Savor

The werewolf clearly hadn't meant to screech like a banshee, because he nearly stabbed himself in the ribs with the back of the dagger, so quick was he to wrap both arms around his torso, likely putting pressure on the injured ribs he'd forgotten in his moment of disbelief. 

"Do you want the healing or not?" Cain asked, fighting to keep the irritation he was feeling out of his tone. It was taking every last drop of his self control not to grab the stupid werewolf by the throat and drink, and every second the boy dallied was a second closer to Cain losing his mind to the blood hunger he now felt. The horrible part was that he'd gotten so used to not being hungry that he couldn't even judge how bad the blood hunger had gotten, or how close he was to going nonverbal, or even losing his consciousness entirely to a feral blood-hunger fugue. 

"Why do I have to take off my clothes, you can see the injury right here!" the werewolf pointed at the blood on his neck as if Cain was somehow blind and couldn't see the glistening temptation just begging to be tasted.

Cain ignored the way his mouth was watering at the sight of the blood, and focused on convincing the stupid werewolf to get this over with before things got worse. "I can see that injury," Cain explained, "but not the other ones."

Damien frowned, and then a look of understanding crossed his face. "You can fix the other cuts?" he asked.

Cain really wanted to shake him. What part of magic didn't make sense to him? He was a magical creature in his own right, how did he not realize?! "I told you I could heal your other injuries."

The werewolf was giving him a disgusted look. "With your mouth?"

How else was Cain supposed to apply the saliva? They'd already seen proof that secondhand application was not particularly effective - which was a new discovery for Cain, if only because he'd never heard of a vampire stupid enough to try licking their fingers when they usually used the healing magic to help a thrall recover from a direct feeding. He didn't know of any vampires who would use their healing saliva to help a thrall recover from any other sort of injury, though he was fairly certain that it would work on any cut or scrape. He had never tried it himself, but there was a level of instinct to being a vampire, and he could tell that it would work, even if he couldn't explain how. He'd known, deep down, that the indirect application was a longshot, but he'd been willing to try it because he didn't trust himself near Damien's throat. Not with his blood hunger like this, roaring in his veins, demanding to be sated.

Rather than deign to answer the obvious question, Cain just looked at Damien.

After a few seconds of pointed staring, Damien cautiously lifted the shirt he was wearing (though admittedly, given the state of it, rag may have been a better description of the article that could barely be considered clothing anymore) and pulled it off, wincing a bit at the injury in his ribs.

Cain wasn't sure if the saliva would be able to fix that - he knew that open wounds would be no problem, but he was less confident in anything else. Vampires weren't a traditionally magical being, not in the same way that the Fae or the mages were magical. Their abilities were often very strictly limited to making their existence easier. Vampiric powers were selfish things, such as the power of enthrallment to ensure their prey didn't leave, a healing saliva to ensure their prey didn't bleed out, an undead body that would not tire easily so they could relentlessly pursue prey through the night. Vampires didn't have potions or spells or things like that. They didn't even have their own deity to rely on. 

Once the raggedy excuse for a shirt was off, Cain was able to see the damage that Crowe had done in exquisite, damning detail. It was terrible - there were small slashes criss-crossing most of Damien's torso, clearly the mark of a vampire who enjoyed using his claws to cause pain. There appeared to be some lash marks, too. Cain knew that Crowe sometimes used other tools to draw blood and create more pain and fear in his victims. Unlike Cain, who strongly disliked the taste of fear and sickness in his blood, Crowe enjoyed the taint that those sorts of darker emotions and experiences brought to the thrall under his thumb. 

Damien was still clutching the dagger tight in his hand, and Cain really hoped he didn't end up using it. He didn't have enough blood in his system to recover from something like that, and if he got pushed too deep into his blood-hunger, he might respond from instinct. And he'd promised not to use his teeth, not to drink Damien's blood. He hated the thought that he might be forced by his own instincts to go back on his word.

He couldn't make Damien promise not to stab him, though, or the dagger would be an empty symbol. He just had to trust that Damien wouldn't stab him without good reason.

Like the reason that you killed his family? Asked the more cynical side of Cain. 

He needs my help, Cain reminded himself. He'll die if he's still this injured at the rise of the full moon.

Damien, meanwhile, had closed his eyes, though he was still gripping the hilt of the dagger so tightly that his knuckles showed white. "Just get it over with," he said, his voice strained with pain and a tightly clenched jaw. 

Cain took a deep breath, and the scent of Damien's blood - hot, delicious, perfect blood - filled his nostrils. His mouth began watering immediately, and he stepped closer, returning to where he'd been standing before the werewolf had started waving the dagger around. It seemed a bad idea to start with the neck - that had been a very sensitive spot for the werewolf, not to mention the fact that it was still slowly dripping blood and Cain thought he needed a bit of practice to make sure he wasn't going to accidentally start drinking from a freely bleeding injury. Instead, he gently wrapped his hand around the elbow of the hand that wasn't gripping the dagger for dear life, and lifted it until Damien's wrist came into view, and with it a raised line of flesh where the manacle Crowe locked around it had rubbed it raw. There was a little blood here, though not much. It felt safer to start small. Maybe it would help tone down the blood hunger, to realize he needed to pace himself. If the blood hunger even recognized the old, congealing blood as worthy of consumption. Given how finicky it had become, Cain wasn't counting on anything certain. 

His other hand closed around Damien's, holding it steady as he brought the wrist to his lips, and gently (so very gently, so as not to nick it with his fangs) dragged his tongue over it, tilting the wrist slowly so he could lave every inch of it with his saliva. He hadn't expected much of a response from his blood-hunger, given how very little blood was on this particular wound, but he'd sorely underestimated how much he needed blood after going without for so long.

The taste danced on his tongue, more satisfying than he ever remembered feeling from a direct feeding, and infinitely more delightful than his usual mug of blood from the kitchen. It was hearty and flavorful, all the best things he'd loved to eat when he was human, tracing over his tongue, filling his mouth. He swallowed, even though he was meant to be using his saliva to heal he werewolf, not feed himself. But the taste was divine, a blessing that did not burn, but somehow blossomed within him. The first taste of blood was always the best.

Then, the curse followed. The bloom of delight and satisfaction withered, crumbled, fell away to a black void of emptiness, a sucking hunger that demanded to be filled, to be fed. The flavor was as wonderful as before, but it no longer sated, and all Cain wanted was more. He needed more. He felt like he could drown himself in blood and still be unsatisfied. He could drink for an eternity, and still he would plead for twice as much as what he was given. 

He pulled away from Damien's wound, shaking away the pangs of blood-hunger clenching his stomach. He held his breath, waiting for the overwhelming need for blood to abate slightly. As he waited, he saw the wrist, his hand still holding the werewolf's smaller palm in his. All that remained of the chafing was a bit of puffiness, and slight discoloration. The bruising, scrapes and inflamed skin all appeared remarkably recovered. 

Damien, too, was staring at his wrist. "It worked," he said, sounding a bit awed. "Can you do the other one, now?"

Cain felt a bit of relief at the words. He hadn't been sure whether Damien would be willing to continue or not, and the fact that he was willing to not only allow it but actively make a suggestion about where to go next was an encouraging sign.

"Of course," Cain said, releasing Damien's hand. He waited until the werewolf swapped the dagger to his newly-healed hand before reaching for the other arm, once more bending his head closer to the boy's wrist.