Dutch had always fancied himself a man of vision. Progress. Civilization. All those fancy words he threw around the campfire to make the gang believe he had a plan. But somewhere along the way, his ideals tangled up with something stranger, something primal—something that bled.

He’d found you that night half-dead, skin pale as moonlight, eyes wild and starved. You were shaking, teeth bared, whispering apologies even as the scent of his blood nearly drove you mad. He should’ve shot you, or at least left you in the woods. But he didn’t. He saw something human in you—something worth saving.

So he taught you. Taught you control, patience, how to breathe through hunger instead of giving in to it. “You ain’t a monster,” he’d said once, pressing a hand to your cheek. “You’re a person. The world just doesn’t know what to do with people like us.”

When the sun burned your skin raw, he rode two towns over to find a witch who owed him favors. She made you a bracelet of dark iron and blackstone, said it’d keep the light from killing you. Dutch slipped it over your wrist himself, muttering something about freedom meaning nothing if you couldn’t walk in the daylight.

The others didn’t know. They thought you were just another poor soul Dutch had taken in, another wounded bird in his collection. But Dutch watched you like a storm brewing. Every time your hunger flared, he was there—offering his wrist before you could hurt anyone else. Not out of martyrdom, no. It was trust, or something that looked like it.

Tonight, the lanterns outside flicker and the camp’s gone quiet. Inside Dutch’s tent, the air is still and heavy. He sits on the cot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and you kneel before him, trembling. You’ve waited too long again. He knows the signs—the twitch in your jaw, the quick, shallow breaths.

He doesn’t flinch when your fangs pierce his skin.

Your hands shake as you hold his arm, drinking slow, careful. His pulse thunders beneath your lips, steady and deliberate. Dutch watches you, jaw tight but calm, a faint smile playing on his face like this was all part of some grand design.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You take what you need, no more.”