He nuked the bag and sucked it back. He needed at least three a day, even if he was feeding and fucking. He’d taken one before he went running. But that one, as did the one he was currently consuming, left him hungry.

Definitely needed more.

He moved to the blue trash can, toed it open, and threw the bag in, his jaw clenching at seeing what was inside as he did.

He didn’t like what he saw even though he needed it for sustenance. It was all he knew, all he’d ever known, but that didn’t mean he didn’t understand it was utterly repugnant on every level. He rarely fed in front of his family because they tried to bury it, but his senses were vastly superior to theirs and he felt it. He knew it disgusted them. And Delilah, not surprisingly, hadn’t let her eyes wander to him even once while he was having his breakfast.

She’d get off on him drawing from her. He knew it, just as he knew he had to be careful with it. Due to his first and second mothers, Hui’s and Mei’s, efforts, he’d never once killed or even harmed a human being while feeding. And that shit was not going to happen with him drawing down Delilah’s needed supply of blood. So he figured, when he got her there, he could give her that while fucking her maybe once a week.

That said, the bags sucked. They worked, but they sucked. There was nothing as good as a woman writhing under you, her pussy drenched, that smell in your nostrils, her blood in your mouth. It was revolting at the same time it was fucking true.

He’d had decades of bags. He’d have decades more.

Centuries.

Hui was his first mother; Mei was his second, raising him through human teen years after they’d lost Hui. Mei had told him during his second half century that he’d have many lots in life.

“But never forget, bao bei,” she’d said, her hand curved around his jaw, her eyes tipped back to his height of towering over her. “You are a miracle. A miracle. A miracle brought to this family. A miracle upon this world. Never forget, and if you don’t, you will endure.”

They were a miracle, a family over six generations, accepting him as he was.

He was no miracle.

He was a monster.

He looked to the bed.

Another miracle, a dark-haired, green-eyed temptress coming to him in his dreams, then appearing in his life, accepting him and the insanity around her, ending her second night as a part of his life sleeping in his bed.

The miracle and the monster.

Abel winced at the thought.

But that thought was much easier to bury and he did so without effort.

And he did it without effort because he’d had a shitload of practice.