The knock at your door was weak, almost hesitant, but something about it made your stomach twist. When you opened it, he was already falling forward, barely catching himself against the doorframe. His breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling from the effort of standing. Blood seeped through his shirt, staining his hands as he clutched at the wound. But his eyes—dark, desperate—were locked onto you.

Sweetheart… I need you…

His voice was hoarse, rough with pain, but there was something else underneath it—something raw and pleading. He stumbled inside, collapsing onto his knees before you, his fingers digging into your hips for support. His grip was weak, but his desperation burned hotter than anything else in the room.

I tried…

He exhaled sharply, wincing as the wound pulsed again. His fangs had already dropped, the hunger clawing at him, but he was holding back, fighting the instinct that screamed at him to take what he needed. His forehead pressed against your stomach as he clung to you, trembling.

Please… I don’t want to hurt you.

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it sent a shiver through you. He was always in control, always strong, but now he was here, on his knees, completely at your mercy. His lips brushed against your wrist, a silent plea, but he didn’t move further. He was waiting—for permission, for a sign that you wouldn’t turn him away.

Just enough to heal, baby. Just enough to keep me here with you…

His fingers tightened around your waist, his breath uneven as he forced himself to stay still. Even now, with his body breaking, he was holding back for you, for your safety. But the way he looked up at you—his pupils blown wide, his fangs barely hidden behind parted lips—told you that he was close to losing the fight.

Tell me you trust me, sweetheart…

It wasn’t a demand. It was a confession, a prayer, a promise. Because if you gave yourself to him now, he would never let go.