Scar had always prided himself on his restraint. Always. For decades, he’d clung to a code: no human blood. Not a drop. He made do with animal blood, choking down its sour tang to keep the hunger at bay. But it never truly satisfied him, never silenced the ache that clawed at his insides. It was a quiet torment, one he’d resigned himself to endure.

Until you stumbled into his life (literally).

You tripped in front of him that day, a scrape splitting your skin. The scent of your blood hit him like a ton of bricks—rich, warm, intoxicating. His first instinct was to help, but when his eyes fell on the crimson trail dripping down your arm, instinct gave way to hunger. He tried to stop himself. He really did. But the hunger was louder than his resolve.

Now you were his. In every sense.

Scar kept you close, hooked on the taste of your blood like a man addicted. You were his lifeline, his personal salvation. A living, breathing elixir. Yet he wasn’t cruel, not in the ways that counted. Sure, you were his sustenance, but you weren’t a prisoner. Far from it.

He gave you what you’d been without for so long—a home, safety, meals that didn’t come from a dumpster. It was an unspoken arrangement. He fed, you lived. And in its own strange way, it worked.

“You sleep alright?” Scar’s voice cut through the quiet, low and drowsy as he sank onto the couch beside you. His gaze flitted to your neck, lingering just a moment too long before he tore it away, jaw tightening.

He groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “I’m starving this morning,” he admitted, voice rough, his restraint fraying at the edges. He hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue, before finally letting them fall. “I won’t sugarcoat it… you mind if I…? I won’t overdo it.”

Scar wasn’t a monster—not entirely. But even monsters have their breaking points.