The mist parts as he slips silently through the forest, cutting a path of deadly calm as he goes. Not a sound is made, either from his passing, or from the countless wild residents frozen in his wake. The prey never stops to wonder if the predator searches for them, but does what it must to survive; their thoughts, if they could be called this, reflect as much. This he expects and understands.
Their human counterparts, however, managed to tamp down these instincts, often having no earthly clue of his presence, and more importantly his intentions. It had been this way since it had ever mattered, and without question suits his purposes. He never dwells on this ignorance, but capitalizes on it as a weakness, which it is most definitely.
He reaches the tree line without pause, sensing a different heartbeat at almost the same moment that his skin registers the heavy salt breeze off the shore nearby. In quick succession, he becomes aware of her scent, suffused with the panic that courses through her body, and her location: the edge of a cliff located one-half mile to the north. He has no fear of discovery, and hurtles towards her at great speed, keening into the night.
He overtakes her in what could only be an instant in human time, just as she steps off the cliff into dark nothingness. Her eyes are closed and her head thrown back; she seems unaware that she has fallen into his arms rather than the intended abyss. He pauses, waiting for her perception to shift, for the moment that must come before all else for him. Her dark hair cascades over his arm, the fluttering of her eyelids keeping time with the slight movement of her lips.
"It doesn't hurt anymore," she murmurs, as though in a dream, but her reality is nothing of the sort. He extends his hand to her face, stroking along her jaw and into her hair, knowing that his cold touch will force her regard. The moment her eyes open and look into his with true awareness, he sinks his teeth into her neck, groaning as her blood floods his mouth and throat.
She struggles for the very briefest of moments, then her body slackens and she falls into unconsciousness. He drinks at his leisure, intending to drain her where he stands. He will dispose of the body from the very cliff she has tried to fly from, and be gone before any alarm can be raised.
Not that there is a thing that can stop him, a mortal creature that can fight or outrun him. He will have his way, unchallenged, as he has done for countless human lifetimes.
The cacophony of human thoughts disgusts him, but the small one in his arms seems a simple creature: devoid of complication, and single-minded in outlook. She had been focused completely on the ocean when he had discovered her, and then had shifted wholly to himself, without the least reluctance. Nothing had spilled forth, by way of either confusion or panic, when she came to know his presence. This is nearly unknown to him, and gives him the slightest pause. Might he tarry? Perhaps take his full pleasure before departing? Yes, this he could and would do.
He pulls back from her neck, sealing the wound with a stroke of his venom-laden tongue. Even in her now delicate state, this will keep her from declining further and ensure their sport later. The weak flame of dormant desire, so long hidden, is laid bare by his anticipation of what is to come. Heat pours from her, searing through his clothing, her breast a flash point against his arm.
She must live nearby, for no female would have traveled far at this hour and on her own. He sweeps the perimeter of the clearing, which extends back from the cliff's edge, sensing the path she had taken and following it to a derelict cottage, quiet and dark. He would have thought it abandoned otherwise, but knows from the cloak of scent that it must be her own.
There is no force required to breach the door, as it lies ajar. She stirs slightly as he crosses the threshold into the gloomy interior. A large, ornate bed dominates the space, with nothing other than a trunk at one end, and a small table and single chair in the far corner. No disarray is present, though a thick layer of dust coats all, dulling whatever gleam might have existed.
He lays her, none too gently, in the center of the expansive pallet, wondering briefly at its presence. Why she would possess such an article is beyond him, but it is there and will be enjoyed, inasmuch as the word applies. The faded quilt she writhes on weakly serves as the perfect backdrop to the halo of dark hair fanning out from her head, but his gaze lingers there only briefly. He is still ravenous, in more ways than one now, and will waste not a moment more on idle contemplation.
Her eyelids flutter once again, this time as she struggles to regain her sensibilities. He allows this, climbing carefully onto the bed to position himself above her prostrate body, watching and waiting. She knows of his presence, even if she is unable to process it completely. He exhales steadily onto her face, knowing she will awaken more fully at his scent.
"I cannot understand. The cliff's edge... are you an angel?" she asks quietly, looking at him directly and with nary a hint of fear.
What manner of human is this?
A dry rumble begins in his center, emanating up through his torso until it forces its way from his lips in almost a bark. It is... a laugh? Yes, that is what this strange sensation must be. Unintentional on his part, merely a remnant of his former existence: long forgotten and never missed. He gazes down at her, dark lust and death emanating from his eyes, not the slightest trace of humanity evident.
"I am no angel."
He knows how he appears to this, nay all, humans. The physical attributes that allow their world to remain as it should be, for could anyone mean harm that presents as he does? Trim of figure, fair of face, and free of any line or blemish, he seems a hero from a painting or novel. Mr. Darcy on the surface, Iago a thousandfold just beneath.
