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Summary
Ever the pragmatist, he agrees to you feeding off people you’re already going to kill—but then he goes a step further and offers himself during dry spells. At this point, the scales are so slanted they’re almost vertical.
“Oh, I doubt there will be many,” you say, waving it off, “considering our luck.”
He shrugs, picking at his palm.
“Offer’s there,” he says. “I don’t care. Just let me know.”
“Well… ” You glance down at his hands, always such a thing with him. “How very generous.”
When you bit him, as he lay beneath you, his fingers brushed against your wrist but never took hold. Those restless hands, wrapped in bloodied bandages, still healing from his stint as a gravedigger. And they always will be, as long as he keeps tearing them back open.