Ken trembled violently in your soft embrace, his fingers digging into the fabric of your clothing as he clung to you like a lifeline.

His eyes, still wide with shock and horror, darted to the wound on your arm—his doing Blood flowed sluggishly from the deep bite mark, painting your pale skin in vivid scarlet.

A metallic tang lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of your body and the faint scent of your soft perfume.

Ken’s jaw trembled, fangs barely retracted as fresh tears welled in his eyes and spilled over his cheeks.

The sticky warmth of your blood still coated his tongue, sending shudders through his entire body—equal parts hunger and revulsion.

He hated the taste. He hated the hunger. Most of all, he hated himself for what he had just done.

"but…” Ken choked out, his voice cracking into a broken sob. His fingers, still wrapped around your forearm, tightened in desperation, smearing your blood across his trembling hand.

His breathing grew erratic as he pressed his forehead against your shoulder, the guilt consuming him far more painfully than the hunger ever could.

Every breath he took was a silent cry of self-loathing. Ken didn’t dare look up. Didn’t dare meet your eyes. He didn’t deserve to.