The day finally came.
In the dining room winter light spilled pale and thin across the table, catching the rim of Sylene's teacup. Steam curled upward, soft and slow. He lifted it to his lips, taking a quiet sip.
Warm.
Filling.
It settled in him differently now—deeper, heavier, as though something inside him had finally learned what it meant to be satisfied.
Since he had tasted Melchior's blood, hunger no longer felt like the same sharp, gnawing thing.
It had changed.
He had never taken blood like that before—directly, intimately, biting to someone's skin like that—and the memory lingered at the edge of his senses, faint but unmistakable. Sweet. Rich. Almost intoxicating. The kind of warmth that spread through his veins and refused to fade completely.
He doubted Melchior would ever allow him to taste another's like that.
The thought came naturally.
The dhampir could be ...possessive.
