Hers

A fist pounds against the door to her office twice, stops for a beat, then is followed several much more measured and controlled knocks, a rhythm that syncopates almost pleasantly with the steady ticking of her longcase clock, and with the cracks and pops from the fireplace beside it that illuminates the office with its warmth. Aimée lounges lazily on her button-tufted sofa, head resting on one of its arms, feet propped up on the other, and does not look up from her book. "You don't need to knock, Drift," she says, and turns the page.

There is a click behind her and a rush of cold air. When she does not hear the door close again and the temperature of the room continues to drop, Aimée does lift her head in irritation, "Drift, I realise you can hardly feel it but you are letting all the heat out right now. You weren't raised in a field I hope—be a dear and close the door."

"Aimée," the voice behind her growls, then shuts the door—not hard enough for it to slam, but certainly with more force than is strictly necessary. "Why was your blood on the body."

All irritation immediately leaves her and her book snaps shut, "You noticed?" she exclaims and whips around, an elated grin on her face, only for it to falter at the sight of her. Seeing Drift with disheveled hair is not exactly new for Aimée, but that's because she is the one who keeps messing it up. And, while certainly she knows that vampires do not typically sleep, frankly Drift looks like she could do with trying anyway. Aimée's head tilts, and she watches Drift's eyes flicking across her body, stopping at the barest hint of bandages peeking out from under her sleeve, and smiles again, adjusting her gloves. "Why, Drift, were you worried about me?"

Drift sighs, then lifts her monocle from her face and begins to polish it on her cravat, "I'm going to be so honest with you Aimée—I have had an incredibly long day and I do not have it in me to play games with you. As I am sure you well know, I am between feedings right now," she affixes the monocle back into place and scowls at Aimée, "It is hard enough being around so much death and blood on a good day—doing so on a day like this while having to not only pretend I cannot identify your work and obscure the evidence, but also on top of that deal with your cloying scent all over the place? Not to mention who you killed?" she steps towards the sofa, the leather creaking as the woman's hands come to grip its back, leaning over it to glare down at Aimée, "No I was not worried about you, but maybe you should be."

Aimée laughs, her cheeks flushing, the sight of her favourite detective looming over her making her heart skip with joy, "Oh Drifty~!" she says, voice sing-song, hand reaching up to touch her cheek, "Do you want to kill me? Has the scent of me stirred your appetite?"

She wrinkles her nose, then sighs and walks over to the matching armchair sitting opposite, "No," she says finally as she collapses into it, "That would reward you for your behaviour."

"Aww, Drift," Aimée replies, folding her hands on her chest and looking rather like a cat spreadeagled as she is, "Seeing you is already a reward!"

Drift rests her head on her hand and stares at Aimée for a moment, then looks into the fire beside them, "Yes, I suppose it is," she mutters, watching the flames. An irritated sound stirs in her throat and she turns her hard gaze back to Aimée, "Really, whatever happened to writing a letter?"

"That was my letter, Drift, poetry written just for you—did you like it?" she asks, her eyes twinkling with mirth, mischief, and undeniable pride.

"Mmm," Drift hums, unenthused, "Honestly Aimée, if letting your murderous tendencies out on me is not enough for you, can you at least choose victims who have nothing to do with me next time? If suspicion turns my way then it matters not who keeps whose secret."

Aimée exhales sharply through her nose and, to Drift's surprise, pouts. "He insulted you," she mutters, crossing her arms and now looking less like a cat and more like a petulant child.

Drift groans and rubs her face, "He proposed to me, Aimée, which, yes, while entirely unwanted is not an insult—it merely made Mr. Lehmann an idiot, not a potential corpse!" She throws her arms up in the air, then gestures accusingly at Aimée, "Why, if proposing to me was reason for murder, you would have died several times by now!"

Aimée scowls, and rolls herself upright onto her feet, "No, Drift. You refused him and, thinking I would relate, he insulted you."

