Bloodmarked

Jaquelyn

Time: 10:04 AM | Thorne & Vale Financial, 54th Floor

The bite never came as a surprise—not anymore.

I had already rolled back my suit sleeve to the elbow before the vampire entered. Crisp navy pantsuit. Low block heels. Hair twisted into a sleek knot. Nothing to distract from the purpose of the appointment. Professional. Efficient. Controlled.

The conference room was all glass and steel, the kind of sterile that tried to whisper wealth. One of those shimmering towers with a view so clean it felt like you might fall up instead of down. I walked to the window and rested my wrist gently on the curved feeding pad mounted discreetly to the wall. Just enough cushioning to keep it from bruising. Not enough to suggest comfort.

Behind me, the door opened. I didn’t look.

“Jaquelyn, right?” the vampire asked, voice warm but wary.

“That’s me,” I said, turning slightly so he could see I was already positioned. “You’re D. Morayne? First time using VeinCare?”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Didn’t realize there’d be, uh, protocol.”

“There always is,” I replied gently, still neutral but not unkind. “Your booking was confirmed this morning for a ten-minute window, wrist access only. No eye contact after puncture, and no conversation unless I initiate it. It’s just to keep things smooth—for both of us.”

I paused, letting the silence stretch just enough for him to settle.

“I’ll walk you through it, don’t worry. You’ll approach from behind, left hand supporting my forearm, right hand braced against the wall if needed. Keep your bite centered, no grazing or drag. Detach cleanly when I signal. If at any point you feel unstable, say ‘halt’ and step back. Clear?”

He inhaled slowly, a breath he didn’t need, drawn out as if trying to gather something like courage.

“Yeah,” he said. “Clear.”

Probably nervous. Or just new.

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He stepped closer.

I kept my eyes on the city.

A roc glided far in the distance—wings wide and casting a long shadow that stretched across several rooftops before it turned toward the harbor. Gods, I loved watching them. Ancient things, mostly above the petty chaos of ground-level life. But occasionally, when the wind shifted just right, you’d see one dive. And then everyone remembered they weren’t legends. They were predators.

I barely felt the puncture.

Just the light pressure, then warmth. Like a too-slow heartbeat. He was good. Or careful. Probably both. Either way, he fed cleanly, one hand supporting my forearm, the other braced on the wall to avoid crowding me. Points for etiquette.

I exhaled slowly, letting my focus drift across the skyline. Buildings like stone teeth. Traffic like veins. The whole city moved on a rhythm most people never noticed.

“Three more minutes,” I said quietly.

He made a soft noise of acknowledgment—already drunk on the hit of it, no doubt. I’d been told I had that kind of blood. Sun-warmed, grounded. Like biting into a memory of home.

Too bad I never let any of them linger.

When the timer on my wrist chimed, I pulled away without fanfare. He detached cleanly, wiped his mouth, and didn’t say a word. Just nodded and left.

I watched his reflection retreat in the glass, then pulled a small bandage from my jacket pocket and sealed the pinpricks with practiced ease. No mess. No weakness. No connection.

Just another morning on the clock.

10:17 AM | Thorne & Vale Financial Tower, Elevator 6B

The elevator hummed as it dropped, smooth and silent. My reflection stared back from the brushed chrome doors—polished, composed, and just starting to feel the edges of post-feed ache in my forearm. Nothing major. I’d be fine without a break.

Three a day before my body pushed back. That’s what the charts said, anyway. My blood’s peculiar makeup let me bounce back faster than most. An anomaly, they called it during aptitude testing. But an exploitable one.

We’d taken those tests at seventeen—same as everyone. Rows of us lined up in sterile school auditoriums, all waiting to be told if we were destined for council work, enforcement, bonded servitude, or something more… specialized.

Blood compatibility wasn’t mandatory for feeding service, but for a role like mine? Yeah, you needed the rare stuff. Mine flagged three major subspecies compatibility markers and triggered something called a hyper-yield trait. I can still hear the tester’s voice, half awed, half clinical: “She could feed thrice daily, with no loss of clarity or cellular decay. Recommend placement with high-ranking feeders or first transitions.”

