Count Dominic Ashcroft's office reflected his position in vampire aristocracy—vast mahogany desk, leather-bound books lining built-in shelving, and windows strategically positioned to avoid direct sunlight while offering commanding views of his territory. The walls dispyed original artwork salvaged from museums during the initial outbreak, an ostentatious reminder that beauty now belonged exclusively to those with the power to cim it.

  He scrolled through blood profiles on his tablet, expression growing increasingly irritated. For the past three weeks, he had demanded territory-wide screening of all recently acquired resources. The results were consistently disappointing.

  "There must be comparable alternatives," he muttered, rejecting another candidate profile with a dismissive swipe.

  His administrative assistant, Morris, stood at careful attention, maintaining the precise distance of six feet that Dominic preferred for staff interactions.

  "We've completed screening of all new acquisitions, my lord," Morris reported. "None match Resource E-4172's unique composition."

  Dominic set the tablet down with controlled precision that barely concealed his frustration. "Expand the search parameters. Check the archived profiles from the western territories."

  "Already completed, my lord," Morris replied, his tone carefully neutral. "We've reviewed all territories within trade distance. Dr. Harlow's statistical analysis confirms the resource's exceptional rarity."

  With deliberate movements that betrayed his aristocratic upbringing, Dominic straightened items on his desk that required no adjustment. His fingers lingered on an antique letter opener—a habit from his human days when he'd been taught to channel frustration into controlled movements rather than emotional dispys.

  "Prepare E-4172 for this evening's feeding," he finally ordered. "Standard protocols."

  "Yes, my lord." Morris bowed slightly before exiting, leaving Dominic alone with his mounting irritation.

  The feeding chamber's familiar clinical luxury did little to improve his mood as Dominic entered that evening. The weekly schedule he'd been forced to adopt had left him anticipating this session with an intensity that bordered on vulgar by aristocratic standards. Such dependence on a specific resource was considered distinctly lower-css—a topic of subtle mockery at the most recent gathering of nobility.

  Sera was already positioned in the feeding chair, the attendants having completed the standard preparation. Dominic approached, noting the visible improvement in her condition. The gray pallor had receded, though her skin remained paler than optimal. The prominent veins that had concerned him weeks earlier had retreated beneath healthier tissue.

  Without acknowledging the attendants, he took his position and began the feeding ritual. The first taste confirmed what his visual assessment had suggested—significant improvement in quality, with the complex fvor profile that had made her exceptional beginning to return. The mineral imbance had corrected, and the cellur structures carried proper oxygenation once again.

  But beneath these improvements, he detected something unexpected—stress hormones, subtly altering the taste. Not the desperate survival stress from weeks ago, but something more focused, more specific. It wasn't unpleasant, merely... different.

  After several minutes of feeding, Dominic withdrew, considering this variation. Normally, he would complete the session without conversation, treating the resource as exactly that—a source of sustenance rather than an individual. But the unexpected fvor shift triggered an equally unexpected question.

  "What were you thinking about?" he asked, the first words he'd ever directly addressed to her.

  Sera's eyes widened slightly, the only visible indication of her surprise at being addressed. For eight weeks, she had been fed upon, examined, and managed without ever being spoken to directly. Count Ashcroft had discussed her exclusively in the third person, even when she was present—what is its blood type, when was it acquired, adjust its position.

  Now those cold blue eyes were fixed on her, actually seeing her instead of looking through her. The tactical part of her brain immediately assessed: opportunity or threat?

  "I'm sorry, my lord?" she responded, her voice rough from disuse.

  "Your blood chemistry has shifted. Stress markers, but different from before." Dominic's gaze was analytical rather than empathetic. "What were you thinking about during the feeding?"

  Sera recognized the dangerous territory immediately. This wasn't concern—it was quality control. He wanted to identify factors affecting his feeding experience. Still, any interaction represented information gathering potential.

  "The past, my lord." She kept her voice appropriately deferential, watching his reaction carefully.

  "Be specific." His tone remained detached, but his continued engagement suggested genuine interest in her answer.

  Sera calcuted rapidly. Complete invention would be detected—vampires could sense certain types of lies through subtle physiological changes. Partial truth with strategic omissions was the safest approach.

  "My family, my lord. Before the outbreak." She paused, then added, "Today would have been my father's birthday."

  This was true, though she hadn't actively been thinking about it until that moment. The genuine emotional response would mask the strategic nature of her answer.

  Dominic tilted his head slightly, an oddly human gesture from someone who worked so hard to project aristocratic vampire detachment.

