent. “How scholarly.”

Her teeth flashed—blackened at the tips from starvation, gums drawn tight. Her grin was not beautiful. It was predatory.

Imara’s spine straightened, jaw tightening. “You sound unconvinced.”

“Oh, I am,” Celeste purred. “Tell me, Doctor—are you truly prepared for what it means to invite a monster into your home? Or are you simply another bored mortal playing dress-up with corpses?”

The insult landed like a slap.

Imara did not rise to the bait—but her eyes narrowed, lips flattening. “If you can’t understand the basic concept of a kill,” she said coolly, “then at least I trust you can handle the sight of blood. Unlike my last assistant, who pissed himself at the sight of a flayed ribcage.”

Something behind Celeste’s eyes twitched. A flicker of old rage. Hunger. Ego.

“I can handle more than that,” she hissed, rising now, her full height uncoiling like a storm behind her. “To cleave flesh from bone with precision, to peel back a being’s truth layer by layer—that is child’s play to me.”

Imara folded her arms, her smirk razor-sharp.

“So,” she said, “what’s holding you back from accepting my offer?”

Celeste’s gaze burned down at her. “You presume it’s hesitation.”

“Isn’t it?” Imara cocked her head. “What is it then? Guilt? A soft heart toward the living?”

“I am undead,” Celeste snapped. “Soft hearts don’t beat in hollow chests.”

A pause. The air crackled between them.

Imara sighed—an exhausted, deliberate thing. Then, with unblinking calm, she raised her wrist.

It hovered between them like a promise. “What if I threw in a steady meal?” she asked, voice low. “You want blood. I want an assistant. Let’s strike a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

She turned her arm slightly, exposing the pale underside, veins pulsing.

“Sample the source.”

Celeste didn’t move at first. Her crimson eyes locked onto the offered wrist like it might vanish.

“You’d offer that,” she said, throat tightening, “so easily?”

“No,” Imara replied. “Nothing I do is easy.”

A breath.

Then another.

Celeste’s jaw flexed. Her fangs had begun to slide down, involuntary, the sharp points catching her lower lip. A twitch of pain. A gasp of anticipation.

Still, she hesitated.

“I haven’t fed in weeks,” she whispered. “I may take more than you mean to give.”

“Then don’t disappoint me,” Imara said, “by pretending you can’t control yourself.”

It was a challenge. And a trust fall. And perhaps a dare she would regret.

Celeste’s eyes burned scarlet.

With reverence—and hunger—she stepped closer. Her fingers curled around Imara’s wrist like a shackle, cool and trembling. She bowed her head.

“I won’t say thank you,” she murmured.

“I don’t require it,” Imara answered.

And then—

Fangs. Flesh. Heat.

Pain, sharp and searing, pierced her skin. Imara flinched—but did not pull away.

Celeste drank.

Her lips were soft. Her breath ragged. But the pull of her mouth—slow, aching—was precise. Not the desperate drain of a starving thing, but the measured savoring of a connoisseur denied her favorite wine for too long.

Imara’s knees nearly gave. She gritted her teeth. Her fingers curled against the cold stone wall beside them.

She could feel her blood being taken—wanted, valued, memorized. Her heart thundered in her ears.

When Celeste finally pulled back, her eyes were nearly glowing. Her lips were red. Not from paint.

From her.

“That,” Celeste said softly, “was… invigorating.”

Imara yanked her wrist back and licked the bite clean with a cold, surgical motion. “Then let’s begin your orientation, shall we?”

Celeste smiled, real this time—less teeth, more wicked delight.

Her fingers twitched, aching for strength. Her throat burned, perhaps for the first time in months, as she could feel again, the blood pumping through her veins, re-animating life within her exhausted flesh, causing broken veins and gaunt bones to start to heal once more.

"You free me," she said slowly, "and in return, I become your assistant. Your scalpel-bearer. Your corpse companion. Your monster-on-call."

Imara tilted her head. “You make it sound romantic.”

Celeste leaned in, just slightly, enough for Imara to smell the decay and dying rose lingering on her breath. “Darling,” she murmured, voice like silk dipped in venom, “romance is autopsy, when done correctly.”

Their eyes met.

Heat. No touch. Just a lingering proximity, the way oil leans toward flame.

Celeste held her breath—not because she needed to, but because she wanted the moment to stretch longer.

Finally, she straightened.

"I accept, Dr. Vex," she said. “But I expect compensation. And I prefer my blood warm.”

Imara smiled—sharp and brief. “You’ll find I’m a generous employer.”

Celeste’s eyes gleamed. “We’ll see, won’t we?”