A sharp welcome

The last of China’s breath left her in a soft, broken sound as Dracula’s fangs sank deeper. He held her upright against the cold stone of the castle stairs, one hand cradling the back of her skull, the other splayed low across her stomach so she could not pull away. Her body jerked once, then melted. The fight drained out of her limbs; her fingers uncurled from his cape and hung limp. When he finally lifted his head, her blood painted his mouth. He licked it clean with a slow sweep of his tongue while her eyes fluttered open, already changed—darker, unfocused, pupils blown wide with the new hunger.

“Mine,” he murmured against her throat.

Her lips parted. A faint, dreamy smile touched them. She no longer looked at him as prey or victim. She looked at him as if she had always belonged there.

The scene froze.

Sarah stood on the museum side of the rope, staring. The wax figures had not been arranged this way a minute ago. Now the Count loomed over a pale woman in a thin white gown, her head tipped back, throat bared, his mouth still at her neck. The woman’s face was China’s—same full mouth, same high cheekbones—but the expression was soft, empty of the sharp wit Sarah knew. The gown was nearly transparent, clinging to heavy breasts and the curve of her hips, the fabric so fine it might have been mist. Candlelight from inside the display made her skin look luminous, almost blue-white.

Sarah’s mouth went dry. She took one step closer. The air thickened. The polished floor under her shoes became cold flagstone. The museum lights dimmed into the warm, wavering glow of torches. She was through.

China turned her head. The movement was languid. Her eyes found Sarah and showed no recognition at all—only mild curiosity and a slow, liquid interest. She smiled, the tips of delicate fangs just visible against her lower lip.

“You are early,” she said. Her voice was lower, thicker, no longer China’s. “The Count prefers his guests announced.”

Sarah’s heart slammed against her ribs. “China? It’s me. Sarah.”

The woman in white tilted her head. The thin gown shifted, the neckline slipping lower so that the upper swell of her breasts was fully exposed, pale and heavy. She took a step toward Sarah, bare feet silent on the stone.

“I do not know that name,” she said gently. “But you smell… warm.” She reached out and trailed cool fingertips down the open collar of Sarah’s blouse, pausing where the pulse beat hardest. “And frightened. That is sweet.”

From the deeper shadows behind a pillar, Dracula watched. He had not moved. Only his eyes followed the two women, dark and patient.

China... no, the bride, stepped closer until her body almost brushed Sarah’s. The scent of her was night-blooming flowers and cold iron. She lifted Sarah’s hand and pressed it flat against the thin fabric over her breast. The nipple was already tight. Sarah felt it peak harder under her palm.

“See?” the bride whispered. “You are welcome here. The Count likes when I play with the living before he joins us.” She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Sarah’s ear. “He is watching. He always watches first.”

Sarah’s breath caught. She should have pulled her hand back. Instead her fingers flexed, cupping the soft weight of the breast through the gossamer gown. The bride made a pleased sound and guided Sarah’s other hand to her hip, then lower, until Sarah’s palm rested over the heat between her thighs. The fabric was damp.

“Touch me,” the bride said, voice gone husky. “He enjoys it when they are already trembling.”

Behind them, Dracula finally stepped out of the dark. His cape whispered against the stone. He stopped just far enough away that Sarah could feel the weight of his attention but not yet his hands.

“Continue,” he said quietly. “Show her what you have become.”

The bride smiled against Sarah’s throat, fangs grazing skin without breaking it, and pressed herself more fully into Sarah’s touch.