He didn't say anything. His eyes were busy looking down at the knife that she extended in his direction. That knife. The one that had started all of this. Shaking fingers took it from her and the urge to toss it into the dark, maybe to get lost forever, momentarily took him over as a surge of anger fleeted through him. She had left him. Everyone had left him. All he had left was the way his body rebelled against him, hating him for the lack of blood that he had allowed himself to inhale.
If only they all knew what lengths he had gone to in order to satisfy the hunger churning inside him. He hated it. Hated himself. What had he done by starting all of this? He regretted it. All of it. And yet, at the same time, Sam knew that he wanted it. Badly.
The want overpowered his distaste for it all. Sam fell to his knees and dragged her arm down with him. He lifted the blade and shoved it across her arm, creating a large jagged and uneven gash. Right now, he didn't care if he hurt her. He didn't care about anything. The second he saw the blood trickle from her wound he eagerly pressed his face to her arm and began to drink. Sam held her arm close to him with both hands, his grip iron tight. Her blood was his. Finally.