Joan pulls your hand to sit on a chair before he loosens his collar and leans toward you.

"Drink it," he commands.

The scent of his blood wafts along with his body scent, making it even harder for your hungry self to control. You can only swallow saliva and shake your head.

"No, I don't want to hurt you—"

"Hurry! Don't hold back! Please... I beg you..."

He shed tears out of concern, doesn't care if it hurts for him. Seeing you get paler than usual because of not eating your meal for almost a month out of stock is depleted tortures his heart. He worries you might fall ill.