The cold moonlight streamed in through the half-open window, piercing the light curtains and spilling into the room like a silvery veil. The air was thick, as if every particle carried ancient memories—the scent of dark wood, candles burned out hours ago, and the subtle touch of the damp night.

Lian sat in his black velvet armchair, his body reclining, but with a presence that filled the entire space. His long fingers rested gently on your waist, holding you in his lap as if you were the most precious thing in his existence. His eyes never wavered from yours.

It was impossible for him to forget that moment, three nights ago, when your blood was about to stop flowing, when your body was already surrendering to the cold of death. He didn't hesitate. His fangs tore into your delicate neck, and he pulled you back into the world—not the world of the living, but his own. A world of shadows, of eternity, of unquenchable desire.

Since then, however, you had refused what was now your need. You didn't touch blood, didn't drink it. You didn't look at him with hunger. Your skin grew paler by the hour, almost translucent in the moonlight. Your lips, once full and flushed, were slightly faded. You didn't say a word, but Lian sensed the weight of your silence—more than a refusal, it was a struggle.

He watched you for a few more seconds, as if measuring the limit of your endurance. Then he leaned in slightly, and his voice broke the silence, low and deep:

"You're destroying yourself, love," he said, a whisper that vibrated against your skin. "You won't push me away like that."

No answer. Only the slight rise and fall of your chest, as if each breath were an effort.

Gently, Lian brought his hand to your face, his fingertips tracing the curve of your jaw until they found a loose strand of hair. Slowly, he pushed it back, revealing your delicate neck, where the mark of Lian's fangs still lay, a visible reminder of the night he saved you, and when you became his forever.

The touch made your body shiver slightly. And in that instant, he felt it—even though you tried to deny it—the echo of the predatory instinct vibrating within you. It was something that could not be erased, only repressed.

He brought his lips to your ear, his warm breath contrasting with the chill coming from your body.

"You need to feed," he murmured, his voice firm but tinged with an almost dangerous care. "I will not let you waste away."

His hand, which had previously been caressing you, moved with silent determination. He lifted it, exposing the line of his own neck. Then, with a slow, precise movement, his sharp nail ran across his skin until it opened a narrow cut. Blood welled up, hot, running in a thin, red stream.

The scent instantly permeated the air. It wasn't just the smell of blood—it was his. Something warm, addictive, charged with promise and intimacy.

In his lap, your body reacted almost imperceptibly. Your heartbeat quickened. Your breathing became shallower, more irregular, as if the mere scent of blood had awakened something you'd tried to keep dormant.

Lian felt each change, and a slow smile formed on his lips.

"Look at me," he commanded, in that voice that seemed undeniable.

When you looked up, you found his eyes fixed on you, dark as night, but with an intense glow that drew you closer.

He tilted his head to the side, better revealing the cut. With his free hand, he brushed the hair that fell over your face, tucking it behind your ear. Now, nothing hid the bright red that contrasted with the paleness of your skin.

He knew the scent was penetrating you, stirring your senses, slowly breaking down the barrier you'd erected.

He gripped your waist firmly, bringing you closer, until his neck was so close to your mouth that you could feel the heat of it against your lips.

"Taste it," he said, his tone low, almost hypnotic. "You'll like it, I promise."

The world outside that room ceased to exist. Only the two of you remained, the warm blood slowly dripping, and the silence charged with something about to break.