He leans back, his gaze sliding over her body, cataloguing in a way largely unknown to him, but as second nature in this moment. The modest swell of her breasts, the lush curve of her hips, the juncture where her legs meet hold his eyes the longest. Yes.
"Then a dream, for I have often woken with the lingering memory of your kind."
His attention is pulled back to her face in an instant.
"Undead?"
Her brow creases, strangely enough for the first time, and a new realization dawns. Her countenance changes then; still unafraid, but now with an edge of something else. Against all odds, she desires his touch, his... attentions.
"No dream, either," he intones quietly, his voice a chill caress.
"If this isn't a dream, and you're really...one of them, aren't you going to change me into one, too? Will you make me like you and&keep me forever?"
"I think not."
"So, you'll only have your way with me, then let me go?"
Her voice wavers mightily, but the heaving of her chest tells him that her yearning for him remains.
"In a way, but I won't be letting you go. You'll be with me forever, little one."
He leans in then, allowing the full measure of her scent to envelope him, giving himself over to the heady combination of all that she is, both in essence and being. This time only, he would linger. This single moment, he would prolong.
The panic first sensed is long gone, her aroma the purest distillation of want and need he has ever known. Her pulse flutters wildly, the sound of her soft panting filling the room, and yet there is more. Hard peaks, raising the snug bodice of her dress, beg for his touch.
Unwilling, perhaps even unable to wait longer, he advances on her, his growl deep and long. She seems to garner enough energy to skitter backwards and away, yet still allows a soft moan to escape her lips.
"DO NOT," he admonishes. Everything she is beckons him closer, her every movement acts as a primal beacon. He will brook no refusal, but her scent, the tattoo of her heart, the very flush of her skin tells him without words that none will be forthcoming.
She freezes, leaning back on her hands but arching her spine, her deep brown eyes hooded, defiance warring with desperate sexual hunger.
"Who are you, really? I must know. You must tell me."
He knows not why he feels compelled to answer, and truthfully, but this he does. He regains his erect posture as he speaks, his voice dark and rich, and forces the gates of her hell open further still. She would know all that he was in full, sans glamour.
"I am the power of the everlasting storm; destruction, death, and everything you have been told to fear. No heart beats in this chest, no soul awaits salvation, and no hope hangs in any balance I know. I am dead to all who ever knew me."
She flings herself forward, clutching at his shirtfront and crying plaintively, "Take me away from here!"
"I will not."
Swallowing audibly, she shakes her head. "I will do whatever you require."
"That you will do already, with no empty promise between us."
"Then take me now! Make me your very own, in whatever way that means, for my life was forfeit in any case. I have nothing, I am...nothing. Do what you will; make all of this go away."
He falls on her then without pause, in a rage of primordial want and need. He tears her dress from bodice to hem in a breath, laying her bare before him. Laving at her thigh, intending only to ghost his teeth over the vein there, instead he punctures it, drinking greedily and becoming harder still at her strangled gasps.
Sealing the wound, he moves up slightly to band his arms around her legs, burying his face in her center. Alternating between nipping and stroking, he takes both nectars greedily and without pause, knowing from her movements and murmurings that her pleasure is great. Again and yet again he brings her to the brink of her release, lingering over her sweet morsel, but tasting her both ways throughout.
It is time to make good on his earlier intent. She is more than ready in all ways to take what he would give, and more when required. In turn, she will give until he is satisfied. He bonds the small gash on her mound before rising onto his knees to free himself from his breeches. She lets out a soft, needful whimper beneath his barbaric gaze, but before the sound has faded he is pulling her forward roughly, impaling her on his shaft in one swift movement.
Shimmering brilliantly, her aura pulsates around her as he plunges into the softness of her body. Her heat sears, branding his flesh indelibly. Hips raise of their own accord to meet his, her small hands flashing back to clutch the headboard tightly. She stares deeply into his eyes, and he notices a small bead of sweat teasing from her upper lip, drawing him closer, tempting a taste from yet another source. An almost imperceptible shudder courses through his body at this possibility, this strange...intimacy. Unthinkable.
He latches onto a puckered nipple, suckling hard before puncturing it, her blood even sweeter and hotter at this point, silken in both flavor and feel, grounding him once again. She arches into his mouth, reaching one hand out, holding him in place should he make to pull away. They hold this position, the air filled with the sounds of their union, his thrusts steady and savage.
Time is suspended, reality falls away, her past and his future are as nothing. He gives himself over to what seems almost a prolonged moment of madness, burying himself so deep inside her that he feels as though he must be touching the tip of her womb. His entire existence, every forgotten breath and phantom heartbeat, is focused on this delicate being. He finds himself unable to tell where he begins and she ends, a wholly foreign sensation.
