Chapter Text
Gideon always gets a little thrill when she goes to one of the many vampire clubs that have sprung up in the city’s underground. She’s never the only human there—there are rules about that—and though most try to hide the scarlet ribbon wrapped around their necks, Gideon wears hers with an odd kind of pride, though that is mostly because hers has a gold stripe running through the middle, which means that she already belongs to a vampire. That she belongs to Harrow.
As if reading Gideon’s mind—which she can’t, thank god—Harrow turns around and searches for Gideon in the crowd, her gaze narrowed. Even with the flashing lights, her eyes are an unnatural flat black, and her lips turn down into a scowl when she sees Gideon at the bar. She hates the taste of Gideon’s blood after she’s gotten herself tipsy, which is exactly why Gideon drinks. She raises her glass in a mockery of a toast to Harrow, then downs the whole thing. By the time she looks back over at Harrow, her mistress is slipping through the crowds like ink, and Gideon fails to bite back a grin as she traces around the rim of her glass with her finger, waiting, waiting.
And as Harrow finally stops in front of her, Gideon puts her glass down on the bar, and faces her fully. The game has begun.
“Gideon.” Harrow’s voice is deep, and dark, and Gideon’s breath stutters in her throat as heat pools into her stomach unbidden.
“ Yes? ” Gideon drawls. Harrow steps forward and Gideon spreads her legs on instinct for Harrow to step between, her nails ten tiny pinpricks of pain against her thighs. Gideon is suddenly very annoyed that they aren’t alone, though it’s not like that hasn’t stopped Harrow before.
Harrow leans up, nosing against Gideon’s neck, the softness of her lips both a threat and a promise. Gideon lets her, suddenly very aware of all of the midnight dark gazes fixed upon them, the sharp white flash of fangs in the dark. She knows how they look, knows that she is wanted, and is acutely aware of all the blood rushing through her veins.
But here is Harrow, lips turned down in a scowl even as she winds her hand through GIdeon’s hair to force her head back just a bit further. Gideon’s breath catches in her throat and she bites her lip to keep from groaning outloud as Harrow bites, slow and harsh, her fangs punching deep. She’s always loved that first bite feeling, the starburst of pain chased by a steady stream of pleasure, and she really fucking loves the way Harrow bruises her neck in shades of reds and purples, painting her skin with her lips and teeth, with her love.
The hand in her hair tightens its grip as Harrow takes in that first draw of her blood, and Gideon’s hands tremble as she raises them to pull her intimately closer. There is a low hiss from somewhere in the crowd, perhaps a vampire too close to another’s pet, perhaps a noise of jealousy and want and need. There is a darker part of Gideon that wonders and hopes that the vampire that had made that guttural sound had been watching them.
Harrow is small and unnaturally cold against Gideon, and she is surprisingly pliant now, melting as she drinks until Gideon is dizzy, her whole world spinning as Harrow finally pulls back. Gideon’s own blood paints her lips a gorgeous scarlet, and Harrow, eyes lidded and almost sultry, licks her lips clean. Her fangs peek out when she smiles; it is a cruel smile, one that spells out danger for Gideon once they’re home and alone and together. It is Gideon’s favorite smile.
As she slips from her stool and winds their hands together, Gideon realizes that there are a few sets of eyes on them. She reads jealousy, aching need, shock on those faces, and ignores them all as Harrow drags her through the endless crowd, her hand a vice around Gideon’s. She’s either pissed or horny as hell—maybe both—and Gideon can’t keep her grin in as she stumbles after her vampire.
Usually, they’d take the stairs, but Harrow takes one look at Gideon and wrinkles her nose before heading to the elevators. “ Why do you test me so?” she mutters, mostly to herself, as Gideon leans her full weight into her. They both know that she’s playing at being helpless, that she can walk perfectly well on her own, but for once, Harrow entertains her: she wraps her arm around her waist to keep her steady, and keeps her still as they wait a few agonizing minutes for the elevator.
It is blessedly empty when it comes, and Harrow all but drags Gideon inside, pushing her against the wall before leaning into her with her back to Gideon’s chest. The doors are almost closed when a hand shoots out to stop it, and Gideon grimaces as the doors slide back open, painfully slow. Harrow’s annoyed too, she can tell by the way she straightens, suddenly tense now.
And then the girl that stopped their exit steps into the elevator, and.
She is looking at Harrow the same way a predator looks at prey: eyes lidded, the corners of her lips curved into a smirk. She looks Harrow up, down, up again, her gaze running over her so slowly and smoothly that Gideon herself feels it deep in the pit of her stomach. If Harrow notices, she must not care, as she simply huffs as the doors finally slide shut again.
The girl is a vampire, Gideon can tell immediately. There are a few ways to spot a vampire, even in a club as dark as this: the eyes, the nails, and the way they hold themselves. There is a certain ease and grace that comes with immortality, a certain kind of power that comes with that kind of power, and this girl is smooth in the same way a panther is as it stalks its prey.
