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Summary
He doesn't know what love is. All he knows is hunger.
He'd learned to live with it. The hunger had been his most faithful companion over the years, and he had long since given up the ghost of self-denial. He knew what he was. At least, he'd known before he'd woken up on that ravaged beach, blinking in the too-bright sun and you'd come stumbling down the dirt-worn path, covered in blood of questionable origin.
You play the part of the amnesiac hero with charm. None of your other companions seemed to detect there was something deeply, deeply monstrous within you. But he smells the blood your short fingernails draw from digging into your palms when you choke out pleasantries and diplomacy. He recognizes the glint of bloodlust in your eyes.
He watches you and he can just tell.
You know hunger, too.