Didn’t exactly scream "dream job," but it paid the bills and came with protections most humans could only wish for.

The elevator dinged, and I stepped into the main lobby, cold marble underfoot and that faint ozone scent all high-rises seemed to have. I pulled out my comm and tapped into the VeinCare app.

Confirming Session #2718A complete.

Client: D. Morayne (First Session)

Feedback: None submitted (yet)

Performance: Auto-rated 'Clean Detach'

Good enough.

Before I could lock the screen, a new alert chimed.

New Session Request:

Client: E. Duvarra

Type: First Feed

Time: 18:30

Location: Solarium Private Club – Room 409

I accepted, but this time… slower. More deliberate. The system flickered a thank-you and dropped a mental health ping into my calendar like it always did after a first feed assignment. Protocol.

I pocketed the comm and let out a breath.

E. Duvarra wasn’t just a name. It was the name. The kind that curled around your spine and whispered stories your mother never would’ve dared read to you.

Which meant the rumors were true. He was making a childer.

My screen dimmed, leaving my reflection faintly visible again in the glass doors I was approaching. Eyes sharp. Posture perfect. A single bead of sweat had gathered at my temple—not from nerves. From knowing exactly what kind of energy I’d need to walk into Room 409 with.

Most blood dolls would nap now, sip electrolyte teas, maybe meditate in a healing pod. But I never liked the coddling. My body ran better when I used it, not when I wrapped it in silk and whispered sweet nothings to my spleen.

Besides, I hated being still.

My next stop was the gym. Forty minutes of resistance circuits, followed by hot yoga if the afternoon class hadn’t filled up. After that—a long, near-scalding shower and a few hours in real clothes. Probably that oversized graphic tee with the spell engine diagram on it and the fleece pants with the constellations on the leg.

By the time the sun dipped, I’d be clean, focused, and ready.

Just heat, breath, and a perfect bite.

17:30 | Silverglass District – Jaquelyn’s Apartment

The soft chime of my wall clock pulled me from the warm drone of the holo-screen.

“Don’t say it, Dren! The moon’s still rising—”

Click.

The animated werewolf froze mid-confession, mouth open, eyes too bright. I smirked, dropping the remote onto the counter beside a half-eaten bowl of protein oats and one truly confused houseplant I kept forgetting to water.

Gods, I loved that ridiculous show. Dragon/werewolf romance? Peak drama. Peak chaos. Terrible accents.

My comm blinked softly from its dock—17:30 sharp. Right on schedule.

I crossed to the mirror and smoothed the last section of my braid, fingers practiced from years of yanking tangled curls into something elegant. The thick plait fell down my back like a line of intention—neat, contained, and ready.

The outfit had taken a little longer to settle on. I’d debated the usual crisp professionalism, but this wasn’t that. First feeds—real ones—called for something closer to ritual than business.

So I chose the blouse. Soft ivory cotton, the sleeves wide and loose but gathered at the cuff. The neckline dipped off my collarbones and shoulders, baring enough throat and skin to speak plainly without saying a word. The long dark skirt swirled when I moved, brushing my ankles with a whisper of fabric. Sandals, flat-soled and simple. No jewelry. No distractions.

Just grace.

A swipe of lip color. A brush of shadow to deepen my eyes. No mascara, no liner. Nothing that would bleed when things got intense. Just enough to set the tone. I took one last look in the mirror—not to judge, just to feel. The woman staring back was quiet fire. Poised. Intimate. Unshakeable.

I grabbed my satchel and stepped into the hallway just as the intercom pinged.

“Transport for Ms. Jaquelyn Wells. Courtesy of Client Mr. Duvarra.”

The elevator ride down was silent. At the curb, a sleek obsidian vehicle waited, longer than necessary, windows tinted so dark it could have been carved from night itself. The driver didn’t speak. Just opened the door with a crisp nod.

I slid in, settling into the plush interior as the city lights caught the edge of my braid and turned it gold.

Solarium Club. Room 409. This wasn’t business anymore.

This was ceremony.