"...Right," Drift says, dropping one arm back onto the arm of the chair and then gesturing dismissively with the other, "Well, I am sure I probably smarted his feelings, I dare say I have a lack of delicacy for these things. What, did he insult my manner of dress, no longer endearing to him? Make some comment about my preferences?"

"I will not repeat what he said," Aimée spits.

Drift sighs and shakes her head, "It's... sweet of you in its own way I suppose, Aimée, but I really do not care about how people talk about me behind my back. Living as I do, the talk is inevitable. You cannot kill every person who slights me."

Aimée tuts, "I care, and clearly I can." She glares at Drift for a moment, then her eyes soften and she steps around the centre table, crossing over to the other woman, "Really Drift," she says, reaching out and beginning to rearrange the detective's hair into something that better resembles its usual state, "Most of it would stop if you just married me already."

A breath of laughter escapes Drift's lips and she rolls her eyes, "And let them believe you've made a natural woman of me, Aimée? That would be the real insult."

Aimée lets out a long, dramatic sigh and her hands leave Drift's hair, taking instead Drift's left hand into hers, "It should have been me who made you an unnatural woman."

Drift laughs fully this time, "I'm sorry? I owe my interest in the fairer sex to nobody but myself, thank you very much."

"Not that," Aimée murmurs, turning her hand palm up and trailing a finger across it, then hooking it under the layered cuffs of her sleeves, sliding them up as far as they'll go to reveal the scars beneath. Thin bands of white lines streak their way up her pale arm, ragged and erratic and disappearing into the depths of the fabric, and around the side of her wrist wraps the unmistakable imprint of someone's teeth. Aimée brushes against it with her thumb, a look of deep displeasure on her face. "It should have been me."

Drift jerks her hand out of Aimée's grasp, fixing her gaze on the fireplace and pulling the sleeves back into place, "Well it wasn't," she mutters, one hand balled into a fist and the other so tightly clenched it threatens to tear the fabric of her own jacket. Then, she inhales deeply, flexes her fingers, and smiles up at Aimée, "It was Scott."

Aimée narrows her eyes at her. "Yes, Goldsmith," she says, drawing the syllables out with a grimace as if the name itself tastes vile in her mouth, "You've never told me how he did it."

Drift's smile wavers, and her eyes flick to the side, "What is there to tell? I ran to Oakhurst, got trapped with a bunch of vampires, and died like an idiot," she laughs, "Luckily for me Scott didn't kill me entirely, so now I'm here."

Aimée tilts her head to catch Drift's averted eyes, hand coming up to hold her chin, "Yes, but how did you die, Drift?"

The weak attempt at a smile falls completely from Drift's face, and she pushes Aimée's hand away, "Why are you pressing me on this, Aimée?" she spits, her lip starting to curl and her eyes glaring directly into Aimée's, firelight catching on the flash of her teeth and the red of her irises, "Why should I have to re-live all that for your sick pleasure? Your depraved jealousy? He killed me, and now I am like this. That's all you need to know."

Aimée holds her gaze for a few moments, nothing but the faint ticking of the clock and the crackle of the fire filling the space.

"Did he at least hold you, Drift?" she says finally, voice soft, "I can see that he was not gentle, but did he do that for you, at least?"

A flurry of emotions crosses Drift's face, the heat dissolving from her eyes entirely, replaced instead with something that fills Aimée's stomach with a cold rage.

She spins on her heels, and begins to pace. "I'll kill him," she mutters, "Over and over and over, I'll kill him and then I'll drive a stake through his godforsaken heart."

"Aimée," Drift pleads in a weak whisper, eyes wide and shaking, her fingers twisting her sleeve again, "You, you can't, he—Shelby—"

Aimée whirls on her, causing Drift to flinch, "I don't care about Shelby! I'll kill him!" She freezes, catching sight of the red pricking at the corners of Drift's eyes. She closes her own eyes and takes a deep breath, running a hand through her hair, "God, it should have been me!"

Drift swallows and says nothing. Aimée brings herself down to her knees, warm, gloved hands enveloping Drift's and staying their twisting. "I'm sorry, Drift," she says, soft and feeling.

