Danica sinks her fangs into his neck, Asher his right arm, and that fucker in love with the Pomeranian his left. They drain him nearly dry and leave him there, shaking on the floor.
He waits for the cavalry to save him. The Nightstalkers never come.
Last time this happened, he was too out of it to feel anything. Last time, he woke up different, changed, owned. A cockless bastard who only wanted to please his bitch of a lovermotherowner.
This time, he knows.
They lock Zoë in with him, the little girl he loves like a baby sister, the little girl he's tucked into bed, read stories to, played stalk-and-pounce with. He holds out as long as he can, for days, faced buried in his hands, trying to ignore her scent and sounds. She cries because she's hungry and thirsty and wants her mommy. She cries because she's smart enough to know that if they haven't been rescued yet, they won't ever be.
He counts the seconds, trying to drown out the hollowness in his stomach, the tantalizing scent of little girl wafting across the room.
He beat the hunger before, eventually, last time. He got himself cured. He escaped the bloodlust, the madness of starvation. He's stronger than Danica's pet, that poor dumb fuck he used to be. He's better than he was.
He is so hungry. And Zoë won't stop crying.
Danica visits every hour(he thinks, and what day is it? what year?), taunts him through the door, calls him honey and pet and lover, so sarcastically he's surprised it doesn't cut.
Zoë has finally quieted, slumped on the floor. She isn't dead; her heart still sings to him, whispering eat me eat me eat me, don't you wanna drink me?
He knows he has to feed to live. He's starving. Famished. Zoë is a banquet of steak and chocolate and mashed potatoes and Jack Daniels, and he could call her over to him, just say, c'mere, sweetheart, and she trusts him. Trusts the man he was, big brother King, who took care of her and swung her around and laughed and colored in those princess coloring books every time she made big eyes at him.
He holds out as long as he can.
Days and days, and Zoë's barely alive. Her blood is still pumping, though, and Danica saunters through the door, unlocks his cuffs, and leaves again, throwing a dagger-smirk over her shoulder.
He knows. He's not a mindless killing machine—he loves Zoë. He adores her.
He's so hungry and she's right there.
Danica purrs and ruffles his hair, trails her claws down his neck. Good boy, he hears.
Zoë's not crying anymore. But on his knees, head bowed, blood in his mouth, full to the brim, he is.