I Left My Vampire Husband for the Man Who Chose Me

Elena's POV

I never understood why Jason resented me so much.

Under the pressure from his Grandfather, he had indeed married me — but he could have simply ignored me and lived his own life. Why did he insist on parading those women in front of me, feeding off my misery?

The corridor had gone deathly quiet.

Vicky started to speak, but Jason had already seized my wrist. His grip was crushing, almost out of control. Before I could react, he was dragging me into a side room.

The door slammed shut behind us.

The heavy wood sealed off every sound from the corridor. It was just the two of us.

Jason's breathing was ragged, as if he was fighting to contain something. One hand still locked around my wrist, the other braced against the wall, caging me between his body and the stone.

"What the hell is going on in your head?"

His voice was dangerously low.

I didn't answer.

I already knew what he wanted to hear.

I just didn't care to say it anymore.

His gaze lingered on my face, searching for something familiar. Rage. Heartbreak. Tears. In the past, I'd always crumbled in front of him. But now I just stood there, still and quiet.

That calmness unsettled him more than any outburst could.

Then he lunged forward.

Before I could react, he had me pinned against the wall.

Cold stone pressed against my back.

Jason's breath fell against the side of my neck.

His pupils had gone fully crimson — a vampire's instinct, laid bare by loss of control. Those eyes were deep as a pool of blood, holding something dangerous and suppressed.

Then I felt his fangs settle against my throat.

Sharp. Cold. One fraction more pressure and they'd pierce the skin.

The silence was suffocating.

Jason didn't bite down.

He held the position, waiting — for me to panic, struggle, or cry.

I did none of those things.

I simply tilted my head back, looked at the ceiling, and asked calmly:

"Is that all?"

He faltered.

"What?"

I turned to face him. Even I was surprised by how calm my own eyes were.

"If I let you drink my blood — if that's what it takes — will you agree to the divorce?"

The words landed like a blow.

His grip tightened violently.

Those red eyes bored into me, searching for any sign that I was bluffing.

"You really want to leave that badly?"

His voice was barely above a whisper, ice-cold.

I didn't answer.

Jason let out a hollow laugh.

There was no warmth in it — only something edging toward madness.

"I see."

He murmured to himself, as if working through a realization.

"So that's what it is."

His hand tightened further. His expression grew tangled and dark.

"You hate me because of your parents. That's it, isn't it?"

His voice went suddenly quiet — as if speaking a truth he'd always known but never dared acknowledge.

"You blame me for their death, don't you?"

I said nothing.

Even now, he was grasping for excuses.

Who was it, really, who couldn't accept what had happened?

He was the one who survived. He was the one who'd spent ten years tormenting me. I'd never once blamed him.

What right did he have to stand here playing the victim?

Jason stared at me, searching my eyes for any flicker of longing or tenderness.

There was nothing.

My silence only pushed him further.

He let out another low, bitter laugh.

"Vicky was right after all."

"You really do look at me like I'm your enemy."

His voice kept dropping.

"So it's true. You really do hate me."

No matter how hard he searched for proof that I still loved him, he would find nothing. It was useless.

He pressed his fangs forward another fraction.

The skin broke. A tiny sting. The faint scent of blood drifted into the air.

I didn't flinch. I didn't struggle.

I just tilted my head back, letting him do as he pleased.

Jason's breathing stuttered.

"Why aren't you pulling away?"

His whisper was hoarse.

"You used to be terrified of this."

When we were young, he'd flash his fangs to tease me and I'd burst into tears, scolding him through the sobs. He'd always take my hand, guide my fingers along his fangs, and tell me not to be afraid — that he'd never hurt me.

Looking at him now, I felt nothing but exhaustion.

Ten years.

Fights. Resentment. Tears. Hysteria.

Every last drop of those emotions had been wrung out of me.

Now, after all the wounds, all that remained was a complete and utter emptiness.

I didn't want to think anymore. I didn't want to salvage anything.

I said softly:

"If this is what it takes for you to let me go."

"Then drink."

Jason's pupils contracted sharply.

I closed my eyes.

My voice was quiet, but perfectly clear.

"It doesn't matter."

"I stopped being afraid of this kind of pain a long time ago."