Drift looks away, staring into the fire, a trickle of red beginning to roll down her cheek, watching as a blackened log crumbles and caves in on itself, the fire erupting to envelop the new wood exposed within.

"...I was running," she whispers. The tear catches on her monocle, and Drift laughs faintly, pulling her hands from Aimée's, taking it from her face and unhooking its chain from her ear, "I thought of you as I died, actually."

"You did?" Aimée asks, reaching up to wipe away the tear as Drift tucks the monocle away.

"Mm," she glances at her for a moment, then turns her eyes back to the fire, "Shamefully. Terrified by the prospect of dying, I ran from you and left you to kill whoever you pleased, and then there I was, on that damned staircase, trailing meakly behind the people who actually deserved to be there. I'd had the gall to act like I was anything other than a coward, and I got exactly what I deserved—the second things got violent, I ran, and he chased me. I begged him to let me go, I didn't even... I..." she closes her eyes, and exhales shakily, "As he killed me, I thought of all the people I had failed to save when I ran from you," she laughs again, bitter and derisive, and looks at Aimée, "And now here I am, masquerading as a detective while lounging in the office of a murderer, sharing your heat, doing absolutely nothing to stop you because I am too much of a coward to face the consequences of my own failure."

"Oh, Drift," Aimée murmurs, her thumb caressing Drift's cheek—a gesture she leans into in spite of her words. "My sweet, brilliant detective. Coward is the last word I'd ever use for you."

"Oh don't console me," Drift says, turning her face away from Aimée's hand, another tear streaking its way down her cheek. "I know what I am. If I wasn't a coward, neither of us would be here right now."

"Do you know why I fell for you, Drift?" Aimée asks, taking Drift's hands in hers again.

A hollow chuckle comes from the vampire, "I'm the 'only one to truly understand you', according to you."

Aimée laughs, "Well yes, but that isn't why I fell for you." Drift's eyes come back to hers, a confused knot in her brow. "From the moment we met, you knew there was something more to me. I could see it in your eyes—taking me in and making note of every small detail, and behind it all an undeniable wash of fear."

Drift's nose wrinkles and she blinks another tear from her eyes, turning back to the fireplace, "Well yes, like I said—I'm a coward."

"No," Aimée murmurs, "A coward would have given up right then and there. You, Drift, continued to push, continued to investigate. Oh, what a thrill it was! My brave little detective, fear in your eyes as you needled and prodded me, digging deeper and deeper into who I am and what makes me tick, looking for something—anything—that you could use to expose what you already knew to be the truth."

As Aimée talks, Drift slowly turns to look at her. There is a flush to her cheeks, and a fondness in her eyes that only deepens the confusion in Drift's brows.

"I revealed my identity to you for two reasons, you know. First, you of course knew I was aware of your suspicions. Revealing to you that I am not a man would then confuse things and reframe my behaviours, make you think perhaps this was the secret, allowing our dance to continue further. And second," she takes Drift's face in both her hands, caressing her cheek, "I wanted you."

Drift's weak heart twinges in her chest, not quite enough blood in her system to stutter fully—most of which is currently leaking from her eyes. It's not the first time Aimée has professed her love for her, but these words coming from someone who has done the things she has always makes her stomach twist. And yet, her dead heart attempts to respond regardless.

"I dreamt of our death, Drift," she murmurs, tucking her hair behind her ears, "My final, beautiful act. I would bring your heart into mine, replace the fear in your eyes with lust, and kiss you with poison on my lips," she traces Drift's with her thumb, "Your heart would race for me, death mixing with ecstasy, and as the breath leaves our lungs I would embrace you and we would feel our hearts stop together."

The nausea in Drift's stomach grows, but less because of the words Aimée speaks and more because of the way the feeling in her chest intensifies at them—a sick, overwhelming want that repulses and confuses her. She swallows.

