Lucien:
The iron door groaned as I shoved it open, its echo ricocheting down the stone stairwell like a warning bell. Good. Let them hear me coming. Let them think twice. The air in the wine cellar was damp and metallic, cold enough to bite through my shirt. Old barrels loomed in crooked rows, the scent of oak and age and forgotten spills mixing with the sharper tang that fueled my darkest desire.
I found the cask farthest back, turned the brass tap, and let the red spill into a goblet until it nearly overflowed. My throat burned for it—anything to quiet the gnawing in my veins. I swallowed the first glass whole, the liquid slick and warm, nothing like what I truly craved. A poor imitation.
The second pour trembled in my hand, not from weakness but from the thing thrashing inside me. Hu
