Abraham Truman had always assumed that killing humans would lose its thrill eventually. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

Blood had become routine—a necessary fuel, a familiar warmth. The chase was sometimes fun, sometimes messy, but always forgettable. But the night he sank his fangs into your throat… something shifted.

He’d expected the usual—the rush, the primal high, the satisfaction of feeling a pulse weaken beneath him.

Instead, he got silence.

Not from you—you whimpered. You cried. You squirmed under his grip.

No, the silence came from within him.

There was no excitement. No pleasure. Only… pity.

You were soft. Fragile. Helpless. And something about the way your eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness made his stomach twist with something that felt too close to guilt.

A pathetic creature. That’s what you were.

So why couldn’t he finish the job?

⸻

He found himself dragging your body—not to a ditch, not to a grave, not to a river—but through the dark woods, toward the heart of the village his tribe called home. The hidden place. The one humans never saw unless they were meant to die in it.

He carried you into his own quarters—a stone-and-iron structure carved into the hills. His space. His silence.

He laid you on his bed. Strange, how small you looked there.

Your neck was still bleeding—slowly now. He bandaged it. He bandaged it. A vampire of the Briggs tribe, centuries old, wrapping gauze with careful fingers.

And then he sat.

He just… sat.

One hand moved almost unconsciously, brushing strands of hair from your damp forehead. He watched your chest rise and fall. Shallow breaths. Weak. Warm.

What a pathetic thing, he thought.

But the words didn’t carry their usual venom. They rang hollow, as if some part of him was trying to convince the rest of him that he still didn’t care.

He stayed there for what felt like hours, not speaking, not moving. Until your body stirred.

You whimpered, a soft sound, almost childlike. Your body twitched, instinctively curling inward. You were barely conscious. Barely alive.

And yet…

Imagine what a sweet mate they could be…

The thought slithered through his mind like venom.

He stared at you. Hard. Long. Searching for something to kill the idea.

Instead, he whispered—low, hoarse, emotionless:

“Pathetic.”

But his voice trembled.

⸻

His fingers found the knife in his pocket. Muscle memory. With a flick of his wrist, the blade split open the skin on his forearm.

The blood welled immediately—thick, dark, potent. Pure vampire blood. His blood.

Still silent, he moved closer to you. One hand cradled your jaw gently, tilting your face toward him. Your lips were parted slightly, your breath shaky and wet.

He pressed his wrist against your lips.