I locked the door behind me and turned the shower pressure all the way up. Then I collapsed onto the floor. I could no longer pretend that I was fine—but thankfully, now I had a chance to restore my strength. I hadn't managed to reach the cooler bag hidden elsewhere in the house, so I turned to the stash instead. Thank God Karina had thought of everything.
Finding the seam in the reinforced bathroom wall, I pressed both palms against the cold tile and pushed firmly. The hidden panel clicked and gave way. With trembling hands, I pulled one of the prepared blood bags from the concealed refrigerator, tore off the protective seal with my teeth, and greedily squeezed its contents into my mouth. Thick blood spread across my tongue, making every cell in my body tremble with pleasure as strength poured down my throat and filled me with life.
If Karina hadn't arranged the stash before our arrival, I had no idea how I would have managed. I drained the first bag faster than I should have. It dulled the hunger, but it didn't satisfy it. Without much thought, I reached for a second and this time drank slowly through the tube, forcing myself to pace it. Satiety always came with a delay—but resisting the urge to tear open every remaining bag took real effort. The blood tasted too good, and I was exhausted from enduring the thirst.
What stopped me was knowing how dangerous it was to give in. Especially with Mark just beyond the door. A vampire might be conscious, disciplined, strong—but willpower turned to nothing once the hunting frenzy took hold. It clouded the mind so swiftly that you didn't even notice when your fangs sank into a new victim.
I remembered that feeling all too well.
Once, I had surrendered to it—after drinking from the bastard who had been waiting for me in the parking lot. I didn't regret that one. His soul had been rotten, his life empty. Cruelty was the only thing that filled his heart. He would have brought nothing into this world but suffering, and I killed him.
I had always believed it noble—right—to be selective about who I fed on. Being close to Mark had taught me to see new dimensions in people. The better I came to know him, the easier it became to notice in other mortals the qualities that lifted them above the status of disposable fuel for vampires and other creatures whose existence depended on чужая кровь—borrowed blood. I was proud of that choice. Proud that for three months, I had never slipped.
Until that day.
I remembered the girl with pink hair from the event—the one who smiled sweetly as she asked for a photo together. Her eyes sparkled beneath the stage lights like a scattering of a thousand stars. How could I have said no? We spoke briefly, warmly. She dreamed of becoming a writer, and I wanted to believe that one day she would create a beautiful novel. Perhaps not a great one, but at least a story whose words would reach other hearts and kindle a fire no dimmer than the glow in her own eyes.
That day, however, fate chose to place the reins of the chariot in my hands—to see whether I could control myself, whether my pride would fail me. And it did.
No one could have known that the girl would end up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet that was exactly what happened. While the blood of my victim had not yet dried on my lips, she appeared in the doorway of the fire exit. I can only imagine what she must have felt at the sight before her: the writer she had taken a photo with half an hour earlier stood bathed in someone else's blood beneath the streetlights, a languid, satisfied smile on her lips. I always wore that smile after a successful hunt—and in that moment, I was still pleased with myself, convinced I had done the right thing. After all, there was now one less parasite in the world.
Our eyes met, and the light in hers went out. In its place came the horror of understanding, and nothing could tear that image from her memory now. It branded itself into her mind forever—a truth never meant for someone so young and fragile.
I understood in a fraction of a second: she was about to scream. Instinct took over. There was no time to think. As if driven by momentum, I surged toward her. The frantic pounding of my heart became a drumbeat in my ears as I pulled her into my arms, pressing my body against hers. She didn't even have time to comprehend what was happening—only a soft moan escaped her lips as my teeth sank deep into her skin, like a knife sliding through butter.
I will remember her taste forever. It felt as though, together with her warm blood, my body was being filled with a renewed hope—a naïve desire to love this world, to celebrate every creature in it, to believe in others, to trust in chance.
Lost in the echo of her earlier emotions, I didn't notice the moment when there was no longer a living person in my arms. Only a limp doll remained, slack and empty. I stepped back and looked at her one last time. Even her crimson-pink hair seemed to have faded as she passed on to another world—one I hoped was better. Her face had gone utterly slack, her features elongated, and in her eyes lay a silent acceptance of fate. There was nothing left to change. A corpse remains a corpse.
For the first time, I tasted disappointment. It was bitter and sharp, like the scent of her perfume. My hands were shaking. I hated myself for what I had done. I mourned the stolen future that would never come to pass. I grieved for the book she would now never finish writing.
Something inside me cracked that day and changed forever. For months afterward, I followed new rules when it came to feeding, forcing myself to adapt. An idea took root in my mind: if Mark stood apart from the faceless mass of consumers willing to trample others for their own gain, then there must be more people like him in the world. And yes—she had been one of them. But she would leave no trace behind. Which meant that I had destroyed, with my own hands, a chance to make the world even slightly better.
It sickened me to think that the radiant girl could have been Mark. Worse still was the thought that one day, he might truly end up in her place—held in an embrace, drained of every last drop of blood by the woman he once loved. If I couldn't keep control of myself in moments like that, wasn't it naïve to believe such a thing could never happen at home?
The destructive thoughts had made me abandon everything. I didn't remember getting into the car or driving home. I didn't remember how I ended up in the hallway, quietly sitting and gathering my thoughts.
That day, I had planned to leave Mark—for his own good. For the life he could have without me. A happy life where danger would never find its way to his doorstep. But I couldn't.
From the hallway, I glimpsed the soft flicker of candlelight. Mark was bustling at the countertop, arranging dinner on my favorite china. In the center of the table stood a lush bouquet of bush roses. A lump rose in my throat at the sight. I couldn't force myself to speak, to shatter this romantic scene into the ruins of our happiness. Instead, I retreated to the hallway and collapsed onto the ottoman, oblivious to my jacket stained with someone else's blood.
That's how Mark found me: sitting in the darkness, unsure how to go on, knowing that the only—and very real—threat to the person I loved most in the world was myself.
I wondered if Mark's life would be in danger now if I had found the strength to leave back then. I couldn't say for certain, but the burning, unrelenting sense that it was all my fault would not let me rest.
I returned the used blood packs to their hidden compartment, quickly showered, and carelessly dried my hair with the blow dryer.
When I emerged, Mark was gone. I checked room after room, calling his name, but the house remained silent until a persistent knock came at the door.