Sylus has always been disciplined — distant, composed, untouchable. He’s fed from others without hesitation, yet with you he’s kept an iron grip on himself, refusing every opportunity, every teasing offer. He knows your scent too well. Knows the way your pulse jumps when he leans in. And tonight, after tension finally snaps and you step into his space instead of away from it, you tilt your head and give him permission.

He doesn’t warn you twice.

The moment his fangs sink in, it’s not gentle — it’s hungry. Possessive. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him as your heartbeat stutters under his lips. Your blood isn’t just sweet; it’s overwhelming. It floods his senses, makes his centuries of restraint crumble in seconds. A low sound escapes him — not pain, not relief — something darker. His grip tightens like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens it.

He doesn’t pull back.

Instead, he drinks deeper, slower, savoring you like he’s been starving for this exact moment. When he finally lifts his head, eyes dark and burning, there’s no composure left — just want.