The running water from the tap was freezing, but Lucian didn't feel it. He gripped the porcelain edges of the sink so hard that the ceramic began to groan under the pressure. He kept his head down, staring at the drain, his breathing heavy and labored.
He could still taste Adrian's blood. The warmth of it—everything about it was overwhelming.
His blood was like a frequency lighting up neural pathways that had been dormant for decades. He had fed on thousands of donors—aristocrats, volunteers, high-grade biological assets and even humans directly—but this was different.
Lucian looked up, his gaze hitting the mirror. His pupils were still blood red, his fangs still out. He ran his tongue over his fangs giving himself a small cut. They were supposed to be in by now.
Then, the sound replayed in his mind.
Adrian's small, broken whimper.
