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 ...