  "Your family perished during the initial outbreak?" he asked, though it sounded more like confirmation than question.

  "Yes, my lord." Again, true. No need to mention that she had witnessed their deaths defending a safe zone against vampire attack.

  Something shifted in his expression—not quite interest, but perhaps curiosity. "Where were you when it happened?"

  "Rural community. My father was the local sheriff." Sera provided these genuine details while cataloging this unusual development. Count Ashcroft, who had never before acknowledged her humanity, was asking personal questions.

  "And you survived how?"

  "My parents established community protocols early. Even in our rural area, we started hearing strange reports of violent attacks in the cities. My father was cautious by nature." Sera watched his reaction carefully. "I was home from university on break when travel was restricted and communications started failing."

  Dominic's fingers tapped lightly on the armrest. "What was your field of study?"

  "Immunology, my lord." The irony of this truth wasn't lost on her. "First-year graduate program."

  A hint of amusement crossed his features. "Studying disease while a pandemic emerged. Unfortunate timing."

  "You could say my career prospects took a dramatic downturn," Sera replied before she could stop herself, dark humor slipping through her careful facade.

  Instead of punishment for this impertinence, Dominic's lips twitched in what might almost have been amusement. "Indeed."

  He gestured for the attendant to continue the feeding preparation. As they adjusted her position, he continued the unexpected questioning.

  "Rural communities are quite distant from the initial outbreak centers. Your community implemented protective measures before most others acknowledged the threat?"

  Sera recognized the probe for what it was—assessing the veracity of her story through factual verification. "My father had connections in emergency services. He received early warnings about a security breach at Research Station Lazarus and unexpined violent incidents in the surrounding area."

  The mention of the research facility where the first vampire transformation occurred visibly registered with Dominic. The fact that she knew the actual facility name rather than the sanitized public version added credibility to her account.

  "And yet you survived when your community didn't," he observed, his tone carrying subtle accusation.

  "I survived because they didn't," Sera replied, the raw truth of this statement carrying genuine emotion. "My parents died securing escape routes for the younger residents."

  Dominic resumed feeding, seemingly processing this information as he did. When he withdrew again, his question caught her completely off-guard.

  "Did you have siblings?"

  The unexpectedly personal question triggered genuine emotion—anger, grief, tactical arm—that she couldn't entirely suppress. The sudden tension in her body was unavoidable.

  "A younger brother," she admitted, the words painful even after years. "He didn't survive the first month after the outbreak."

  Dominic observed her reaction with clinical interest rather than empathy. "Your stress hormones have increased. The fvor is... interesting."

  And there it was—the reminder that this wasn't conversation but consumption research. He wasn't seeing her as human; he was calibrating his food.

  "Happy to provide a varied tasting experience," Sera replied, unable to completely suppress her sarcasm.

  Rather than offense, Dominic's expression showed something more concerning—curiosity. He studied her as if seeing something new and potentially valuable.

  "You speak differently than most resources," he noted. "Education, I assume?"

  "That, and a healthy appreciation for gallows humor," Sera responded, maintaining the delicate bance between compliance and personality. Every word was calcuted to present a consistent persona—traumatized survivor with education and resilience, nothing more.

  Dominic completed the feeding session in silence, but his expression had changed subtly. As attendants began post-feeding protocols, he stood and straightened his jacket with practiced precision.

  "I find your background relevant to quality maintenance," he stated, his tone resuming its aristocratic detachment. "You will provide a complete personal history during the next session."

  It wasn't a request but a command, delivered as he moved toward the door. Pausing at the threshold, he added, "Include details about your immunology studies. The connection to your unique blood composition may be significant."

  After the door closed behind him, Sera released the controlled breathing she'd maintained throughout the interaction. Eight weeks of being furniture, and suddenly she was expected to provide her biography. The shift from resource to person of interest represented unknown territory.

  As the attendants returned her to her quarters, Sera's mind raced with tactical calcutions. The Count's interest created both opportunity and danger—more attention meant more scrutiny, but also potential leverage. She would need to construct a narrative that incorporated enough verifiable truth to withstand vampire senses while concealing her hunter identity.

  Lying to vampires was nearly impossible, but strategic truth-telling was an art form the resistance had perfected. By the time she reached her quarters, Sera had already outlined the version of herself she would present—a carefully curated history that would satisfy the Count's curiosity without revealing her lethal capabilities.

  What troubled her most wasn't the challenge of maintaining her cover, but the disturbing interest she'd seen in Dominic's eyes. For the first time, he was seeing her as something more than a blood source—and somehow, that felt more dangerous than being furniture.