Aimée sighs, "But I was too eager. I pushed you away instead, into his grasp." Her hands fall from Drift's face, reclaiming their hold on the ones in Drift's lap. Another sigh escapes her lips, more frustrated than the last, "Yet, though I am loathe to admit it, your returning as a vampire is even more thrilling than what we had before."

"Yes I'm sure," Drift says dryly despite the tears on her face and the twisting in her chest, "You can do all that without actually killing me now."

"Yes, but it should have been me who made you this way," she mutters, "Your death should have been as beautiful as you, as gentle as you deserve."

Drift is quiet, watching her own thumbs fidgeting with the warm hands holding hers. "Could we—" she begins, then falters, "No, I'm... nevermind."

Aimée squeezes her hands, then lifts Drifts chin, "Could we what, Drift?"

Drift laughs and does not meet her gaze, "It's nothing, I just had a silly thought, it doesn't make any sense."

"Drift," Aimée reprimands softly, turning her face to make her look, "Tell me."

Drift blinks more tears from her eyes, and takes a shaky breath. "...Fine. Could... we... pretend that," she scrunches her eyes closed and makes a strange noise, then tries again, voice so small Aimée has to strain her ears to hear it, "Could we pretend that you're the vampire and I'm the human, and... none of that ever happened, that you are the one who turns me, then—" she swallows, "Then maybe I could... forget it ever..."

"Oh, Drift," Aimée leans in and kisses her forehead.

"It's a stupid thought, it doesn't make any sense I just—"

"No, no," Aimée cuts her off, wiping her cheeks with her thumb, "We can do that."

Drift laughs wetly, "How exactly are we meant to do that? It's not as if you can drink my blood Aimée."

"But you just said it yourself, no? I can poison you without you truly dying. Overdosing on hemlock is very similar to exsanguination, you know. Its symptoms are oft mistaken for internal flooding."

Drift stares at her.

Aimée turns and gestures to her desk, "I have some tincture in my drawer, you only need a mouthful. I can get it for you if you like?"

Drift's eyebrow twitches, and then she snorts and starts to giggle, looking down at the hand still holding hers, "You're insane, Aimée," she mumbles between laughs, "I can't believe you're offering me a lethal dose of poison to be nice." Her grip tightens and the giggles subside, "I can't believe I'm entertaining it. How... fast?"

Aimée glances at the clock, "You would be asleep by the time the clock strikes, I'd imagine."

Drift looks up at it and considers, then nods, "Alright. That... yeah, okay." She looks at Aimée with damp red smears across her face and smiles weakly, "Take it away, Mr. Vampire."

"Mr. Vampire Hawthorne," Aimée jokingly corrects, then lifts Drift's hand to her lips, "But you, my lady, may call me yours."

Drift laughs and pulls her hand away to give her a shove, "Shut up you idiot, go get it."

Aimée grins and rises to her feet. As she leaves, Drift's eyes are drawn back to the fire, the flames now beginning to die down into embers. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, and when she opens them Aimée stands before her with a small, dark blue glass bottle in one hand, the other hand held out for her to take—earning her a puzzled frown from Drift.

"I thought we might take this to the sofa," Aimée explains.

"Oh," Drift says, accepting the hand and being subsequently swept along, Aimée's hand making its way possessively to the small of her back, guiding her to sit beside her on the sofa, knees touching.

"It'll taste pretty vile, I'm afraid," she says, unscrewing the little bottle and presenting it to her.

Drift chuckles, "Most things do for me these days." She takes a swig, and her face immediately scrunches up at the foul, acrid taste and the harsh burning at the back of her throat, swallowing back the familiar nauseous sensation of ingesting something other than blood and fighting hard against the urge to bring it right back up, "Ough," she coughs and sticks her tongue out, its strange musky aftertaste sticking to her mouth and filling her nose, "God," she coughs again, "You weren't kidding."

"Yeah, not my typical choice," Aimée laughs, "It's a difficult one to mask, and it's usually a bit slow for my liking." She takes the bottle back and then stares at it and gives it a shake, "Mind you," she says in a voice tinged with wonder and curiosity, "You just took considerably more than I've ever given a living person before." She sets the bottle away on the little centre table with a faint clat, removing her gloves and setting them down beside it.

