Matheus woke up to Quin shaking him.
“Stop,” he mumbled. “Hurts.”
“Sunshine, wake up. You need to drink.”
“No.”
“Stubborn bastard.” Quin gripped Matheus’ waist, pulling him onto his side, hanging half off the mattress. “Please drink. I’m asking nicely.”
Something warm pressed over Matheus’ mouth. He felt the pulse in his lips. Blood, warm and thick, flowed in spurts, pooling on the floor. Matheus gulped, latching onto the open wound with a desperation that overwhelmed any objections.
Relief poured down his throat, the copper taste of someone’s life coating his tongue. Matheus didn’t care. The blood burnt through his veins, scouring away the pain, leaving him hollow. When the blood stopped, Matheus dragged his fingers through the cooling puddle and sucked them clean.
“Better?” Quin asked.
Matheus lowered his hand. He felt the blood drying on his chin, a sticky smear up to his cheekbones. Without thinking, he licked his lips, grimacing at the half-dried texture. He glanced at the corpse, an older man twice Matheus’ size, dressed in a dark green uniform. A gold band cut into the fat on his left hand ring finger. Matheus reached for the man’s pocket, bulging with a wallet, then drew away. He rolled onto his back, pulling his arm across his eyes.
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