“You’re cold,” he said, his fingertips resting against her neck.

“I’m dead,” she said matter-of-factly, smiling thinly.

“Do you…?” He cocked his head, gesturing toward his neck.

“There’s pig’s blood in the fridge.” She took his hand and kissed the palm. “Though you do smell much better,”

“Then take me,”

“What?” Her hand tightened around his wrist.

“Take my blood,” he insisted. She stared at him, incredulous and afraid. He smiled.

“You’re not a monster.”

“I am if I take you,” She said, dropping his hand.

“No, you’re not,” he said, holding her close, “so take me,”

She gave in.