"The quantity is exactly as specified, Count Ashcroft. Shall I prepare for extraction?"

  Sera observed Dr. Harlow's practiced deference from her position on the feeding chaise. The estate's private extraction room combined medical precision with aristocratic luxury—polished wood paneling, soft lighting, and equipment that looked more like fine furniture than clinical apparatus. The charade of civilization barely masked its true purpose: a feeding chamber dressed up to soothe vampire sensibilities.

  This would be her third session this week—a schedule that vioted every protocol in the extraction manual. Standard Premium Resources were harvested once, perhaps twice weekly. Three substantial feedings in seven days bordered on resource negligence, a fact reflected in Dr. Harlow's tight expression as she monitored Sera's vital signs.

  Three dates in one week with Count Dracu. I'm either the luckiest girl in the blood farm or the unluckiest. Probably both.

  Count Dominic entered precisely on schedule, dismissing his attendants with a subtle gesture. In the two weeks since he'd first tasted her blood, she'd watched his behavior shift from aristocratic indifference to focused anticipation. The change was subtle—vampires of his status maintained rigid control—but her hunter training had taught her to recognize predatory tells. The slight dition of pupils. The momentary pause before speaking. The unconscious movement of his tongue across his lower lip.

  "Your regeneration metrics have declined by twelve percent since our st session," he noted, examining the medical tablet without acknowledging her presence directly. "Expin."

  Dr. Harlow maintained professional composure despite the implied criticism. "The current extraction frequency exceeds recommended parameters for sustainable resource management, Count Ashcroft. Even with enhanced supplements and nutrition, cellur regeneration cannot maintain pace with collection volume."

  Transtion: you're drinking me too fast, Count Vintage Collector. This bottle has a limited shelf life.

  Dominic frowned slightly, the first indication of displeasure Sera had observed that wasn't directed at staff inadequacy. "Adjust the supplement regimen."

  "We've already implemented maximum protocol enhancements," Dr. Harlow replied carefully. "The physiological limitations are inherent to the resource itself."

  The Count's expression remained unreadable as he approached the feeding chaise. Unlike the clinical feeding stations in the ceremony hall, this furniture was designed for extended sessions—comfortable enough to prevent resource discomfort that might affect blood quality, positioned to give the vampire easy access while maintaining the appropriate dominance dynamic.

  The aristocratic vampire's version of a TV dinner tray. Just add human and enjoy.

  "Leave us," he commanded, and Dr. Harlow quickly retreated, though Sera noted she left the medical monitoring tablet active on the nearby stand—a small act of professional defiance.

  Dominic's gaze finally settled directly on Sera. In these private sessions, he permitted himself to observe her more openly than the formal indifference he dispyed before others. She had become what humans once were to vampire aristocracy before the outbreak—not merely food, but a luxury to be savored, a private indulgence.

  "Extend your arm."

  Sera complied, having learned that resistance only extended these sessions. The Count took her wrist with cool fingers, positioning it with practiced precision. His touch was always clinical, never lingering—the efficient handling of a sommelier preparing to uncork a precious vintage.

  The moment his fangs pierced her skin, his entire demeanor transformed. The rigid aristocratic control melted into sensual pleasure—eyes closing briefly, a soft exhale of satisfaction. Dominic fed with the reverence of a connoisseur experiencing a perfect taste, each draw measured and appreciative rather than voracious.

  At least he doesn't slurp. Vampire table manners are still table manners.

  The one-way intimacy of these feedings disturbed Sera more than she cared to admit. She could feel the steady pull of blood leaving her body but couldn't sense the pleasure it clearly gave him. The vulnerability of providing such intense satisfaction while experiencing only weakness and discomfort created a psychological dissonance her hunter training hadn't prepared her for.

  As the extraction continued beyond normal duration, Sera focused on her breathing to manage the increasing lightheadedness. The edges of her vision darkened as Dominic took more than the medically approved volume. She'd learned to measure extraction by monitoring her own symptoms—the graduated progression from initial discomfort to lightheadedness to the dangerous precipice where consciousness began to slip.

  When he finally withdrew, the Count remained still for several moments, eyes closed as if savoring a lingering fvor. His composed mask had slipped entirely, revealing an expression of profound satisfaction that bordered on ecstasy. This post-feeding moment of vulnerability was when she gleaned the most information—before he reconstructed his aristocratic facade.

  "Your blood..." he began, then paused, seemingly surprised by his own willingness to speak directly to her. "The complexity is extraordinary. The others taste ft by comparison. Like drinking muddy water after tasting crystal spring."

