Gosto’s eyes flared open, a violent brightness overtaking the dull red in his irises as he lifted his head from the pillow. His nostrils flared, instinctively tracking the slow trail of blood weeping from the cut on my palm. I had lied I was terrified. Not of him, not truly. But of the way I knew I wouldn't stop him, not even if he drank every drop I had to give. I knew he needed it. To survive. To heal.
His fangs flashed, grazing the air as I lowered my hand toward his mouth. My body tensed. This time, the bite wouldn’t be delicate. This time, instinct would lead him, not restraint. And instinct didn’t care for gentleness. I knew that. I accepted it.
“Domitilla,” he rasped, his voice cracked and thick as his tongue swept across the wound. His entire frame shuddered violently, the chains
