Iktome Plains And when the crimson moon comes up, he drinks the blood of slaves

The boy looked away, curling tighter into himself. Knowing that he would stay, that he would not flee, Athan did not rush. There was no need to. Besides, he loved watching the growing fear mingled with acceptance on the boy's face. It was an expression he rarely saw on the face of his prey; he saw defiance, he saw disbelief, he saw fear, but acceptance? A lack of fear and submission? That was novel.

When he finally reached him, he could hear the throbbing beat of the small wolf's heart and his body sang over the underlying rhythm. Athanasius reached forward, laying his head over the boy's neck, moaning contentedly as he felt his heart pounding against his body. He laid there for a while, humming and chuckling to himself, reveling in the power, the knowledge that he could quite easily take this boy's life with but a bite before his voice rumbled in his throat. Consider yourself fortunate, prada mea supus, He breathed into the boy's neck, a soft keen entering his voice as he pressed against him, his body wanting to push past his skin, into his arteries, to bathe in his life's essence. It was hard to grant this mercy. I will not take your life tonight, 

His head reluctantly moved away from the boy's neck, down to his left hindleg, where the limb met the body, leaving sharp kisses, precursors of what was to come. He lapped the inside of his thigh, searching for the throbbing vein.