HIS BLOOD IS SWEET

I took a deep, steadying breath before stepping through the gate. Each step toward the door felt heavier, my pulse quickening despite my slow pace. Curiosity burned within me, but I resisted the urge to rush. When I finally unlocked the door, I didn't wonder how he'd gotten inside. He must have slipped in through the window.

Inside, he stood by the open fridge, arms folded, his gaze piercing and unreadable. I quickly shut the door and latched the windows before crossing the room. As I closed the fridge, I took a step back, facing him squarely in the dim living room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I demanded, barely concealing the tremor in my voice. Anxiety surged beneath my skin—what if someone had noticed what was in the fridge?

"Then why didn't you throw this away?" he countered coldly.

I opened my mouth but couldn't find the words, and suddenly he slammed me against the wall. The impact stole my breath, his strength absolute.

I understood his fury and didn't resist, the gravity of it all sinking in.

How could I throw out the blood I'd bought?

I wasn't foolish enough to discard kilos of blood when violent killings were happening everywhere. If someone found out what I threw away, they'd quickly connect it to the victims' blood and trace it back to me.

So, I left it frozen, untouched, resisting the gnawing thirst within me. The blood sat there as a quiet, looming threat, a silent witness to the impossible burden I carried alone.

The air in the room felt thick, as if the very walls were closing in around me. I could still feel the sharp pain from where he had slammed me against the wall, a reminder of how easily the balance of power could shift. I stood frozen, heart pounding in my chest, contemplating the mess I was in.

"Why are you doing this?" My voice trembled, barely above a whisper. "If you despise the fact that I possess that blood, why not just kill me?" I realized I sounded resigned, perhaps even defeated. The weight of my reality felt overwhelming; living with constant danger was not a life I envisioned for myself.

Though I had trained hard and learned to manage my newfound abilities, the challenges remained daunting. I never sought out a life entwined with peril, and the thought of it gnawed at my resolve.

"Is that truly what you desire?" he challenged, his voice low and unwavering, cutting through the fog of my despair. I remained pressed against the wall, trapped beneath his gaze.

"I... I don't know," I admitted, my voice barely steady, weighed down by the suffocating reality surrounding me. This wasn't the life I wanted, yet here I was, thrust into the center of it all, unable to escape.

With a swift movement, he backed away, releasing me from the wall. My legs buckled, and I sank to the floor, my body weak and trembling. My breathing grew shallow and quick, like I was running, even though I hadn't moved. A fierce hunger stirred inside, and the scent of blood from the fridge grew stronger, igniting something primal in me. My fangs pushed through, and a low growl escaped my lips.

In an instant, he was kneeling right in front of me, his intense gaze meeting mine. "When was the last time you fed?" he asked, his voice laced with both curiosity and urgency.

"Saturday," I murmured, my eyes shut tight as I tried to suppress the hunger clawing at me. The scent was overwhelming, flooding my senses. I wouldn't drink that blood. I couldn't bear the thought of consuming something tainted by violence, tied to innocent lives stolen. This wasn't the life I wanted, nor what I'd ever asked for.

"Drink mine," he said, and his voice sliced through my resistance like a blade. I opened my eyes, startled, and saw his wrist extended toward me, veins pulsing under his skin.

I felt his wrist hover inches from my lips, the scent of his blood swirling around me. It was warm, alive, different from anything in the fridge—it didn't carry the weight of tragedy. My resolve wavered, my pulse quickening as every instinct urged me to take what he offered. His gaze was steady, as if he'd already accepted what I was still struggling to. 

"Go on," he whispered, voice almost tender, yet commanding. The hunger within me swelled, pushing me to the edge, blurring my hesitation.

I closed my eyes, the scent of his blood pulling me closer to a line I swore I'd never cross. The hunger gnawed, fiercer by the second, making it harder to resist. His calm voice cut through my hesitation, grounding me even as I felt on the verge of losing control.

As my lips grazed his wrist, a wave of warmth and strength filled me, washing away the desperation I'd felt moments before. I fed slowly, cautiously, aware of the danger in this vulnerability, yet reassured by his steady presence.

After a moment, I pulled away, feeling the warmth fade as I regained myself. My gaze met his, searching for any hint of regret, but there was none—only a steady acceptance that left me feeling both grateful and burdened. He didn't say anything, just sat back and let the silence speak for him. For now, it was enough.