"Help me sit up." His arms felt weak as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows.
Understanding his dilemma, she sat on the floor behind him and pulled him up to lean against her chest, her shoulder supporting his head. She removed the stopper and brought the decanter to his lips.
That first smooth sip of blood brought instant relief. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, aware of her other hand stroking his hair from his brow. He could sense her fear, her confusion, but she continued to help him take small sips, continued to soothe his spirit.
"Don't… don't be frightened," he managed to say, aware of her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe.
"Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I could scarcely believe it."
"It is a terrible affliction." He took a large gulp from the decanter. "But beneath it all, I am the same man."
"The drink seems to be helping," she said incredulously. "Your breathing sounds a little better. But you're dribbling."
When she wiped away the trickle of blood with the pad of her finger, a warm feeling flooded his chest. Perhaps assuming it was wine, he heard her suck away the residue, heard her retch at the taste. "What on earth are you drinking?"
Too weak to manipulate her thoughts, too tired to care, he told the truth. "It is blood. My illness demands I drink it."
There, he had said it. He had spoken the words to another. Despite fearing the consequences, he felt the shackles of his burden break in two.
"Blood!" The loud gasp revealed the true depth of her fear.
"Yes. I do not drink it out of choice."
"Are … are you dying?"
"No. I am not dying." The parts of him that controlled all feeling and emotion had long ceased to function. "Can you help me up onto the bed?"
Taking the decanter from him and placing it on the floor, she put her hand on his back to support him as she stood, the intimacy of the action overshadowed by necessity. Scooping her arms under his, she helped him up to lie on the bed.
"I need a few minutes to rest. But I will answer any questions you may have."
He expected her to flee the room at the first opportunity, but she came to stand at his side, her gaze roaming over the scars on his chest, up to his sharp teeth, his black eyes.
She shuffled back, just a step or two. "What's wrong with you? Part of me wants to run far from here. Part of me is desperate to know how to help you."
He blinked a few times. "If you want to leave, by all means do so. I only ask that you do not mention what you have witnessed."
When he regained his strength, he would make her forget.
"Did the sunlight do that?" She nodded to the marks on his chest, stretched her fingers out but didn't touch them. "Did the sun burn your skin?"
"The illness causes a severe reaction to sunlight."
Trembling fingers came up to cover her mouth, as a means of protection or to suppress shock — he wasn't sure.
"It is not contagious," he added. "You will not catch it."
"Your eyes … they're different."
"I need blood to live. My eyes darken when I feed."
She leaned closer and peered into his eyes and he fought the urge to take her in his arms. "They are green again," she said, marvelling at the fact.
Amazed at her response, he said, "Are you not frightened? I want you to tell me the truth." For some strange reason, he needed her to be honest with him.
"Of course, I was frightened," she said. "I thought you were going to die."
"I meant are you not frightened by my monstrous appearance?"