Perhaps they meant to feed the child as they'd fed him, he thought next. The idea mollified him somewhat.

Before his last escape attempt, they'd kept him nourished by allowing him three small cups of blood a day. Who had donated the blood, he didn't know. Didn't care. What they didn't realize was that he never took from a living source. He only took from those he'd killed. As he was too weak to hurt them, they were in no danger of being bitten. Even starved as he was.

He would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy their fear and distaste.

But all of that was moot, he knew. He would never leave a child of his behind. What was his, was his.

"Did you try manipulating his rod?"

"Of course. He's not my first slave, you know."

"Well, give him blood, then bind his mouth. That way, he'll be strong enough to bed but unable to nibble on you."

"Oh, excellent idea! Grab a goblet." The pink-haired woman—he hadn't cared to remember her name—palmed one of her daggers, sliced a groove in her wrist and held the wound over the offered goblet.

His mouth watered at the sight and smell of that crimson nectar; his fangs elongated.

She approached him and held the cup to his lips. Thankfully, her skin did not touch his. "Drink."

He obeyed, swallowing three precious mouthfuls. Instantly, warmth spread through him, followed on its heels by strength.

"It's working. His color is returning." The cup was removed from his mouth, and he found his gaze locked with that of his captor. She was pretty, if he cared for such things. He didn't. He only cared that she had pink hair rather than black, brown eyes rather than turquoise, and she did not smell like Nola. Like sea and storms and flowers.

There was a pause, then a purr of agreement. "He's beautiful, isn't he?"