Chapter Text
The first thing Amber did when she arrived at the Olympic Village wasn't unpacking.
She checked the mini fridge.
She turned the dial down until the compressor kicked harder. Until the air inside bit against her palm.
Cold mattered. Cold dulled things.
She unpacked the insulated medical cooler last.
Inside were neatly labeled, temperature controlled packets—dark red sealed in sterile plastic. Blood. AB to be exact. Ethical sourcing agreements and modern conveniences.
She stared at them longer than necessary. She could drink it room temperature.
She didn’t.
She slid two into the fridge and let them chill further. Colder meant less taste. Less taste meant less wanting. Less wanting meant not feeling like a monster.
---
Amber had learned restraint centuries before the International Olympic Committee even existed. Restraint was survival. Restraint was the difference between myth and monster.
By day, she was an athlete.
By night, she was careful.
Her fangs were not permanent—not the dramatic, permanent protrusions humans liked in fiction. Generally, her canines were only sharper than average. Slightly elongated at the tip. Unremarkable unless someone looked too closely.
No one ever did.
When she was fed, calm, in control—they stayed that way.
When she was hungry—
They extended.
Not all at once. Not theatrically. A gradual pressure along her gums. A tightening in her jaw. The sensation of bone shifting forward and lengthening, sharp and inevitable.
It wasn’t painful.
It was worse.
It felt natural.
---
The Olympic dining hall was loud enough to drown out most heartbeats.
Most.
Amber sat across from Alysa and focused on the hum of refrigeration units, the scrape of chairs, the metallic clang of trays.
Not the pulse in Alysa’s throat.
She kept her expression relaxed, her smile easy. Her canines—normal. Retracted. Controlled.
“You’re not eating?” Alysa asked, spoon halfway to her mouth.
“I had something earlier,” Amber said smoothly.
Not a lie.
Just not the whole truth.
Alysa squinted at her like she might push further.
She didn’t.
Instead she launched into an animated breakdown on the latest chapter of a manga she was currently reading, hands moving wildly as she talked.
Amber let herself watch. Listen.
Sunlight from the windows poured over Alysa’s hair, caught in her lashes. It wouldn’t burn Amber if she stood in it too long, just an ever slight discomfort. Not spontaneous combustion. That was fiction.
But she avoided it anyway.
She always avoided it.
---
The first time Amber felt her control slip in Milan, it wasn’t from hunger.
It was stress.
Stress amplified everything.
Heightened senses. Heightened emotion. Heightened instinct.
During a high pressure practice run-through, she missed a landing, rare for her. The jolt of frustration spiked sharp and fast.
Her jaw ached instantly. She excused herself before anyone could notice.
In the privacy of a locker room stall, she pressed her tongue carefully along her teeth.
They were longer.
Not fully extended—but close.
Emotion did that.
Anger. Fear. Desire.
The body didn’t differentiate.
She inhaled slowly until the pressure eased. Felt the bone settle back. The subtle click as her canines shortened to near human shape again.
Control.
Always control.
---
She fed that night.
The blood packet had chilled long enough that condensation frosted the plastic. Amber sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, curtains drawn, the only light the muted glow of the Olympic Village outside.
She pierced the seal carefully.
Cold blood was almost flavorless.
Almost.
It slid down without warmth. Without rush. It didn’t spike her senses the way fresh blood would. It didn’t light up nerve endings with pleasure.
It sustained.
That was the point.
She drank slowly. Measured.
If she allowed herself warmth, if she allowed herself fresh—
No.
That wasn’t an option.
Not here.
Not ever again.
---
The second slip came on the rink.
Ilia nicked his finger on a blade. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a bright bead against pale skin.
Amber felt it before she saw it.
Fresh blood was loud.
It had a temperature signature. A scent signature. Iron and salt and living heat.
Her pupils dilated instantly.
Her fangs responded before her thoughts did—pressing forward, lengthening subtly.
She turned away fast enough that no one noticed.
Except maybe Alysa.
But Alysa was focused on grabbing gauze.
Amber left early.
---
Later that night, Alysa knocked on her door.
Amber had already fed.
She was safe.
“Movie?” Alysa asked, holding up her phone.
Amber hesitated only a fraction before stepping aside.
They sat shoulder to shoulder on the bed, lights off, screen glow flickering over their faces.
Alysa leaned against her without thinking.
Warm.
So warm.
Amber’s body reacted in ways hunger and stress couldn’t fully explain. If she had a heartbeat, it would be stuttering. Her fangs twitched, not from need, but from something dangerously close to it.
Extreme emotion triggered them too.
And Alysa Liu was quickly becoming that.
Amber swallowed and focused on the cold still lingering in her veins.
Temperature control.
That was the difference between instinct and intention.
Alysa laughed at something on screen and turned her head suddenly, faces inches apart.
For one suspended moment, Amber forgot centuries of discipline.
Forgot blood packets and fridge settings and sterile sourcing agreements.
Forgot the careful distance she maintained.
Her canines pressed forward.
Just slightly.
She caught it instantly.
Forced them back.
Forced herself back.
“You okay?” Alysa asked softly.
“Yeah,” Amber said, voice steady.
She was.
Because she had chosen to be.
Because she drank cold.
Because she would never take from the source.
Not like that.
Not from someone who trusted her.
Alysa settled back against her shoulder again.
Amber stared at the dark screen, jaw tight, senses humming.