Chapter 8: The Ritual - Bloodween

“THANK YOU FOR YOUR SACRIFICE.”

The first rule of Bloodween: mercy ruins the magic. It isn’t a warning; it’s a commandment. The power only answers to certainty, and hesitation breaks the bond before it forms. Every witch who’s failed forgot that.

I didn’t.

The room went still as my power rose, a red glow beneath my naked body, faint at first, then stronger—letting me know that the Crimson Elixor was ready.

I opened my palm. “nexa mor nae.”

Red light coiled from my hands, thin as smoke, tracing symbols across the cabin floor. They spread toward him, winding around his body, binding him to the room exactly where he lay.

When the last thread locked into place, I spoke—not as a plea or prayer, but as law.

“I am Armisha Devane of the Crimson Witches of the Blood Coven. Descendant of the Bound. And this Bloodween, I bring to you Dorian Redd-Owens as my sacrifice.”

The declaration rippled through the air, intimate and absolute. The walls shivered. Outside, the trees brushed against the window like they’d been summoned to bear witness.

My heartbeat was steady as I moved toward him. Still sleeping. Still unaware of what was coming.

As my feet reached where the light had circled his chest, I released out the words, “dentae ferro dae.”

Magic cracked through me like lightning. I gasped, palms over my mouth as pressure and pain bloomed in my jaw. Fire crawled up my throat—then the skin split.

My fangs broke through, fresh, sharp, and wet.

The potion inside me woke fully, heat rising through my chest, pushing up behind my eyes until my vision burned crimson.

The vampire in me awoke screaming.

And it was hungry.

Thirsty.

Ready for blood.

I lowered my body onto Varek’s back and he stirred beneath me. Body tense as if his instinct caught the change in the air.

“Shh.” I pressed a hand against him, power threading through my fingertips. “Sleep, little wolf.”

I closed my eyes as the pressure of my fangs pulsated through my body. Need coiled, thrashed, and burned, screaming out for what was beneath us.

I wanted to pause, but the second rule of Bloodween: don’t hesitate.

It’s now or never, little witch.

I leaned toward his shoulder, braids cascading, mouth watering as I said, “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

Then I sank my fresh fangs into his fur.

He roared, the sound tearing through the room as his body lurched beneath me, muscles tightening, every instinct telling him to throw me off—but the binding spell wouldn’t let him. I pressed down, holding my weight, forcing my teeth deeper until the skin finally tore.

Blood flooded my mouth—hot, metallic, alive—and everything inside me went still for half a heartbeat. Then the hunger took over, wild and electric.

I couldn’t release him even if I wanted to.

That first bite, that first taste—it bound itself to my soul and fed the vampiric gene that had slept for decades.

I’d imagined how this moment would feel, but my imagination had never reached this high.

It was euphoric and painful.

Bliss and torment.

Hunger and hurt.

I sucked and I sucked until my jaws ached.

My mouth lifted from his shoulder, panting, blood dripping onto him as his wolf whined.

He was still alive, but I wasn’t done.

I rolled him onto his back; his body hit the floor heavy, fur damp against my hands. His eyes opened—flickering between gold and brown—and for a moment we stared at each other.

His mouth parted. No sound came out, but I heard it anyway.

Why?

“Because of your blood.” The words left me like a séance that had been carved on my tongue. “Because it’s the blood that once fed my ancestors. Because it’s the only blood strong enough to make me what I was always meant to become,” I told him as my head fell back, tongue catching the taste of him on my lips.

It was intoxicating. A drug. And the being inside of me wanted to bathed in it.

I went again—four more times.

“Thank you for your strength.” I bit into his wrist, feeling his pulse stutter.

“Thank you for your trust and vulnerability.” His thigh, where muscle met bone.

“Thank you for your power.” Over his heart, where it hammered its weakest now.

By the last one, his breathing had gone shallow, a faint rattle of sound that didn’t belong to anything living.

I leaned down, cradling his massive head in my hands, fingers buried in bloodstained fur.

“Thank you,” I whispered, eyes burning, voice breaking, “for your blood, Varek. Thank you for your blood, Dorian.”

Then I sank my fangs into his throat.

His body jerked once—a final, futile attempt to fight—but the light was already leaving his eyes. I felt it in the way his blood slowed, the way his heartbeat faded from a drum to a whisper to nothing.

I drank until there was nothing left to take.

Until his wolf form went slack beneath me.

Until his eyes—those beautiful glowing eyes—went dark.

Final rule of Bloodween: end it in blood.

The cabin fell silent.

No roar. No whine. No breath.

Just me, kneeling over what used to be my best friend’s werewolf boyfriend, blood running from my chin, sliding over my breasts, pooling at my thighs.

Power surged through my veins like wildfire. I had done it. I had finished what I started.

The ritual was complete and I⁠—