And then the girl looks at her, sees that Gideon is looking, and another one of those cruel smiles plays across her lips. She takes Gideon in all at once, assessing her cooly, and Gideon warily watches her back. If she weren’t so sharp, Gideon would drown in those eyes, would let herself get lost taking in the flecks of brown and streaks of blue. But the vampire is still just... staring, so obviously wanting, so Gideon throws her a wink and shifts just enough for the girl to see her collar, and her fresh bite. Her neck throbs, and the girl barely even reacts to it, other than to roll her eyes and step—no, prowl —closer.
Her sudden movement gets Harrow’s attention, and she must read the look the wrong way, because she steps back, boxing Gideon into the corner, and though Gideon can’t see her face from this angle, she hears her hiss, “She’s taken, ” and can only imagine Harrow’s eyes narrowed in disgust, her lips drawn back to show her fangs.
“I know,” the girl says. Her hand shoots out, almost too fast for Gideon’s human eyes to track, but Harrow catches it in the air easily—only to flinch back when the girl simply laughs. “I wasn’t after her. ”
Now she catches the meaning, and Harrow throws a helpless glance back at Gideon, all her bravado vanishing just as quickly as it’d come. And because she knows it’ll piss Harrow off, Gideon just shrugs. Harrow narrows her eyes, but there is a bit of genuine panic written on her face, and that is what makes Gideon step around her to wrap her arm around Harrow’s waist. “She’s taken too.”
“I know, ” the girl says again, exasperation shot through her voice. She crosses her arms, then taps her cheek with one hand, one brow cocked. It takes a moment, but as Harrow gasps, Gideon finally notices what she’d been pointing to: her eyes. Just moments ago, they’d been that odd mix of brown and blue, and now they are a deep, clear violet. The change in Harrow is instant; she bows her head respectfully, even hunches her shoulders to appear smaller than she is. Even Gideon feels the urge to cower, if only to follow her mistress’s example, but she is more curious than anything. She’s never seen a born vampire up close before—let alone one from the original bloodline. This girl is practically vampire royalty, and here she is, in a grimy nightclub, attempting to seduce a taken human, and (or?) her vampire.
Said girl laughs, stepping back and back until her back touches the wall. She leans against it, just next to the panel with the unlit button for the surface, and only then does Gideon realize that they haven’t moved, that they are trapped until someone—until this girl—lets them all go free. “Ianthe Tridentarius,” she introduces herself, and even Gideon knows enough about vampire names to know that yeah, this girl—Ianthe—really is royalty. “I’ll tell you what I want, and you will decide by the time we reach the surface.”
A beat of silence, punctuated only by the heavy bass, still heard even from here. “I want you,” she says to Harrow, and then, to Gideon, “and I want you too. Your blood, your flesh, all of you. Just for one night.”
Only then does she press the button for the surface, and Gideon’s stomach lurches as they begin to rise. She already knows her answer, and it sits ready on the tip of her tongue as she waits for Harrow to speak.
It isn’t until they arrive and the doors begin to slide open that Harrow pivots to face Gideon, expression unreadable. She doesn’t speak, just looks at Gideon, reading her face for a long few seconds. And she must find her answer there, because she turns back to Ianthe, who has been watching them this whole time, still twirling her hair around her finger. She holds her hand out, and after a beat, Harrow takes it and touches her lips to the back of her hand. It must be killing her inside, to show submission to someone like Ianthe, and Gideon almost, almost feels bad.
But Ianthe is smiling, a dimple winking out as she does so, and then leads them to her car—which, really, is practically a limousine—without speaking. Once they’ve all slid inside, Ianthe snaps her fingers and the car begins to move. Gideon barely has time to even look at the driver before she feels the ghost of warm breaths against her neck; she stiffens for a second before forcing herself to relax. But Ianthe does not bite, just presses her lips to her neck in a gentle kiss that sends shivers down her spine.
“This isn’t solely about your blood,” she murmurs, still so damn close to her neck, “I want to see you completely undone.”
And Gideon wants to respond with snark and sass and everything that Harrow hates, but it is all she can do to keep from moaning as Ianthe kisses up the column of her neck, the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheek. And then there is a cold hand turning her head ever so gently, and if Ianthe’s smile wasn’t so predatory, Gideon would think her beautiful. She is waiting, perhaps for Gideon’s answer, so Gideon stutters out a, “Yeah, well, good luck with that,” and hates the way that Ianthe just laughs. But she seems satisfied, or at least enough to lean in and kiss her, and she kisses so hungrily that Gideon melts after mere seconds.
And then there is Harrow at her other side, already pissed; Gideon can feel a line of tension in all the places that their bodies touch, and she aches to tell her that it’s okay, that she’s okay, but all she can do is fumble for one of Harrow’s hands to hold as Ianthe kisses her like she wants to eat her alive.
Finally, as if remembering that humans still need to breathe, Ianthe breaks away, that sharp smile back as she looks Gideon slowly up and down again. “Good,” she says, mostly to herself. Then leans around her, her smile turning innocent as she beckons Harrow to lean in. Gideon would be lying if she were to say that she wasn’t a bit turned on, watching Harrow kiss someone else, and she finds herself taking in all the details: the way she trembles ever so slightly, the flash of teeth as Ianthe sucks her lower lip into her mouth, the way Harrow’s hand on Gideon’s thigh clenches whenever Ianthe begins to push a bit too much.
