Transformative Nights

Sweet Disappointment

His words trailed off again, his breath hitching as he seemed to forget the thread of his thoughts. I pulled back slightly, licking the faint wound closed as I met his gaze once more.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” I murmured, my voice both a command and a challenge.

Jonathan’s eyes burned with something unreadable as he struggled to find his voice again. This time, when he resumed speaking, his words carried a new intensity, one that blurred the line between submission and rebellion.

I continued to eat, letting his blood fuel my power and my hunger. Jonathan’s body trembled under me, a mix of fear and arousal evident in the way he spoke about the Headmistress. I could feel his resistance faltering, his thoughts becoming muddled as I consumed more of his blood.

“Stop,” he gasped, trying to push me away. But I held him down easily, my strength amplified by the fresh blood coursing through my veins.

“I’m just having dinner,” I said again, my voice low and almost seductive. “You keep talking.”

Jonathan's voice grew bolder, his words dripping with lewd intent as he described the Headmistress’s body. He wasn’t subtle, and it was clear he was fishing for a reaction. His gaze flicked to mine repeatedly, his smirk widening as he pushed further, daring me to falter.

But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I let my hand glide up his thigh, slow and deliberate. His smug confidence wavered, a flicker of something new—hesitation, anticipation—crossing his face. Let’s see how calm you can stay, Jonathan, I thought, a smirk tugging at my lips.

Without a word, I spread his legs slightly, positioning myself closer. Before he could react, I leaned down and bit into his thigh, once more . The vein there was larger, the blood warmer as it surged into my mouth. The sensation was exquisite, the heat and richness of it washing over me with intoxicating satisfaction. I couldn’t help the low moan that escaped into his skin, the vibration of it eliciting a sound from him that he clearly hadn’t intended—a moan, raw and unrestrained.

His face flushed, and he glared down at me, his chest rising and falling faster. “Just so you know,” he said, his voice strained but defiant, “that was because of the thought of seeing the Headmistress naked. Not you.”

I met his gaze without pausing, my lips curving slightly around the bite as I nodded, feigning agreement. The blood flowed steadily, the warmth of it spreading through me as I fed. His pulse quickened beneath my tongue, and when I pulled away momentarily to breathe, my voice dipped into that commanding tone again.

“Keep talking,” I said, my gaze locking onto his. “Don’t stop.”

Jonathan hesitated but obeyed, his voice cracking slightly as he resumed describing her in explicit detail. His words faltered as his body betrayed him, the tension in his muscles giving way to something more primal. When his arousal became unmistakable, he groaned, half in frustration and half in surrender.

“It’s not about you, damn it!” he growled, his voice breaking. He slammed a hand against the top of my head, as if trying to assert some control, but his fingers betrayed him by trailing through my hair in a hesitant caress before he hit me again—gentler this time.

The push and pull of his control breaking was exactly what I wanted. His actions became erratic, a mix of resistance and submission as his breaths grew ragged. Good, I thought, satisfaction coursing through me. This is what I wanted. Let my real face intrude on his thoughts when he’s thinking about my other form. Let him blur the lines until there’s no escaping me.

I didn’t stop, didn’t let him regain his composure. My teeth found their mark again, sinking deeper, drinking more. Each pull of his blood bound him further to me, making it harder for him to separate his thoughts of Isolde Laurent from the reality of me.

Jonathan’s head tilted back against the pillows, his voice dissolving into a low, frustrated groan. His hands hovered, unsure whether to push me away or pull me closer. “This is who you truly desire,” I whispered, inaudibly with a wicked smile on my lips. “Don’t try to deny it.”

His body betrayed his mind, and I reveled in the turmoil I had created.

As the blood trickled down his thigh, I couldn't hide my disappointment that I resorted to this intimate feeding as a form of punishment. It wasn't part of the plan. I sighed inwardly and slowly licked the wound, using my powers to heal it. Jonathan arched his back and slammed his fist on the bed in frustration. Our feeding may have been intimate, but I kept my hands away from where I truly wanted them - on him in every way possible. But I refused to touch him in ways he didn't want until he wanted all of me, including my true nature. He glared at me, and I held his gaze, wanting to say so much but keeping quiet. Instead, I turned and walked out, leaving him alone with his thoughts and desires for me.

As I sat alone in my chambers, the echoes of what I’d done reverberated through my mind. My fingers traced the edge of my glass, its surface cool against my skin, as I replayed the moment over and over again. The weight of my decision hung heavy, filling the quiet room with an unspoken tension.

I had fed from Jonathan’s inner thigh—a choice I’d made deliberately, yet one that left me questioning myself now. The act had been intimate, far more so than any of the calculated feedings I had performed recently. It wasn’t merely about sating my hunger; it had been a message, a declaration that I wasn’t sure even I fully understood.

The memory of his pulse under my lips lingered, the warmth of his skin, the faint hitch in his breath when he realized what I was doing. Feeding from that place demanded trust, vulnerability, and submission, and though he hadn’t resisted, I could feel his unwillingness beneath the surface. He hadn’t spoken afterward, his silence almost louder than any protest he could have made.

What have I done? The thought gnawed at me as I tilted the glass and let the liquid burn its way down my throat. Feeding had always been a necessity, a routine I performed without indulgence. Yet tonight, it had been something more—a reaction to emotions I had no right to feel, let alone act upon.

Jonathan had spent the day speaking of Isolde Laurent, his words laced with admiration and something deeper, something more heated. Every time he had described her presence, her grace, her allure, I had felt it—a bitterness that crept up unbidden, a jealousy I could barely contain. And when his voice turned softer, when his words lingered on her form, her movements, it had been more than I could bear. I had left the room, unable to hear more, and when the time came to feed, I had made my decision.

The inner thigh. An intimate place, one I rarely chose, precisely because of the vulnerability it demanded—not just from the one being fed upon, but from me as well. It was a place of connection, a statement that could not be mistaken for anything casual or routine.

I had justified it to myself in the moment. It was punishment, I had told myself—a reminder of who I truly was, of the power I held over him. But now, as I sat in the stillness of my chambers, I couldn’t ignore the truth. It hadn’t been just about dominance or control. It had been personal.

I had wanted to reclaim something, to remind Jonathan that the person he flirted with wasn’t real. Isolde Laurent was a mask, a facade I had crafted to serve a purpose. The person who had stolen him away, who had brought him into this world of magic and possibility—that was me. Chai Hao. And yet, he seemed blind to it, his attention fixated on a version of me that didn’t truly exist.

As the memory of the feeding lingered, I couldn’t help but feel conflicted. There had been a moment, fleeting but undeniable, when I had felt...something. A connection. Not the simple satisfaction of feeding, but a deeper pull, a sense that for a brief second, Jonathan had seen me—not the Headmistress, not the vampire with centuries of control, but me.

And yet, even now, I couldn’t shake the bitterness. It wasn’t Isolde Laurent who had brought him into this world. It wasn’t her who had seen his potential, who had chosen to give him a chance. It had been me, Chai Hao. And yet, it was her he admired, her he seemed drawn to, in a way I had wanted for myself.

The frustration and vulnerability churned within me as I set the glass down with a heavy sigh. I had centuries of patience, and yet this—this one human, with his sharp wit and disarming charm—had managed to unearth emotions I had long buried.

I ran a hand through my hair, leaning back in the chair. The act was done, and there was no undoing it now. The question that remained, though, was what it truly meant—and whether Jonathan had felt the weight of it as deeply as I had.