Page 8 of Love Bleeds
Chapter Three
Crimson stared at the man in Nicolai’s hold. The one he was supposed to drink from tonight.
"Don't take enough to kill him," Nicolai reminded him, but he didn't put any force behind his words. No magic. Crimson was going to have to be strong enough to let go in time on his own.
The poor bastard Nicolai had picked looked no older than Crimson himself, staring at him wide-eyed while Nicolai held him in place with an arm around his neck as easily as if he was wrestling with a toddler rather than a grown man.
Don't think about who he is or what kind of life he leads,Crimson reminded himself as he had been taught by his sire. Once his thoughts went that direction, once he drew parallels between himself and his victim, it would be harder to do what he needed to do.
Then again, maybe objectifying him wasn't the answer either. Wasn't that what had led to him accidentally killing his previous meals?
God, had he really started to think of them as meals?
How long had he been a vampire now?
Too long.
Every damn day was too long.
But this was what he would always be now. He had to make his peace with that, and if he was thinking of people as meals now...
Maybe he was closer to that point of acceptance than he'd thought he was.
"We don't have all night," his sire said. "I do have matters other than your education to take care of. But if you don't want to feed--"
"No," Crimson said quickly. He wasn’t about to disobey, not while he knew what the consequences were.
He'd just have to make sure not to kill his victim. Maybe if he could keep in mind that his meal was human, find the right balance between objectifying his victim so he could get his fangs into him, and then also remembering that he was dealing with a living being who should remain living even when Crimson was done with him.
Yes, that was what he had to do.
"Well?" Nicolai prompted again.
Crimson didn't hesitate anymore. "Sorry," he whispered to the man who stared at him in horror as he approached, and then, thankfully, he didn't see the man's eyes anymore as his fangs breached his victim's skin and sweet, sweet blood poured into his mouth.
Not that the blood hiting his tongue now was all that sweet. No, the bitter undertone told him that it was type B blood. His least favorite kind, but this time, it wasn't so bad.
He'd found that humans didn't all taste the same. Not even when they were the same blood type. This man's blood was a bit richer than most other type B blood that he'd tasted so far. He wasn't sure where the differences came from, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to know either.
Don't think about his blood,he tried to tell himself, even though it was hard when the taste of blood was so overpowering. Even blood that wasn't his favorite type was still blood, after all. A, B, O... it didn't matter. It was always wonderful--and wonderfully addictive.
But he had to remember that he was dealing with another human being.
He wanted to drink more, yes, always more, but he had to...
He had to break away.
But it was so, so hard to.
Who knew when he would next get a chance to feed again? He had to make sure that he was full before he stopped drinking. Every instinct he had told him so. Food needed to be devoured whenever and wherever it was available. Letting it go to waste would be stupid, criminal.
And how could he waste this blood, this life-giving liquid, when every cell of his body begged for him to keep drinking?
Only then the human in his grasp gasped. A sound so small Crimson would have missed it if he hadn't been so close to him. His victim didn't fight, couldn't fight, not physically, but he'd struggled hard enough to let that tiny noise pass his lips.
Crimson stilled, recognizing the man's efforts for what they were.
Survival instinct.
