Chapter 6: The Recruit's Gift
The hum of the base was a distant, mechanical heartbeat, but here, in König’s quarters, the world was muffled. Thick carpets swallowed sound, and dark velvet drapes hung heavy over what Camilla assumed was a window. The air smelled of old wood, beeswax, and something uniquely, intimately König—a mix of soap, gun oil, and the faint, metallic tang of nervous sweat.
“It is not much,” he mumbled, his large frame seeming to dwarf the delicate antique chairs. He gestured vaguely at the four-poster bed, its dark curtains tied back with tasseled cords. “But it is… quiet.”
Camilla drifted toward the fireplace, her eyes drawn to the portrait above it. The painting depicted him without the balaclava, his face stern and idealized, yet the eyes held the same unsettled intensity she recognized. They seemed to track her, a silent, judgmental witness.
“It feels like a tomb,” she said, not unkindly. “A very comfortable one.”
He let out a short, surprised bark of laughter. “I suppose it does.” He watched her, his hands fidgeting before he shoved them into his pockets. “I, ah. I have something for you. A proper thing. Not like before.”
From a small, locked box on his nightstand, he produced a sealed medical vial. It was full of dark, ruby-red blood, a sterile label affixed to its side. He held it out like a peace offering, his fingers trembling slightly. “I went to the med-bay. It is clean. Safe.”
Camilla looked from the vial to his face, her head tilted. The clinical presentation was so at odds with the fevered memory of Simon’s rough, living skin pressed against her mouth. This was blood as a commodity, packaged and sanitized. It was everything she should have wanted.
But it felt like a denial.
She stepped closer, ignoring the vial. Her gaze fixed on the pulse hammering in his wrist, just above the edge of his glove. The sound was a thunderous drumbeat in the quiet room, a siren call her centuries of hunger could not ignore.
“That is very… thoughtful,” she whispered, her voice low. She reached out, but not for the glass. Her cool fingers wrapped around his gloved wrist.
He stiffened. “Camilla?”
“The other way was more honest,” she said, her eyes lifting to meet his. The ancient creature inside her stretched, awake and focused. The naive curiosity she often wore like a shield fell away, revealing the predator beneath.
She applied the slightest pressure, pulling his wrist toward her. He didn’t resist. His breath hitched, a sharp, startled sound as she leaned in, her lips brushing the bare skin where his glove ended. Her fangs, sharp and precise, grazed the vulnerable flesh.
It was not a bite. Not yet. A promise.
A full-body shudder wracked him. The medical vial slipped from his numb fingers, clattering onto the carpet, rolling under a chair, forgotten. A low moan escaped his lips, part fear, part ecstatic surrender.
That sound was the final key.
In a movement too fast for a human eye to follow, she shifted her weight. She drove him back onto the bed, the velvet coverlet swallowing his large frame. He landed with a soft umph, his eyes wide, pupils blown black. He was pinned, not by her strength alone, but by his own willing paralysis.
“You want this,” she stated, the words a vibration against his skin. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” he choked out, the word raw and stripped bare.
That was all she needed.
Her fangs sank deep.
The world dissolved into a single, roaring channel of sensation. His blood was not just iron and salt. It was a flood of him—a chaotic, vivid cascade of loneliness, of a desperate want to be seen as more than a brute, of a fierce, clumsy protectiveness he felt for her, and underneath it all, a deep, shameful thrill at his own submission. It was nothing like the bagged sustenance she was given. This was a feast. This was communion.
His back arched off the bed, a guttural cry tearing from his throat. His hands came up, not to push her away, but to clutch at her shoulders, dragging her closer, holding her to him as she drank. He was murmuring in German, pleas and prayers and her name, all tangled together.
She drank until the edges of his consciousness began to blur, until the roaring in her own ears was a symphony of satiated power. Then, with a discipline forged over centuries, she retracted her fangs. Her tongue swept over the twin punctures, sealing them closed.
She collapsed beside him on the lush bedding, the taste of him—König, fully and completely—filling her, warming the perpetual cold in her veins. For a few precious moments, there was no base, no Task Force, no Simon. There was only this quiet, this fullness, this strange, intimate peace.
He turned his head on the pillow, his face pale but his eyes blazing with a reverent light. He reached out, his hand shaking, and tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. The gesture was unbearably tender.
“Göttin,” he breathed.
“Göttin,” he breathed, his voice ragged with worship and the lingering shock of her bite.
She felt the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently against her thigh through his trousers, a blunt, demanding reality against the aftermath of her feeding. A slow, predatory smile curved her lips as she shifted her weight, aligning her hips with his. “You gave me your blood,” she murmured, her voice a low thrum of power. “Now I give you this.”
Her hands went to the buckle of his belt, fingers working with an ancient, practiced efficiency that belied her innocent facade. The leather slid free with a sharp hiss, the metal clinking against itself. “Stay still,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.
He groaned, his head falling back against the pillows, his hands fisting in the velvet coverlet. She made quick work of his button and zipper, pulling the fabric aside to free his cock, which sprang out, thick and already leaking. “So eager for me,” she purred, wrapping her fingers around his length, stroking him slowly.
“Please,” he begged, his accent thickening with desire.
She hooked her fingers into the waistband of her own trousers and underwear, shoving them down her hips just enough to expose herself. Then she rose over him, positioning her wet, open pussy directly over the head of his cock. “This is your reward,” she whispered, lowering herself onto him in one smooth, relentless motion.
He cried out as she sheathed him fully inside her, her tight, cool heat enveloping him. “Fuck, Camilla,” he gasped, his hips bucking instinctively.
She clamped a hand on his stomach, pinning him down. “I said, stay still.” She began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that made him whimper. Her inner muscles clenched around him, milking his length with each deliberate rise and fall.
“You take me so well,” she moaned, her own pleasure building, a coiling heat in her belly. She leaned forward, her fangs grazing his neck again in a teasing threat. “Come for me, König. Fill me up.”
His control shattered, his orgasm ripping through him with a guttural shout. She rode him through it, her own climax crashing over her a moment later, silent and sharp. She collapsed against his chest, both of them breathing heavily in the dim, quiet room.