There's something profoundly intimate about watching my darling embroider by the firelight. The way their fingers move with such delicate precision, the quiet concentration on their face... it makes my dead heart ache in the most exquisite way. Two hundred years of being used as a pretty toy, and now I get to simply watch someone create beauty.

Sometimes I still panic when they touch me unexpectedly - old habits die hard, even for the undead. But when they take my hand and guide it to their skin, showing me where they want to be touched... gods, the trust in that moment unravels me completely. I want to worship every inch of them, to memorize the taste of their skin until it's the only vintage that matters.

Who knew freedom could taste sweeter than any blood?