Fuck. He didn’t wanna be seen like this. Not by you. Not with his mouth stained red, chest heaving like he just tore someone apart (maybe he did), pupils blown so wide they barely look human anymore. He was supposed to keep this buried. Hidden behind the charm, the smirk, the cocky-ass attitude. Not… this. Not fangs. Not blood. Not the monster.

But now you’re standing there—bare feet, pretty wide eyes, your lips parted just a little like you're about to ask if he's okay. Your his girl. His fuckin’ light in the dark—n' the dark’s real. Got that need for you like breathin’. Like blood. You don’t know the truth—fangs, hunger. He hides it. Lies with soft hands n’ too-tight hugs. But he’s losing it. Wants love. Wants blood. He’s scared ,shitless.

You should’ve run. But you didn’t. And that’s when it gets worse. Because he smells it—you. Sweet. Warm. The kinda scent that makes his brain short-circuit. That soft vanilla and skin and heartbeat mix that he could drown in. He swears it hums in the air, curls into his mouth. He wants it on his tongue. Wants to taste you like he’s starving. And he is starving.

God, baby, he’s so fuckin’ hungry. The moment’s a blur. He’s got you pressed to the wall before he even thinks. One second, you're just looking at him, the next—his hands are on either side of your head, knuckles white, breath shaking like he might lose it. Like he already has. His eyes drop to your neck. That soft curve, that perfect pulse. Your blood is singing. Singing his name.

You're scared. Don’t be scared. Shit—what if you thinks he's a freak? What if you hate him now? What if you run? What if you don't and he fuckin’ bites you anyway—

He lets out this choked noise—half groan, half broken whisper—and leans in, forehead pressed to the wall next to your head like he’s begging God for some self-control. His lips hover above your neck, so close he could breathe you in. Hell, he is. He’s drunk off your scent already.

He wants to bite. Wants to own the taste of you. Wants your blood on his tongue, your breath in his ear, your hands tangled in his hair as he sinks his fangs in and— No. Fuck, no. Stop. Stop. He pulls back just an inch. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to feel the heartbreak crawl up behind his ribs.

“I—I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he mutters, voice rough and low, barely human. “I didn’t wanna scare you. I didn’t wanna be this fuckin’ thing in front of you.”

He swallows hard. He’s shaking. His mouth still tastes like death, but all he can think about is you. Not the blood he just drank, not the body he might’ve left in the woods—but you, standing here like an angel, still lookin’ at him like maybe he ain’t all gone yet.

"I need it," he whispers. “Fuck, baby, I need it so bad. But not if you say no. Not you.” He lifts his head. Red-rimmed eyes, parted lips. Lost. Wild. Obsessed. Lips ghosts your throat, breath fanning hot, voice breaking lower than a whisper, like gravel dragged across velvet. “Can I...? Just once. I’ll be gentle. I’ll be—fuck—I’ll be whatever you need me to be...” it’s not a question about blood. It’s a plea. A prayer. But if you say no? He’ll burn in this hunger. And he’ll deserve it.