She immediately sensed the change in him. The lazy, careless air vanished, replaced by a pressure so strong it was almost tangible—an authority that made resistance feel instinctively futile.
In front of someone like him, whatever pride she took in her noble bloodline meant nothing at all. Only then did Fengguang truly understand what it meant to be a “turned vampire.” He carried far too much violence and bloodshed with him; even the faintest release of that presence was enough to make others shrink back in fear.
At some point she hadn’t noticed, he had leaned too close. The distance between them disappeared, and her thoughts scattered. The scent of alcohol clung to him, making her light-headed, her breathing growing uneven as her strength slowly drained away.
Time stretched on. When he finally moved back, his intensity softened—not gone, but restrained. Whatever reckless impulse had surged earlier was now carefully controlled, replaced by something quieter and far more dangerous: patience.
Because he slowed, she was finally able to catch her breath. Her voice came out faint and unsteady.
“ …Ming An.”
He paused. For a moment, he seemed reluctant to pull away at all. Then he exhaled, deliberately creating space between them.
“You’re exhausted,” he said quietly near her ear. “You should sleep.”
There was something unnaturally compelling in his voice. Her thoughts blurred, and before she could respond, her eyes closed. Soon, her breathing evened out as she slipped back into sleep.
Only then did Ming An release her hands. When he looked down, he noticed faint red marks on her wrist where he’d held her too tightly. Against her pale skin, they were glaringly obvious. Regret flickered through his dark eyes.
It wasn’t just because he’d hurt her.
It was because, for a moment, he’d lost control.
They had known each other for less than a week. He had told himself—repeatedly—that she was a junior, someone he needed to protect, not cross boundaries with. And yet, there was something about her that drew his attention far too easily. Her face, her name, even the trivial fact that she loved human food—he remembered all of it without effort.
He lifted his hand, hesitating, then let it fall back to his side.
This shouldn’t have happened. Not with her.
Acknowledging that fact, he turned away, choosing distance over temptation. Whatever strange pull she had on him, he would not let it go any further.
Some things, once indulged, became impossible to undo.
And he refused to let this be one of them.
Sam Williams On TYMIMA Chapter 152