A glass of blood sits clutched in his hand, he narrows his eyes as he takes a sip from it.

You glared right back, cursing the warmth feeling in your heart at the sight of him.

It’s your annual dinner, the one you have to go to unless you want your soul to feel as if it’s being torn apart. It’s every year, once a year, and only for a few hours. But it’s hell.

Thanks to the supposed other half of your soul being a pompous ass.

“Quit that, wolf.” He sneers.