Then she turns back, and Drift is taken aback by the hunger in her eyes.

Aimée takes her face in her hand. "Oh, Drift," she murmurs, wiping her thumb across her cheek, her warm fingers wrapping around her jaw and then trailing their way down to her chin. Drift feels herself being drawn inwards, her hand falling to land on Aimée's thigh for support. Then Aimée's hand slips away, revealing a thumb stained with a shock of bright red against her pale skin. She brings it to her mouth and runs her tongue along its length, eyes fixed on hers, "You have no idea how long I've waited to make you mine."

A shiver runs up Drift's spine, a little shocked how well—and how committed—Aimée plays the role. "You—You're—What do you mean by that?" she stammers back.

She grins at her, toothily, "Oh I think you know," she says, fingers slipping under her cravat and pulling her in to whisper in her ear, "You've always known what I am, haven't you, Drift? My bright, brilliant detective."

Drift feels a tug at her throat, and then the familiar tension around her neck falls away, a hand slipping into the collar of her shirt and caressing the skin beneath, her body erupting into goosebumps.

A kiss is planted on her jaw, then several down the length of her jugular, until she feels Aimée's nose pressing into the nape of her neck and hard teeth against her throat. She gasps, her chest beginning to tighten, the heart inside shaking and shuddering into life, a cold tingle forming in the tips of her toes.

Then as Aimée begins to suck, an intense wave of nausea and dizziness overwhelms her, her heart beginning to surge violently, "Aimée, I-I—" Drift tries to speak, her arms wrapping around and desperately clutching at the gentlewoman, her body beginning to shake and tremble and her head feeling like someone stuffed it full of cotton wool, her thoughts muffled and hard to grasp, a rush of panic thrumming through her body.

Aimée pulls away from her neck, "It's alright Drift, I'm here," she soothes, stroking her hair and holding her close, "Just let my gift take you, and join me in death's sweet embrace."

Drift whimpers, and Aimée takes her face in her hands, stroking her cheek and kissing her forehead, "You're alright, my sweet," she murmurs. Drift's eyes are wide and dilated, a curious mix of emotions on her face that Aimée can't quite parse.

Drift's shaky hands come up to clutch the lapels of Aimée's vest, and she yanks, pulling her down into a kiss and falling backwards against the arm of the sofa, a desperate noise escaping as their lips lock together.

Aimée smiles against her and returns a pleased hum, Drift's mouth still tasting bitter and her saliva making her own mouth tingle. Her hands find their way into Drift's hair, grasping and gently tugging it to pull their faces apart, the sensation making pleasure erupt down Drift's spine and making her gasp, Aimée's lips returning to the length of Drift's neck, teeth scraping against her jugular and then sucking hard, earning her a moan from Drift.

An icy feeling begins spreading its way up Drift's legs, and if she tried she would discover a difficulty in moving them—but all she can focus on is the sensation of Aimée's body on hers, lips at her throat, nails scraping her scalp, and the way her heart is pounding in her chest. Ironically, she hasn't felt so alive in a long time, and her arms wrap around Aimée again, pressing herself tightly to her.

And then her heart begins to stutter, and she recalls the first time they shared a moment like this, roles reversed, the words Aimée had so deliriously whispered into her ear echoing in her mind. Could she feel her heart desperately staggering for her, she wonders as the weakness begins to creep into her arms. She opens her mouth to try say something—but all that comes out is a deep gutteral moan, and her head drops back limp into Aimée's hands, her grip slackening.

Aimée pulls away from her neck, a smattering of deep red marks decorating its pale surface, and she gently sets Drift's head down on the arm of the sofa, stroking her cheek. "Oh, my sweet Drift," she whispers, peeling Drift's arms off of her and lifting her left hand to her lips, pressing them into to her palm. Drift watches her with hazy, heady eyes and Aimée holds their gaze as she repeats her earlier motions—trailing her finger across her palm and sliding her sleeves up to expose the web of scars underneath. She plants kisses on them, one by one, slowly working her way down her arm. Small beads of red begin to form in the corners of Drift's eyes.

