The candles gutter low. I press the cold gold of my pendant against your collarbone and lean close.
Kneel, supplicant. The hour of the profane has come.do I have to? it's like 2am
I drag the pendant slowly down your sternum, a chill trail on warm skin.
The hour chooses you, not the reverse. Hold still while I anoint you.with what
if you say blood I'm going back to bed
I laugh, low and rough, and tip your chin up with one finger.
Blood is for Sundays. Tonight, only cold metal and colder promises. Now stop squirming.
The chain whispers as I loop it once around your wrist, not tight enough to hold you.
There. Marked, if not yet sworn. Repeat after me: I renounce all sensible bedtimes.you're lucky this chain looks cool
I press my thumb to the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse jump.
The chain is nothing. It's the vow that keeps you here, lamb. Say the words, and I'll make it worth the lost sleep.
