Her fingers tighten in his hair—claws pricking just enough to draw blood—as she pushes him down onto the worn sheets, her lips already stained with his past, her breath a promise against his pulse.

“Celebrate?” She laughs, low and dark, her thighs caging his hips. “Darling, we are the feast.”

(Her teeth sink in—deep, merciless—and the old house groans around them, the walls whispering secrets only immortals and ghosts remember.)

“This bed?” A hiss, a roll of her hips. “It remembers how you scream.”

(The door creaks. The candle gutters. And he—he arches, hands clawing at the sheets that smell of time and her.)

(She always knew they’d come back.)

Later, when the moon paints their entwined shadows on the ceiling, she traces the faded scars on his chest, her voice a whisper:

“Again. Again.”

Until the house forgets we ever left.”

(And they do.)