"You belong to me, Drift," Aimée whispers, voice thick and heavy as she reaches her wrist, "In life, and in death," and she bites down, hard, eliciting a strangled noise from Drift, whose lungs have begun to no longer co-operate.

The tears begin to trickle down the sides of Drift's face, a complex wash of emotions running through her that she couldn't even begin to describe, and then Aimée releases, kissing the deep, stark red indentation of her teeth wrapped around her wrist, taking the slender thing in her hand and gently rubbing her thumb over the mark, stirring even more indescribable feelings within her. Aimée's other hand comes to stroke her face and she leans in and kisses her. Drift makes a noise and her lips spasm, weakly trying to reciprocate, and Aimée smiles.

Now, luckily for Drift, vampires do not in fact need to breathe, so the threat of asphyxiation is in fact no threat at all. All things considered, as the paralysis reaches its final destination and Drift's heart begins again to slow to a sluggish halt, she finds she just feels weak, numb, her thoughts dissolving into a static haze, and the familiar drowsy pull of "death" darkening her vision and muffling the world around her as the vampiric curse starts to shut her body and mind down to begin its work on restoring it to its original state—but most of all, despite the ice filling its way into her limbs, she feels Aimée's warmth around her.

"You can rest now, Drift," Aimée soothes, and kisses each of her eyes closed. Then she slips off the sofa and slides her arms under her legs and upper body, setting Drift's head against her shoulder and calling out for the attention of her servants, the loudness of which earning her a grumble from Drift.

There's a sudden scramble outside, and after a few moments the door clicks open, an older lady poking her head through the door, "You called, sir?"

"Ah, Mrs. Connelly, perfect," she adjusts her grasp on Drift, who is decidedly taller than herself and thus rather difficult for her to handle, but the pleasant smile upon her face betrays none of this, "It appears that the good detective here has not been sleeping well lately and I believe it best we take advantage of the present situation and get her situated into bed, no?"

"Oh my," Mrs. Connelly exclaims, "Right, of course sir—I shall go find her some bedclothes."

"Wonderful, I will be settling her into my bed for the night so I shall meet you there."

Somewhere in the back of Drift's mind, she feels that she should protest to this. But nestled in Aimée's warm embrace as she is, she can't quite comprehend why that might be. In fact, she rather thinks it would be nice if Aimée were to stay with her, and, if it is into her bed she will be going then that is likely what she plans to do, right? So all things considered, it sounds like a wonderful prospect.

"Is that quite wise, sir?" Mrs. Connelly asks, a silver eyebrow shooting up and a knowing smile sliding onto her face, "That would cause quite the stir."

At Mrs. Connelly's words, the feeling in the back of her head grows more urgent and insistent, but she cannot quite place what the problem is. She feels it stress insistently that laying in a man's bed would be terribly damning for her reputation, but Aimée is not a man, so this all seems rather silly? And besides, everything is growing so muggy and distant that really she doesn't care anymore.

"Why, Mrs. Connelly! You know my feelings, she deserves the best bed in the house—indeed, I shall sleep on the gravel outside if she wishes me gone. I trust you and the rest of staff will have as much discretion about this as you do myself, so what stir could possibly arise?"

Drift feels rather content with this, and even the nagging at the back of her mind seems to dissipate, so she lets her mind shut down.

Mrs. Connelly laughs, "Oh there'll be more than soup pots stirring in the kitchen, sir, I'll tell you that. But if you're sure, I'll remind them all to watch their words."

Faintly, Drift hears the longcase clock begin ringing out.

Drift finds herself enveloped in quite possibly the softest fabrics she's ever felt in her entire life, the scent of lavender filling her lungs with every breath, and a heavy warmth wrapped around her body. It's nice, she thinks, and hums contentedly.

