Sophia felt it first in her gums. A pressure, low and pulsing, like a bruise blooming under the skin.
Then came the twitches, right beneath her upper lip.
Oh no. No no no no no.
Her hand shot up reflexively, smearing lipstick as her shaky fingers felt around the jaw, cheek and edge of her gum line. The ache was spreading now, hot and dense. Down the hinge of her jaw, curling under her ears.
Shit. Shitshitshitshit.
Not now. Not here.
She'd had three espressos. Triple shot. That always worked. Caffeine shut these things down. That was the rule. That worked.
But now her mouth felt full and her molars were screaming.
Of course it was happening here. In the middle of networking hell. In front of snotty biotech execs and weirdly smiley influencer types and "Lottie from Publishing."
It must've been him. That guy. The stupid half-blood, that was the only explanation for her fangs to be developing at this rate, and this painfully. The stupid one. With the face. And the hair. And the presence that made her blood feel like it was fizzing directly under her skin.
Her teeth throbbed in reply.
No. No, no, no. If he comes over here, if he so much as glances–
He looked up.
And started walking towards her.
It wasn't graceful, exactly. His boots were all wrong, heavy-soled things that didn't belong anywhere near polished floors or linen-covered tables. They were still rimmed with mud that had dried in uneven crusts around the heel.
People glanced down at his feet as he passed. Seven, maybe eight. She counted by reflex, tracking their sneers, their subtle steps aside.
He didn't notice. Or he didn't care. That felt more likely.
Sophia's eyes followed his mud-flaked boots, gauze-wrapped finger, black swaying hair—
—and then he vanished.
Her eyes darted left, right, past the cakes, the biotech guy with the keyring, up at the ceiling pipe, over the crowd, back to where he'd been walking—
And then he was beside her. Inches from her face.
"Don't panic," he whispered, low and dry as smoke.
Sophia stiffened, the red square under her sleeve suddenly surging with heat, like her skin was trying to reject it. Reject him. The warmth crawled up her arm, fizzing sharp and electric through her veins. He was too close.
"Excuse me?" Her voice snapped, more of a bark than question.
"It's normal. Happens sometimes."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she bit back, breath still off.
His gaze didn't waver. "Thän Ishar jaudidas, halu?"
You carry blood, don't you? In Varnic. Sharp and old and right.
No one had spoken Varnic to her in years, not properly. Not like that. Her tongue stung just hearing it.
"…Tei," she muttered. "Not much."
He nodded once. "Figured."
Sophia narrowed her eyes. "You're… what, exactly?"
"Same as you," he said. "Slightly better trained."
"Thanks for the patronising diagnosis."
He raised a hand in mock surrender. "I meant it nicely."
"No, you didn't."
"I sort of did."
Her fingers crept back to her sleeve, pressing hard against the blood patch beneath.
He noticed. Of course he did.
"When's the last time you fed?"
"I'm sorry, what–why does that matter?"
"You're twitchy."
"I'm twitchy because some random guy just walked up and started profiling me."
"Right," he said. "Sorry."
She exhaled hard through her nose. "You're really bad at this."
"Yeah," he agreed simply. "I'm Adam. Somera, naelran ye."
I'm glad our shadows met. More Varnic.
Her knuckle brushed against her lower lip as she pretended to rub something off her chin. "…Sophia. Somera, ye. I guess."
"I assume you're UnHoused?"
"You ask a lot of questions for someone who didn't even introduce himself properly."
He nodded, then gave a shallow, theatrical little bow. "Adam Virent. House Meraka."
She didn't need his House named. She could taste it. Thick and warm and coppery, like citrus peels left to rot in the sun. Meraka vamps always carried the smell of fermentation.
"Right," she muttered. "The brewery one."
"Guilty."
Her fingers hovered near her mouth again, brushing along the edge of her lower lip. "You reek of it, by the way."
He chuckled, soft and low. "Better than blood, isn't it?"
She didn't answer. Her jaw had locked too tightly for a comeback.
"You sure you're not crashing?" he asked a few moments later.
"I am not crashing, Adam."
He cocked his head, enough to skim her mouth with his eyes. "You're clenching so hard it's making my molars ache."
Sophia's eyes narrowed. "Do you want something, or…"
"Just making sure you're not about to drop."
"Well, I'm not."
"Okay," he said, smiling with one corner of his mouth. "Just saying. Your teeth'll keep coming through unless you breathe."
"I am breathing."
"Not properly."
"Oh my God," Sophia hissed. "You think I haven't tried that? In through the nose, out through the mouth, square breathing, box breathing, breathwork, the–whatever. I've done it."
"Do it anyway."
"People are staring."
"They're not, Sophia."
"They're staring at you."
Adam didn't glance over. Instead, his tongue slid along one of his fangs that was starting to show, absent-minded or on purpose – she couldn't tell. He didn't seem to care either way.
Sophia cleared her throat. "You're half, aren't you?"
Adam's eyes flicked back to hers. "And you're a quarter. Most of you don't clock it that fast."
"Yeah, well, most of us don't have to chew through our own cheeks in public just to stop cravings."
He tilted his head, seemingly amused.
"I usually can't tell," she added, rubbing her temples. "Not unless someone's, like, bleeding out in front of me. But you…" She waved a vague hand at him. "God. You're just—it's like you're vibrating."
Adam huffed out a quiet laugh. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You can't be fullblood though. Or else you wouldn't be here at a bottom-rung conference with the rest of us dirt-bloods."
"True. The fullbloods don't mingle. Not unless they're hunting."
"What are you doing here then?"
Adam exhaled through his nose. "Dragged here by… a friend."
There was the slightest hitch before he said it – friend. Maybe it didn't feel true anymore? He then rolled his eyes as if to dismiss it, but Sophia caught the pause.