Chapter Three
I stand at the foot of the bed, gazing down at the naked bodies twisted in rumpled satin sheets. Pale moonlight kisses their skin, making them appear ethereal, ghostlike even.
So beautiful. So soft. So weak.
I lean forward, propping a knee onto the mattress, and position myself between their sleeping forms. My fingers graze their soft skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. I inhale their combined scents, picking up traces of alcohol, sweat and sex. And something else. Something more. It invades my lungs and bursts in my chest, sprouting tingling warmth in my extremities.
Magic.
Just a drop between the two, but it will do. These days, it’s harder and harder to find more than that. In a willing donor, that is.
I lay down facing the brunette, my hands exploring the soft contours of her body. I brush her cheek with the back of my hand. She was stunning once - I can tell - but her indulgences have aged her. Her vices, her weaknesses, have not been kind to her. She’ll die before her time, I’m certain of it.
“Wake,” I whisper. Instantly, her eyes open, and once her pupils adjust to the dark, she smiles.
“Hey,” she says, caressing my bare chest.
I give her a slight smile and cup her face between my hands. “Look at me.”
She complies instantly, looking back at me with trusting, brown eyes. Eyes that will forget that they ever saw my face. They dilate within seconds and her body relaxes against mine. She’s completely open to me - her thoughts, her actions… all mine. But most of all, her magic. The tiny trace concealed in her bloodline flows freely into my body as I inhale at the base of her neck. I moan and let my teeth graze her throat.
F*ck, it feels good. It always does, transcending any measure of human pleasure. Breathing is beyond feeling. Beyond physical sensation. It’s complete and utter euphoria, exploding in every synapse. It’s feeding your soul and making love to your spirit; it’s life itself.
My dick twitches to life, and soon I am hot and hard against her thigh. “Touch me,” I mutter, my mouth moving down her chest. She unleashes me and begins to stroke, only heightening the sheer bliss pumping through my veins. I squeeze my eyes tight and imagine it’s someone else caressing me. Someone else kissing the side of my face as I lick a trail from her collarbone to her hardened nipple.
Amelie. It’s as if the name is carried by a wisp of wildflower scented air.
I bury my face deeper into her skin, trying to lose myself … in myself. My desires, my secrets, my fears. They’re all magnified times ten, drowning me in the once perfectly contained emotions that seep from the cracks of my broken soul.
I can feel the pull … the pull towards her. Beckoning me to relent and stop the charade. My whole f*cking life is a charade, and I’m nothing but a puppet, dancing around like a f*cking fool in hopes of some type of acceptance. Some sign that I’m more than a philandering piece of shit. More than a cold, ruthless killer.
More than my father.
“Wake,” I growl against humid skin. Within seconds, another set of hands joins us, kneading my shoulders and back. The blonde kisses my neck as she moves her body into my line of vision, offering it to me. Roughly, I grab her waist and pull her to me, burying my face in her neck and chest. Her scent, her flavor, is subtly sweet, warm, but not warm enough. Not sweet enough. Not like her. Not like…
Amelie.
This time I pause, but only long enough to part her legs and sink into her without warning. She cries out from shock, pleasure, and even a bit of pain. I don’t care. I don’t give a f*ck about anything right now. The brunette positions herself over the blonde’s mouth, sating her own fiery need. She offers herself to me, and again, I take her. But her magic is waning. She’s weak. And while her body seeks pleasure, her soul is slowly dying. She sags against me, trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm and fatigue. I push her aside, digging into the blonde’s wet core with unrelenting strokes.
Just focus on this. Just this lustful act. Nothing else but this. Because it means nothing. She means nothing. And I feel…nothing.
I f*ck her until she can’t take anymore, breathing nearly every drop of life from her limp body. When I finally stop, I realize she’s unconscious and eerily pale. Doesn’t matter. I pull out of her and sit on the edge of the bed, tugging at my hair, wishing like hell it would help me forget. That it would take away that urge to go to her. I don’t understand it - shit, I’ve never felt it before - but it’s there. And, dammit, it’s stronger than anything I have ever felt. Maybe even stronger than me.
Amelie. A soft whisper caresses my ears before floating into my body, sinking deep into my hollow chest.
That’s the thing about names. Once you learn them, once they’re burned into your skull, you’re forever connected to that person. You know them. You wonder if they have family or friends that care for them. You wonder if they have dreams and aspirations they wish to achieve. Wonder if anyone would miss them if they suddenly disappeared. Names give way to guilt, and guilt is a useless motherf*cker that has no business in my head.