Then the wherewithal to question where exactly she is hits her and her eyes snap open to the sight of Aimée curled up around her with her head on her chest, a wall of blue fabric surrounding them from the canopy of a bed she has never seen before, swathed in soft white irish linens and more pillows than she would ever know what to do with.

"Oh my god," she breathes, then lifts a weaker-than-expected arm to shake the other woman awake, "Aimée," she hisses.

Aimée makes a disgruntled noise and peels one eye open to peer at her, "What."

"Aimée. Why am I in your bed," Drift's enunciates through bared teeth.

Aimée huffs out a laugh and props herself up onto her elbow, lifting her other hand to stroke Drift's cheek, "What, you don't remember our night of passion?"

"Aimée," she growls—but then the memories do come back and she realises that is honestly a pretty apt description and she feels herself blush profusely.

Wait, blush?

"Did... did you feed me while I was out?" Drift frowns at her.

"Mm," Aimée hums, eyes not focused on her face at all but instead admiring the view of Drift in her bed, her fingers having made their way down to the small flash of collarbone poking out the neck of the chemise adorning her, tracing the marks that are already fast fading from her neck and shoulder, "You drank a hefty draught of hemlock last night and that was after you already came in looking like a wreck. Was honestly a little worried you wouldn't wake up this morning and I'd have a lot of explanations to try come up with that would not result in a doctor visit. My doctor is a tactful gentleman of course, but," she meets Drift's eyes and chuckles, "I do understand that you don't want anyone to know you've ever been in here. Not to mention, he would have pronounced you dead."

Drift groans, a weak hand coming to rub her face, "Why on earth did you not just put me in the guest suite?"

The brush of the soft pads of Aimée's fingers against her collarbone is suddenly replaced by a light scrape of her nails, and a wave of goosebumps floods her body. "You deserved to be held," Aimée says, simply.

Drift studies Aimée for a moment, then laughs, "You really do remind me of a clingy cat sometimes, Aimée. You even leave me corpses as gifts—I half expect to see you start dropping dead animals on my doorstep someday."

"Mmm," Aimée hums consideringly, tapping her chin, "Now there's an idea."

"Oh don't you dare, I can guarantee you will never get me back in this room if you do," Drift glares at her, but Aimée's eyes only widen with elation and a horrible grin spreads onto her face. Drift frowns, "What?"

"You're saying if I don't do that, there's a chance you'll join me in my bed again?"

Drift's eyes go wide, "I—No! That's—these are extremely extenuating circumstances!"

"If you say so~" Aimée croons, leaning her face into her hand and smirking at her with pure, smug pleasure.

"Ugh," Drift groans, "I don't have the energy for this."

Aimée's face falls, "Oh, are you alright? Do you need more blood?"

A fond smile threatens to twitch its way onto Drift's face, and she shakes her head, "No, no. I just need to rest more—you did kill me, after all."

"Oh, well that's alright then," Aimée says, dropping her head back onto Drift's chest and wrapping her in her arms.

Drift exhales a small chuckle, and drops her hand into Aimée's hair. There's worse places to be than in the arms of another woman, she supposes. A dull ache emanates from her wrist and her neck, and her cheeks flush again as she runs over all the things Aimée said to her the night before.

For a split second, a thought crosses her mind—is it really so bad to accept her?

A rush of guilt follows. She's dangerous, she's killed so many innocent people and has no remorse—

Another voice in her chimes in—what of Scott? it says. He's never even expressed any guilt over killing you, never mind other people. He has taken vastly more lives than she probably ever could. But you accept him. Why not her? At least she cares—

Because he agreed to stop! she shouts inside her own mind, heart twisting in her chest.

"Ow, Drift, are you trying to make me bald?" Aimée winces, and Drift suddenly realises how tightly her hands are clenching.

She quickly removes her hand from her hair, "Ah, sorry, I got a little lost in my head."

Aimée reaches up over her head and pulls Drift's hand down into hers and rests them on Drift's stomach, her thumb tracing circles, "Well whatever it is, forget about it for now and focus on resting."

Drift stares at her, then sighs, "...Yeah, alright."