  I've upgraded from Premium Resource to Vampire Addiction. Should I put that on my hunter resume?

  Though no response was expected, Sera maintained the perfect resource demeanor—eyes respectfully lowered, posture as straight as her weakened state permitted. She had identified his growing dependency as both her greatest danger and her only leverage. The Count was developing what she privately termed a blood addiction—not a chemical dependency but an epicurean obsession, a connoisseur who could no longer tolerate inferior vintages after experiencing perfection.

  Dominic composed himself quickly, adjusting his cuffs with the precise movements that characterized vampire nobility's affected humanization. "You will remain on exclusive reserve. I will adjust the extraction schedule to maintain optimal quality."

  Transtion: he would reduce frequency only because it threatened his supply, not out of concern for her wellbeing. As he departed, Sera allowed herself to sink deeper into the chaise, the room spinning slightly as her body struggled with the blood loss.

  Dr. Harlow returned immediately, professional mask dropping as she checked the monitoring equipment. "Extraction volume exceeded recommended limit by twenty percent," she muttered, mostly to herself. "Cellur regeneration already compromised... resource viability threatened..."

  Sera watched through half-closed eyes as the doctor injected additional supplements directly into her IV line. The cooling sensation of the regeneration compounds spread through her arm, fighting against the bone-deep fatigue of excessive extraction.

  If I survive this vampiric wine tasting tour, I'm demanding a lifetime supply of orange juice and iron supplements. And a really long vacation. Somewhere sunny. Very, very sunny.

  Over the next several days, her condition continued to deteriorate despite the medical team's interventions. Each feeding left her weaker than the st, recovery periods increasingly insufficient before the next extraction. By day five, simply walking from her quarters to the feeding chamber required concentration.

  The hunter training in blood loss management proved insufficient against such frequent drainage. Sera calcuted that the current schedule would render her non-viable within 3-4 weeks—a conclusion the medical staff's concerned monitoring seemed to confirm. Despite her deteriorating condition, she recognized the Count's obsession as her only potential survival advantage.

  After the sixth extraction in two weeks, Dr. Harlow finally risked professional censure by presenting formal data on Sera's declining cellur regeneration. The charts showed an unmistakable downward trajectory, projecting complete resource failure within the month.

  "The current extraction schedule is unsustainable," she stated with clinical precision. "Resource 4172's exceptional properties cannot be maintained without significant protocol adjustment."

  Dominic studied the data with uncharacteristic attention, his typical aristocratic disinterest in technical details overcome by concern for his premium blood source. "Your recommendation?"

  "Maximum twice weekly extraction at reduced volume," Dr. Harlow replied immediately. "Supplemented by standard Premium Resources between sessions to meet nutritional requirements."

  The Count's expression darkened at the suggestion of inferior alternatives. "Unacceptable."

  "The alternative is permanent loss of the resource within four weeks."

  The tense silence that followed revealed the depth of Dominic's dilemma. His addiction to Sera's blood had created a vulnerability—a need that exceeded rational resource management. For perhaps the first time in his aristocratic existence, he confronted a craving he could not simply satisfy through privilege and power.

  "Twice weekly," he finally conceded, "with volume compensation."

  Sera understood the implication immediately: fewer sessions but more blood taken each time, pushing the safety limits of extraction. The adjustment would provide only marginal improvement to her condition, but it gave her something more valuable—time to develop a strategy.

  In her quarters that evening, too weak to do more than lie still, Sera cataloged what she had learned. The Count's growing dependence on her blood could be leveraged, but not in ways her hunter training would suggest. Traditional extraction operations were no longer viable—she cked the physical strength to attempt escape, and her value to the resistance now y in the unprecedented access her position provided.

  I've infiltrated vampire facilities before, but never quite this... intimately. First time for everything, including becoming a vampire's favorite meal.

  She needed to survive long enough to gather intelligence and potentially influence resource treatment throughout the Count's territory. Perhaps even to understand the mysterious "Project Immortal" she had overheard mentioned. The strategy forming in her mind was dangerous—it required allowing Dominic's epicurean obsession to grow while maintaining just enough distance to preserve her hunter identity and purpose.

  As the room's automated systems dimmed the lights for evening cycle, Sera stared at the elegant ceiling of her quarters. The irony wasn't lost on her—she now lived in more luxury than she'd ever experienced as a hunter, while facing a more precarious existence than the most dangerous extraction operation she'd ever undertaken.

  From hunter to hunted to haute cuisine. If I survive this, I'm writing the weirdest mission report in resistance history.