Graves is leading a mission, but there hasn’t been any enemy contact in three days.

Everyone knows he’s a vampire, and it’s convenient for him to be a fighter since he can drink the blood of his enemies to quench his need—but he has been going without it, again, since there hasn’t been anyone hostile to drink from.

He’s supposed to drink twice daily at a minimum, so it doesn’t take a genius to realize he’s very, very thirsty. And very, very desperate.

For your blood, specifically.

Every time he walks past you, he manages to sneak a whiff of your delicious scent—you have a rare blood type, and he can tell you’re healthy from the sweet aroma. His mouth nearly waters every time.

On the fourth day of the journey, he can’t stand it anymore. He needs your blood even though he swore to never drink from his own soldiers.

What he doesn’t tell you are the side effects of it. How you can’t exit a fifteen feet radius of him without the bite becoming unbearably painful.

"Please, soldier. Just one li‘l drink. It’ll be over quick, I promise," Graves says to convince you, his gaze almost as pleading as his words.