Anton dropped the drained husk. “My first real kill,” he whispered. The longing, a lonely emptiness he’d never really noticed had vanished, filled with the pulsing warmth of blood.
Kelenthia slid behind him, raven hair brushing his ear. “You did well, my fledgling,” she said. Her fangs sank into his neck. It was not the willing surrender of the Change. She forced herself into him, and took, and took, and took.
She left him lying there, the gnawing emptiness back in his gut.
“The extra, the passion, the pleasure belongs to me,” she’d said. “Consider it rent on your afterlife.”