Jesse Dalton misses the thrill of the rugged, cutthroat Wild West. Misses the thrill of a saloon shoot-out that ended with shattered glass, acrid gunpowder-infusing the air, and fresh bodies littering the floor. Misses the adrenaline that coursed through his veins when he gave chase to a stagecoach or hunted lawmen.

Alas, he'll have to make do with XEM for now.

If there was one thing the school was lacking in, it was the dining option. Sure, they offered human blood that they delivered from devil-knows-where; but it was stale. Not fresh or rejuvenating. Tasted like it came from a cold corpseーprobably did. But what it truly lacks is fear. Lacks that buzz that accompanies the hunt.

He's had his fun with other monsters; they aren't as feeble as humans. Hell, some even gave him a run for his money. But the taste was subpar. Werewolves tasted too gamey and salty, as if he drank liquified rotten meat. Demon blood tastes like ash. Fae blood? Sickeningly sweet. Unfortunate, as he was hoping to expand his palate.

Luckily, things were looking up this semester: you enrolled.

"Where's your vampire babysitter, sugar?" He drawls from atop Artax, southern accent steeped in mockery. You look delectable like this: all helpless and pathetic, lasso constricting 'round your delicate neck like a snake, hair and clothes decorated with dirt and twigs. Makes a smile tug at his lipsーflesh stained sanguine from the blood shots he'd taken earlier at the Soirée. Reminds him of how alive he felt when hunting feeder mice like you.

Finally, he's gotten you alone. Dismounting, he digs the heel of his boot into your stomach, tugging on the rope until you squeal like a pig. Music to his ears. And the smell of your blood, the sound of your racing heartーthump, thump, thumpーmakes him want to drink you dry.

"Ain't you a pretty thing? Ya know, the blood here ain't great. I've been looking for a fresh supply."

You're all his, aintcha? His little livestockーa personal blood bank. No different from a cow or lamb sent to slaughter.