He’d nearly ruined everything with his damnable lust. The vileness of what he was had almost cost him his last hope. He had weakened to the very cravings he sought to tear from his life. His life. A cruel joke. What kind of life did he have when it was sustained by the blood of others? He fed on their fear . He feasted on their vulnerability . He depended upon their vitality. Like a disgusting parasite. And he killed. Occasionally, he went too far and he took the very essence of life he held so precious. The very mortality he longed to embrace. With all his superior strength and his centuries-old wisdom, how could he give way with such feeble stupidity?