Chapter 6 - Ritual Failure
Jaquelyn
18:30 | Solarium Private Club – Suite 409
The scent hit her first— metal, sweat, stale air. Not dirty. Just… unfiltered. There was a rawness to the energy in the room. A crackle she recognized from long nights with too-young fledglings in badly ventilated basements.
Topher Vale was sitting on the edge of the bed, half hunched over, hands loosely knotted between his knees. His shirt was rumpled, open at the collar. He hadn’t fully noticed her yet, or if he had, he hadn’t reacted.
His eyes were wrong. Not in the usual way. Not bloodlust or panic. Just raw. Unsettled. Like his body was present but his mind was still catching up.
She took a breath, let it fill her belly, and stepped inside.
Ezekial moved to follow.
She turned— quiet, firm— and closed the door behind her. Smooth. No force. No drama. Just a simple boundary. She didn’t need him in the room. Not yet.
The latch caught with a soft snick, and for a moment she let her forehead rest against the wood, eyes closed. Just a beat. One breath.
Alright, girl. Here we go.
She turned back around, composed again. Chin high, mouth soft, hands relaxed at her sides. This wasn’t about her. Wasn’t about him, either. It was about making sure the next twenty minutes didn’t end in trauma, blood, or fire. She could already feel how close this one was to the edge.
But she’d brought worse back from it.
She didn’t flinch. Not for anyone.
She moved slowly at first.
Not because she was afraid—but because he was still figuring out what he was. Her presence needed to read as steady, not passive. Calm. Predictable. Too much intensity might push him off the ledge. Too little, and he’d feel abandoned before they even began.
Topher Vale didn’t look at her right away. He kept his eyes fixed on the carpet like it had answers. His hands fidgeted against his knees—tapping, flexing, pulling at nothing. Still human movements. Nervous ones. Disjointed, like the pieces of himself hadn’t reassembled in the same shape they used to be.
But his body wasn’t human anymore. His aura shimmered like oil on water—slippery, strange, unbalanced. Not quite vampire yet, not quite not. It was always like this, the first hour. That horrible, liminal moment when instinct fought biology and the mind hadn’t caught up.
"Topher," she said gently, just above a whisper. Not babying. Just soft enough to cut through the storm she could feel rolling under his skin.
He glanced up.
His eyes were dark—colorless in the low light. Not rage. Not lust. Something in between. He looked… startled. Like her voice had found him somewhere he wasn’t ready to be seen.
“You’re real,” he murmured.
“Very,” she said, offering a faint smile. “I’m Jaquelyn. From VeinCare.”
He blinked, like the name had meaning, but not enough shape to hold onto.
“I’m here for you,” she added, stepping further in. “To help. This is your first feed since the turning, yes?”
He nodded, a single, jerky motion. His throat worked like he wanted to speak and couldn’t find the words.
She crouched nearby, slow and poised—arms resting on her knees, not quite within reach. “You’re safe. And you’re not alone. This part feels… like too much, doesn’t it?”
He swallowed again. “I—yeah. I didn’t know it would feel like this.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Most don’t. It’s alright.”
His gaze dropped to her neck, flicked away fast. Embarrassed. She didn’t call attention to it. She never did. Curiosity wasn’t a crime. Hunger even less so.
Instead, she pulled a cloth-wrapped case from her satchel and unfolded it on the low table. Vials. Gauze. A single polished blade. Protocol, not threat. She let him see all of it. Let the tools speak for her calm.
He watched her, silent, hunger tightening around his jaw. The fangs weren’t out yet—but she could feel them pushing at his lips from the inside. His skin was too tight. He was trying to stay composed, and failing slowly.
She unwrapped her wrist slowly, rolling the sleeve of her blouse to her elbow, exposing smooth, unblemished skin.
“Are you ready?” she asked , voice steady.
He nodded again.
And when she extended her wrist toward him, his hand came up—trembling slightly—as if he thought the offer might vanish.
Topher
He didn’t deserve this.
He knew it. Somewhere underneath the gnawing in his bones and the heat behind his eyes, he knew it. This woman—this calm, beautiful, steady person—was here, offering herself like it was nothing.
Like he was worth something.
He wasn’t. But gods, he wanted to be.
His fingers brushed her skin and his breath caught. She was warm. Not just body-warm. She radiated something softer. Something alive in a way he already wasn’t.
"You're not afraid of me," he whispered, not even sure it was a question.
"No," she said. Not proud. Not careless. Just truth.
His hand tightened. Her wrist rested against his palm like a lifeline he hadn’t earned.
He looked at her face. No flinch. No disgust. Just presence. Grounded, like she'd stood in this place a thousand times before and still chose to stay. Like this was, well what it was, a job.
But she saw him, too. Not the childer. Not the child of Ezekial. Not a strong vampire.
Just him. Someone to take care of.
It made him feel… small. Insignificant. Common.
His stomach churned. His throat tightened. Shame curled around the edges of the hunger, cold and heavy.
He pulled back from the offered wrist, retreating into himself. Hands dropped into his lap, shoulders coiled tight. He stood up fast, like distance could keep him from shattering. Turned his back on her.
“I can’t,” he muttered.
Silence.
When he finally dared glance back, she hadn’t moved to follow him. Just observed, brow furrowed—not in pity, but in calculation.
Then she nodded to herself, reached for the blade, and made a clean, practiced incision near her wrist.
The scent hit him like lightning.
Her blood.
It smelled of warmth, brightness, depth. Like fire wrapped in honey. Like home, if he’d ever had one. His body reacted before he did—knees going weak, fangs sliding forward unbidden.
His breath left him in a slow, shuddering groan.
He didn’t mean to lunge.
But he did.