He was silent for a long moment. Then he began to speak, his voice low and rough, and she listened as he told her everything.
He told her about the centuries he had wandered, alone and hungry. He told her about the women he had taken—not out of cruelty, but out of desperate hope that one of them would see him, would recognize him, would love him. He told her about the ones who had screamed. The ones who had fought. The ones who had died not because he killed them, but because they could not bear what they saw in his eyes.
My only goal tonight is to get soakin' wet and get paid for every single drop I make. But here's the catch if you think I can make you wet, then you better be ready to cash me out. I'm talkin' messy, sloppy, tongue-twistin', back-archin', sheets-soakin' nasty. You feel that pulse? That's me workin' you 'til you're drippin' proof. So tell me—am I makin' you wet yet? 'Cause if I am, you know the price. Pay up, or shut up and watch me drown in it.
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