Lucian crouched in the abandoned mill on the edge of town. His mouth was wet, his hands trembling, his veins lit with fire. He had not meant to spill so much, but hunger had driven him past control. He remembered her ribs snapping beneath his grip, the way her blood filled his mouth in hot gushes, the way she clawed at him weakly until her hands fell still.
The rush was intoxicating. A storm of life flooding into his dead veins. But still—it wasn't enough. Never enough.
He dragged his tongue across his teeth, tasting the last of her. His lips were smeared red, his jaw aching from the feral bite. Around him, the rats had gathered, licking at the dark puddles where he had left the excess.
Lucian laughed, low and hoarse. The sound echoed through the broken timbers like the voice of something buried alive.