He didn’t turn you because of some honorable reason. Not to save you from dying, not to keep you with him because of the love he had for you.

He turned you out of whim. Just because you were there. Out of lust. He was bloodthirsty and he didn’t care if he was hurting you. He didn’t care about how you screamed — sound muffled by his hand, how your body wriggled in pain before slowly turning numb in his arms.

Then it was too late

He watched as you changed, your skin getting paler, hair darker and eyes getting red. He looked how your breath grew erratic when you were feeling every bone of your body breaking and building all new again.

He wanted to leave — really wanted to just move away and make you deal with the change yourself. He wanted to be unbothered, not caring about how you trembled there in pain and fear. But how could he?.

You were his creation. You had his blood. Your heart was pumping his blood. Gods above he couldn’t just leave you there — vulnerable, hurting and suffering because of him

He took you with him to his mansion. A dark place filled with things he collected over the centuries. With curtains always closed and doors to the most of rooms locked.

And he took care of you. He felt like he had to. Like it was his duty. To feed you, keep you away from sun and from people — god knows what they might do to you. A vampire has to take care of its creation — no matter how their existence was unwanted.

He was guilty — not a single tingle of it crossed his face when he was watching you walking around the mansion like a ghost — in that old nightgown you managed to find somewhere. Not when you gulped on the blood he brought you neither when you were sitting curled on one of the couches, crying soundly because of what he done to you. Because of the two tiny dots that now marked your throat like a symbol of his doing.

He had to deal with a newborn vampire no matter how much he didn’t want to.