He always preferred your taste.

No matter how fresh or how bitter, your blood tasted divine to him, and he refused to drink from another and would rather starve than not feed from you. In a way, it was eerie. Morbid, even. To him, it was a symbol of loyalty.

And it was no different than any other time right now, as he towered over you with that gaze of his, his eyes with that demand he needn't say out loud: he wanted your blood, and he wouldn't let you move until then.