It was awful, this new feeding arrangement.

Rey could admit as much to himself.

If only in his head.

Since their rendevous in Lord Freymore’s room, and thanks to the King’s newfound insistence on cursory wrist feedings only, Rey spent increasing amounts of time with Calvin and his crowd of recruits in the field trying to forget exactly how much his stupid ass wanted to be eaten.

At first, he’d wondered if it wasn’t simply more growing pains.

After all, he was still adjusting to this world where his body wasn’t constantly fighting back. He hadn't had long to learn the nuance of mana, and bonding, and magic.

So he practiced until his hands cracked and threatened to bleed, with a single-minded intensity he didn’t know he possessed. He let the cold keep him grounded in his own body, listening hard to the crunch beneath his boots and the pants of exhaustion his swordsmanship wrung from his throat.

Anything at all to get this excess energy out out out.

Even still, he left his afternoons of sparring with the thrum of unused mana making his skin feel tight and electric. He ended each day now with a manic bounce in his step that made it almost impossible to sleep.

So Rey had made a small mountain of mana stones one morning instead, when he determined that moving alone wasn’t enough. He dropped them off in the armory with a frown, trying again the next day.

It didn’t help. 

No matter how many he made, he itched.

He burned.

It wasn’t enough. None of it was enough.

Rey knew now how it felt when the King truly drank. His body ached for it with a ferocity that made his bones feel like spikes.

On the morning of the third week since their trip to the viscount’s, Rey could take it no longer.

He should have been more cautious. He should have been afraid. But the ravenous demands of his mana had driven him to the brink. He’d stopped thinking things through days ago. It had only been a matter of time.

That afternoon, as he departed the field with muscles straining and skin singing, he knew what he had to do.

He was losing whatever control he'd cobbled together in his fingers, rushing past servants and soldiers alike. He strode into the King’s office with a clatter, earning a startled look from Aden, who — if he’d been paying attention — should have heard Rey coming.

Leopold scarcely looked up from his desk. His regal face was borderline expressionless. “What is it, Rey? You rarely visit me in my office.”

His voice was gravel. “You need to feed.”

Leopold blinked, glancing up at him with confusion. The reaction pleased something primal in Rey. Good. Notice me. “What do you mean? I just fed a few days ago. I should be easily sustained through the week.”

“You misunderstand.” 

“Your Majesty?”

Aden was watching Rey with unease. It was unlike him. Aden had never shown Rey any honest deference, let alone discomfort. He was a human, after all. How could a creature like him threaten a vampire? 

The King stood abruptly. “Aden, you need to leave.”

“His eyes —”

Rey was losing track of the space around him. He pressed toward the King’s desk with the pinpoint accuracy of a missile. “Your Majesty," he murmured. His words were glass in his throat. "I need you to feed.”

Aden backed toward the door. “Leo, are you…?”

“The magic is overloading him.” Leopold quickened towards Rey, laying a hand on his shoulder. Rey keened into it, the space behind his eyes feeling molten. “Leave. He’s going to get territorial.”

Aden departed the office with a soft click! of the doors behind him.

“Rey, can you hear me?”

It was like listening through cotton. But the King’s voice came through perfectly clearly, as bright and clean as the chime of the bell on his porch back home. “It itches, Leopold. I can’t take this anymore.”

“I should have noticed before now.” Leopold was watching his eyes, seemingly almost hypnotized. Caught in a memory. “You did well, waiting as long as you have. Now sit.”

Rey did as he was instructed, curling his fingers into the upholstery of the office couch. Leo sat beside him, hesitating.

The pause made Rey want to scream.

“Now,” he insisted, with an impossibly high whine. “It hurts, your highness.” 

The King took the hint. He wrenched Rey into him by his thick, bright hair, sinking his fangs deep into the thin skin just below his chin.

Immediately, the pain vanished.

Rey melted into the feeling, clawing long, tan fingers desperately across the King’s cloaked back. He swung one leg over Leo’s lap, straddling his muscled thighs so he could press ever closer.

Rey was sure the dirt from sparring was everywhere. Blood, too.

He didn’t care. 

“More,” he begged. “Please. I have too much, it’s driving me insane.”

Leopold redoubled his efforts, using one gloved hand to pry Rey’s jaw up and widening his own mouth. Before Rey knew what was happening, a secondary set of fangs, buried deep in the back of the King’s molars, were driven into the side of his neck.

It poured out of him. The aching, the itching, the mania. 

Rey let the peace swaddle him like a silk shawl, sliding beneath his skin with a cool and perfect sense of ease.

Nothing else mattered. Not while Leopold was drinking.

For the first time in three weeks, Rey’s mind was quiet.