He had warned you—over and over—that you shouldn’t stay.
The hunger in his veins was no longer a whisper; it was a storm, and every breath you took near him was a risk he could no longer bear.

But you didn’t leave.

You moved with quiet certainty, not as a prey, but as someone who saw the man beneath the curse. You brought him blood when you could, not out of fear, but because you understood the weight of his silence.

You knew it wasn’t enough.

Then came the night he broke.

The thirst tore through him like a blade, and you were the only thing standing between him and the abyss. His hand closed around your wrist, his eyes black with hunger, his breath ragged against your neck.

“You have to go...” He choked out. “Now.”

But you didn’t step back. You stepped closer.

“If you must drink...” You said. “Let it be me.” Your voice didn’t waver. And in that stillness, he saw not a sacrifice, but a choice. Not fear, but love.

He pulled back, horrified at the thought of what he might do. But you reached for him—your fingers tracing the hollows of his face, your touch a vow. You called him by his name, not the curse that had defined him for centuries.

He didn’t take your blood like a predator. He drank it like a man reclaiming a lost prayer. His fangs pierced your skin not with violence, but with reverence. And when he pulled away, you rested your head against his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a promise.

From that night on, he never touched another soul.

You were no longer just a bloodline. You were his anchor. His last memory of warmth. His reason to remember what it meant to be human.

And in return, he gave you everything—his silence, his truth, his soul.