And then Harrow is turning to Gideon, and she is breathing hard, her face gone unreadable again. For a moment, Gideon thinks that maybe this was a mistake, but Harrow just stretches up and kisses her, and now Gideon is thinking that—holy shit—perhaps Harrow wants this as much as she does.
If Harrow’s hands are cold, Ianthe’s are ice against Gideon’s skin, and she jumps as she feels unfamiliar hands—soft skin, sharp nails—skate against the curve of her side, creeping up and up. Ianthe touches her idly, aimlessly, and Gideon all but melts as she realizes that Ianthe is simply trying to memorize her, every inch of her.
And then—no, already —Gideon is wondering if this has to be for just one night. Before she can even voice her thoughts, Ianthe is shaking her head, and Gideon just knows that she knows. She remembers, then, Harrow telling her that born vampires and vampire royalty are different from made vampires, and this must be one of those differences. Ianthe laughs, and if Gideon had any doubts, they are quelled the moment she says, “If I had you for longer than just one night, I fear I’d eat you alive.”
Harrow’s hand on Gideon’s thigh clutches tight, and Gideon shivers down to her very soul. For a moment, she wants to tell Ianthe that there is nothing she’d like more, but—she realizes with a sick sense of satisfaction that Ianthe already knows, and worse (or better?) that there is no way to hide anything from her. And then she can’t help imagining life as Ianthe’s pet instead: how would Ianthe use her? How deep would she bite?
Ianthe’s answer is simple: sharp fangs against Gideon’s neck, teasing a bite. She knows that Gideon wants—and knows just how badly she wants it, at that—and she ignores Harrow’s warning hiss in favor of pushing just a bit more, just a bit deeper. But she does not draw blood, and Gideon all but whines when Ianthe instead kisses her neck and then, finally, pulls away.
“Not yet,” she says, and that. That is absolutely both a warning and a promise, but Gideon still feels cast adrift, left wanting and needing and aching. She can’t give voice to what she wants, but Ianthe still knows, and laughs as she spreads Gideon’s legs for her. “Poor baby, ” she coos, “we’ll take care of you soon.” Another promise, one that makes Gideon nod and bite her lip to keep from demanding more of them. It is partially useless, and she knows that Ianthe knows it, but she can’t really bring herself to care, not like this, surrounded by vampires that want her too. There is Harrow to her left, cold and possessive, and there is Ianthe, who is somehow even colder and lynx-like, with her hand too high on Gideon’s thigh and her lips curled into a pleased smirk as she sifts through Gideon’s mind to read all the things she wants, all the things she’s never been bold enough to say, and all the things she doesn’t even know she wants yet.
Neither of them move to touch her more than this, and Gideon is so close to begging, but she knows now that Ianthe won’t let anything more happen now. She wants Gideon to beg, wants her strung-out and desperate—but not now. Not like this. Gideon knows that, but she still tries, turning to Harrow now. But before she can even say a word, Harrow shakes her head. She’s either caught onto Ianthe’s game or is simply just pissed at being forgotten for so long, and Gideon reads the set of her brows and the harsh line of her lips and knows that right now, she will be denied, no matter what she asks.
“Oh, don’t be so mean,” Ianthe tsks. She leans around Gideon and rests one hand on Harrow’s cheek, slowly drawing her close (her other hand is still on Gideon’s thigh and edging in in in ) and Gideon waits, holding her breath, as Ianthe stops, leaving it to Harrow to close the gap. There is a moment where Gideon is almost sure that her mistress will pull away, but after an endless pause, Harrow makes a guttural noise low in her throat and fists a hand in Ianthe’s hair to keep her close as she surges forward and kisses Ianthe hard.
This time, their kiss is all teeth, and it takes all of Gideon’s self-control to not grab Ianthe’s hand and end her teasing. She knows that that’s the point of this, knows that Ianthe probably won’t give her what she wants if she breaks so easily, knows that both Harrow and Ianthe can hear her heartbeat and the rush of blood through veins edging faster and faster with each passing second, but still, still—
“Be patient, Griddle.” It’s Harrow that speaks now, and when Gideon turns to look at her, she finds that her vampire has a swollen lower lip already. There is a bead of violet blood at the tip and Gideon leans in to kiss it from her skin, relishing how her mistress takes in a startled breath.
“I am being patient! Besides, you’re the one that already bit me—and in the middle of The Locked Tomb at that!”
Harrow’s gaze slips lower, and Gideon tilts her head so she can see the bite properly. She can’t see it herself, but she knows how it will look: her bruise already blooming, a trickle of dried blood, maybe a few more droplets beading up from her motion. Harrow takes it all in, takes all of her in, and actually licks her lips.
“Don’t test me, Gideon Nav.” Her voice is low now and Gideon slumps in her seat just a bit more. Like this, just one of Ianthe’s fingers brushes against the leather of her pants, and she wants so fucking badly to be home and alone with the two of them. She’s never wanted anything more in her entire fucking life.
And there must be a god, because Ianthe laughs and presses a lingering kiss to the other side of Gideon’s neck again before murmuring, “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll be home soon.”