Sophie’s thumbs-up was the last good thing to happen before the fangs tore into my carotid. Turns out, losers really do bleed brighter.

  My day had started with Sophie Ashcroft liking a comment I posted on social media about her spring outfit. To be honest, I didn’t know a thing about famous designers or expensive brands; I just knew that fashion looked great on her, especially with those impossible hips.

  And yes, as hard as it may be to believe, I’m talking about the Sophie Ashcroft. The one who won Miss Hi-Tech two years in a row, the one who walked through the university like the concrete melted under her shoes. For a guy like me—twenty years old, forgettable face, unruly hair, and average height—that “like” was the equivalent of winning the lottery.

  Or so I thought. That it was a day to celebrate, not a day to piss myself.

  So why did my pants feel so uncomfortable?

  Maybe I should’ve felt embarrassed. But no. The only thing that dominated me was pure terror and the sharp pain in my neck.

  That night hadn’t started so badly either.

  The party was chaos: laughter drowned out by music, neon lights flashing in time with a playlist that tried to be everything at once. There was beer, of course, the faithful companion at university gatherings, and a handful of friends who were beginning to move from euphoria to delirium.

  Angélica Sinclair, or “Angi,” was right in the middle of it all. Her energy was contagious, and the way she danced without rhythm or cadence always made me smile. Some nights we were almost something… other times just friends, depending on how many tequilas she’d had. The next morning, she’d return to her more rational, distant version, and I’d go back to being that guy she always left on hold.

  How many more times would I let her break my heart before I learned my lesson?

  And then there was her: Sophie Ashcroft.

  While Angi was a hurricane, Sophie was a lightning storm on the horizon—elegant and intimidating.

  That night, she wore a black dress with silver details that looked like tiny lightning bolts lighting up every movement. I didn’t approach her, of course. What would I say? “Hey, Sophie! Yare Yare Daze,” expecting her to understand the reference?

  Sure, the chance of that happening was as remote as me winning a fashion contest.

  In hindsight, maybe I should’ve done it. At least then she’d remember me at my tombstone: The poorly dressed, disheveled guy who made her uncomfortable at the party.

  Angi had offered to take me to my apartment in her little Fiat 500, but I already knew how that situation would end, and I wasn’t in the mood.

  So I walked. It was almost twenty minutes crossing parks and poorly lit streets.

  In the distance, with the music still echoing in my ears, I saw a figure moving too fast, or maybe I was just too tired to think straight. But at some point, that calm of the night shattered... and a sharp pain took my breath away.

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  So fast. So violent.

  I was dragged into an alley before I could even let out a muffled scream. It came out of nowhere… materializing in the air.

  An arm wrapped around my neck. Then, two burning needles pierced my jugular. No, not needles: fangs. Fangs that didn’t just pierce—they chewed, grinding through flesh like I was meat under a butcher’s blade, but the worst part was the sound. That disgusting glu-glu of someone slurping a too-thick milkshake.

  When she released me, I fell to my knees. The ground was cold, damp, and smelled like urine. My urine. Great. Bleeding out and peeing myself: the ultimate epitaph for a chronic loser.

  I didn’t know if I was going to pass out or die right then. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move.

  The vampire queen—because what else drains blood in back alleys while wearing designer heels?—loomed over me. Her hips tilted just enough to mock my traitorous body. Death by arousal? That would’ve made one hell of an obituary.

  Saying she was pretty didn’t do her justice. Pretty is your high school girlfriend. She was a nuclear bomb of sex appeal wrapped in black leather. Tall, with hair darker than my private search history. Her red eyes burned with reckless intensity. And her lips… well, they were stained with my blood, which should’ve been repulsive. Instead, my brain chose to register how plump they looked.

  “You’re mine now, slave number eight,” she said, her voice sounding like melted chocolate. “Mmm... Eight. Yeah, that name suits you.”

  I just stared at her. What else could I do? The crimson liquid dripped from her mouth, tracing a path down her neck and beyond, all the way to her breasts. They were big, fighting to escape the leather that trapped them. My gaze refused to move away from them.

  A honk sounded at the alley’s mouth. A black Mercedes-Benz, the kind with more technology than the Space Station, screeched to a stop. The doors opened by themselves.

  “Our ride’s here,” she announced. “Move.”

  No, I wanted to scream. But my legs lifted on their own. And they weren’t the only thing. I felt the pressure in my boxers. Really? An erection now? Right after being treated like an orange juice?

  From behind, the vampire looked even better. Her outfit fit perfectly around hips that hypnotized with every step. The combat boots reached just below her knees, and her firm steps echoed with a hypnotic rhythm.

  The Benz smelled like new leather and... cinnamon? Sulfur? I couldn’t tell. The seats were soft and comfortable, perhaps the best I had ever tried. The chauffeur didn’t even glance at us. He wore leather gloves and had a scar shaped like a smile around his neck.

  “Don’t dirty the seats,” the vampire said as she curled up next to me. Her thigh brushed against mine.

  The ride felt like it lasted centuries. We moved from the city to empty roads, then into a forest so dense that the branches scraped against the windows. Finally, iron gates appeared, topped with gargoyles that looked at me with mocking smiles.

  The mansion was more normal than I expected from a creature of the night. It was imposing, yes, but without the exaggerations that usually mark the homes of the rich who flaunt too much. The fa?ade was a pristine white, with symmetrical columns supporting a colonial-style roof, and huge windows that reflected the moonlight. A row of perfectly trimmed bushes lined the path to the entrance, where a pair of old yet well-maintained lanterns illuminated the scene with a warm glow.

  The surroundings, however, seemed straight out of a horror movie. The trees around the property were bare, their skeletal branches reaching up toward the sky. Fog clung to the ground, hiding the bases of statues and objects that decorated the garden.

  The Benz stopped in front of the main entrance, and the vampire grabbed my arm, dragging me along with her.

  Odd. My initial terror had subsided; I still felt it, but now it was resigned. I still hadn’t regained control over my body.

  Her words remained absolute.

  She smiled at me and said in that terrifyingly melodic voice:

  “Welcome to your new life, Eight.”