But I know her name. And, f*ck me, I want to know her.
Amelie.
A knock at the door causes me to flinch, although I’m expecting it. I always expect it. Nothing surprises me anymore … nothing until her.
“Enter,” I rasp in a hoarse whisper, not bothering to look up to see who it is. I don’t need to; I already know.
“Ready?” a deep, haunting voice asks. If he wasn’t my cousin, even I would be a little spooked.
I lift my head, almost tensing at his bright red eyes and menacing sneer that showcases a mouthful of razor sharp teeth. Years ago, Cyrus was known for his adventurous, borderline suicidal, zest for life. He never backed down from a challenge, and at 6-foot-5, he didn’t have to. He was a mountain of a beast and unstoppable when it came to the things he wanted.
That was before…before the accident. The accident that claimed his life and left us with mere seconds to decide his eternal fate. And when Dorian decided that he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to our family, he turned him. Turned him into the monster that stood before me today. A vampire.
Cyrus, of course, was a proud man, and less than pleased with the decision. Living out his days as servant to the Dark was never his plan. He would rather have died. But when you live your life making enemies and not giving a damn who it affects, you cling to the ones you truly care for. Cyrus was one of those people. We had grown up together, and Dorian valued his presence in our life just as much as I did. We needed him. Letting him die wasn’t an option.
“I’m done,” is all I manage to say.
Cyrus nods before swiftly crossing the room. He stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at the ghostly pale, naked bodies strewn across it. He turns to me and narrows his startling, blood red eyes.
“What did you do?”
I shake my head and look at the floor. “Went a little too far. I don’t know … I don’t know what got into me.”
He nods and jerks the blonde towards him by her ankle before slinging her virtually lifeless body over his shoulder. “I’ll handle it.” Then he does the same with the brunette, holding them both effortlessly as if they weigh next to nothing. He turns just as he hits the doorway, inhaling deeply through his mouth, no doubt tasting the air. Tasting fresh, live blood. He takes a step back into the room. “And her?”
I force my eyes towards the dark corner of the bedroom, where Amelie’s body is shrouded in shadowy night. She still sleeps peacefully on the carpeted floor. I’ve even placed a pillow under her head and covered her with a quilt.
What the f*ck is wrong with me?
“Leave her.”
Cyrus narrows his crimson eyes and frowns like he doesn’t understand. But I match his glare; mine even more menacing and cold. It screams of hostility and the promise of violence. It dares him to challenge my authority.
“Very well,” he mutters. Then he’s gone, the soiled sheets the only reminder of my guests for the evening. I rip them from the bed and hastily replace them with fresh ones, determined to forget the lives that were so greedily taken tonight. I know those girls won’t live. Cyrus will drain them and then dispose of their bodies. He’ll clean up any evidence that they were even here. He’s done it before for me, even for Dorian.
Amelie deserves better than that. Better than having the life sucked out of her soul before being drained of every drop of her blood. Better than being discarded in an abandoned alleyway, made to look like just another cracked-out Quarter whore with a syringe jabbed into her pale arm.
Still, I know that better is not me. I’m not the one to give it to her - I can’t. Better is not in my nature. And feeling like this - so drawn to her, so completely vulnerable to my conflicted feelings - is so far out of my realm that I can’t even comprehend it.
I don’t f*cking get it.
She’s human. An inconsequential, human girl that is good for nothing more than f*cking and breathing. She’s disposable, just like the rest of them. I am Dark - a god amongst men. And she is nothing to me. I don’t know her. I don’t need her, and I don’t want her.
Uncontrollable laughter rings in my ears. Hell, even the voices in my head know that I’m full of shit.
I mindlessly cleanse myself of the scent of sex and cheap perfume, determined to erase any trace of the past hours. I can’t wash it all away though. The guilt, the shame remain. I can’t run from my Achilles heel.
Before I know what I am doing, I am crouched beside Amelie’s sleeping body. She breathes deeply, her body perfectly relaxed in slumber. So trusting. I trail a finger from her cheek to her collarbone, feeling the slight burn that lights my fingertip with tiny gold sparks. I saw it the first time I touched her, but concealed it from the rest of my men. They knew she was different, they just didn’t know how different. And how devastating her eccentricity could be for our kind … and for me.
I know what she is, and she knows what I am. Because of this revelation, there’s only one solution. Only one conclusion to this tragic tale that has only just begun.
I will kill her.