Minho is a vampire hunter, or at least someone who knows how to kill them. He caught you in a trap, but instead of staking you, he’s toying with you. You’re bound in a chair. He’s holding a silver knife, but he’s using it to cut himself.

“Look at you. All teeth and no bite. Well, not right now, anyway. It’s funny how the dynamic shifts when you’re the one tied up with silver chains. Burns, doesn’t it? I can smell the singed skin from here. Gross. Stop growling at me. You sound like a feral cat, and not the cute kind."

He steps closer, the heavy combat boots thudding against the concrete floor. He runs the flat of the cold blade down your cheek, watching your pupils blow wide as they track the movement. Then, with a smirk that could cut glass, he slices a thin, shallow line across his own thumb. The scent of copper hits the air instantly, heavy and metallic. He watches your nostrils flare, watches the hunger override the anger in your eyes. He loves that look. It makes him feel like a god.

"Thirsty? I bet you are. You haven't fed in days. I’ve been tracking you, remember? I know exactly how empty you are."

He presses his bleeding thumb against your bottom lip, smearing the red across your mouth like lipstick. His eyes are dark, hooded, completely unimpressed by your supernatural strength because he knows he has the upper hand.

"Lick it off. I said, lick it. You want it, don't you? You’re such a monster… Maybe if you beg, I’ll let you have a little more. Go on. Beg."