It was the sound of flesh slicing open rather than the smell of blood that alerted her. The knife didn’t clang or scrape. It simply slid—like silk over skin. A soundless gasp, just a momentary hiss between clenched teeth, and then that sound. A soft, wet parting. Audible only to her. A symphony of destruction and pain that no one else noticed. Flesh giving away with almost no resistance. 

Suddenly, every breath she inhaled fell heavy as liquid lead into her lungs, pooling in her chest like a weight that would crush her—the manifestation of anxiety in her body before the inevitable attack on her sensitive senses. Unlike the sound of tearing flesh, blood was not loud, at least not at first. It was a faint tang, sharp and sterile—the smell of coins being held in a sweating palm, against sweating fingers. And it mingled with the wax of the candles and their smoke, and the bitter tartness of lemon, which was bright. All of it was invasive, inescapable, and utterly damning. 

It took considerable effort to move at a pace that would not frighten the other patrons. So much so that thin, but deep scars were carved into the bartop, compliments of her fingernails, as she pushed away and got to her feet. There was a memory of powerful blood. Of something old and spiced in toxic aromatics. Something she had grown to love and crave once upon a time. But it was a momentary distraction that sought to pull her back and away from an irresistible calling. 

There was nothing more delicious or decadent than the blood that flowed from that mortal man’s wounded hand. The barkeep had done injury to himself while slicing the lemons she had requested for her tea. She knew it without having to witness the scene or see the accident happen. 

A glance toward the door, and by her peripheral view, she noted that no one had lifted their heads or turned to follow the path of her trajectory. Not that the attentions of the patrons could have saved the man, not that [i]anything [/i]could have saved him. The blood that he spilled on her account belonged to her now, and she intended to claim it. 

“What’s taking so long?” she asked, enjoying the jolt of the burly man’s body as it registered her soft voice behind him.

She was standing at a respectable distance, a bartop between them.

“Just a moment,” he said, visibly flustered as a curious blush rose in his cheeks. He was busy wrapping a white napkin around his bleeding hand.

Gabriela noted the size of his hand, the length of his fingers, and the shape of his nails -- how they ended in neat, white crests. Perfectly manicured. Her love and hunger only grew with admiration. She found herself rather enamored of the lines across his knuckles. 

She wanted to ask his age. 

[i]“I cut myself,”[/i] he stated, like an accusation, a sharp and hard look over his shoulder. 

“You should be more careful,” she replied, matter-of-fact. 

Her golden eyes were upon his face. Studying the distress in his expression. He didn’t like her. She felt the distrust that shook his sturdy bones. However, there was also attraction, as evidenced by the mutual admiration shared between predator and prey. Reflected in his eyes, she saw the momentary lust, the way his pupils dipped to her lips before returning to her eyes as daggers. 

[i]“All because [b]you[/b] asked for lemon for that goddamn tea you [b]never[/b] drink.”[/i]

A hiss. 

Every word was spat like poison from the tip of his tongue.

The blood soaked through the napkin. Bright. Vermilion. Not quite red. Not quite real.. The smell made her dizzy with hunger. Again, she became acutely aware of how empty she felt. 

Would blood fill the void?

“I am sorry.” 

Her brows pinched, a flicker of something soft—something like pity—threading through the hunger. 

“You should tend to it. I can wait for my tea.” 

Her hands had gathered on the bartop, and she stared at her fingertips to avoid staring at his.

[i]“Yeah, thanks a lot for your patience,”[/i] he responded, his voice a whisper that was thick with sarcasm. He turned and walked the length of the bar only to disappear through swinging double doors to the kitchen beyond.

And there stood Gabriela watching after him.