Their surroundings are purely ancillary; the texture of the bed linen, the draft from the counterpane, and the pale moonlight filtering through the waved glass register and are summarily dismissed. Of more import is the heady scent of her body's finish, an incomparable combination he must have yearned for unknowingly, and which both sates and inflames him. The flesh from which he sought sustenance now feeds his carnal hunger as well, and for the first time he cannot, will not, place the one before the other. He forces himself from her breast; to do otherwise would take her from him too soon. One opening is sealed as the other is plundered, both temporary and destined to be torn asunder regardless.
"Tell me what you desire," he commands, his voice a silken caress against her ear before he licks languidly along her neck, a weakened yet steady thrum just below the surface.
"My thoughts were made clear to you before."
He knows this is so, but have no others cross her mind from that moment? Simple thing.
The knowledge of their combined destiny is sure, yet he feels a certain curiosity that would be satisfied.
"I would hear your mind at THIS moment, kiscica."
He has tempered, not ceased, his movements; the slower pace intensifying their connection. A shadow passes over her features before she casts her glance downwards, but when her eyes meet his again, there is fire in their depths.
"Toy with me no longer. Take me as you must."
"As you wish," he growls out before withdrawing, turning her over and re-sheathing himself immediately.
Her peak is his to own or discard, as is her very life.
The cascade of her hair is as a magnet to his hand, and he wraps it thrice before pulling her back into his embrace. Her back arches, and she cries out once, twice&from ecstasy, pain or a combination thereof he knows not. He cares not. Her strangled gasps the only sound save their joining, he drinks slowly from her neck until she falls silent.
Akin to a small bird in his grasp, her consciousness flutters, as if to take wing. He is her cliff now, but no mistake: this time she will most assuredly shuttle off her mortal coil. There will be no reprieve and no escape.
He wonders idly at her state, only to be surprised anew at the feel of her small hand reaching back to grasp his hip firmly before pulling him closer. He roars then, without censure; her touch severs whatever tenuous grasp he had on his control.
Unable to postpone their finish any longer, he manipulates her in his arms until they face yet again. He has hidden nothing from her, but now his pure nature would be clear to any who look upon him. His great, dark eyes and the mass of burnished copper hair that lays horizontally across his forehead are heroic no more; he is a beast pure and simple.
He does not force himself upon her (though the concept is not abhorrent to him), but her soul, innocence, humanity; call it what you will - he takes it.
There is a connection, unknown with any other over the millennia he has been himself, in any incarnation, and this gives him pause. She is feeling him, all of him, and he knows that the moment she slips will be sublime. She holds no illusions; there is no glimmer that an alternate route will be taken. Never.
Small, yet lush breasts fill his palms. When he grasps her peaks betwixt his thumbs and forefingers and pulls, he feels the charge that courses through her, stringing her body tighter. Her eyes will not leave his, having no other point of reference worth considering.
Her center is ripe and the slick friction is so sublime it is nearly his undoing. This is how he will end her and them; surrounded by her wet heat, the pounding of her fading heartbeat in union with the pistoning of his hips.
It is unspoken, their implicit agreement, but it is there nonetheless. Her head thrown back exposes the thick vein in her throat that can no longer be ignored. As his teeth sink deeply, tearing into her with abandon, he reaches his peak. Her mouth opens, but no sound is forthcoming - that time has passed.
Her body convulses around him, radiating out from where they are joined. His own flesh shudders violently in response, her every minor tremor a full-blown symphony drowning out all else. She has absolutely enchanted him in this short time, pure and simple, but no matter. He realizes in an instant that without another word spoken, she has gone.
There is a momentary lapse on his part, a strange yearning for an unnameable more, which causes him to hesitate. He pulls back from her lifeless, already cooling body, his brow furrowed as he scrutinizes her face. It was as he had imagined, though at the same time not nearly enough.
He searches for the correct term to describe her, and jolts in recognition at how foreign, yet how very right it is when he does: peaceful. That her bloodied form, torn clothing and blood-soaked linen are at odds with this observation makes no difference; he has never in all his time known anything to rival the pure beauty of this woman, at this moment.
A waking dream of sorts descends upon him, encompassing past, present and even future. Though he initially finds himself unable to look away from her, he will have none of it. He removes himself from her completely with no small amount of effort, straightening his garments as he goes. The shadows that shrouded the room have shortened; the road less traveled beckons, yet shall remain untaken.
He pauses at the doorway, his normally swift exit curtailed by the inexplicable pull towards her that remains. A nascent glow from the window illuminates her face, and as he holds her visage, he thinks on how he is the last to know her in any way. Curious.
He takes his leave, backing away slowly before finally turning to rush from what he can suddenly bear no longer. He will puzzle through these feelings, if they last, as he crosses the landscape yet again. He begins by repeating the mantra learned so long ago, but which still holds true: that which can be broken, must be broken.
Her scent fades from his skin even as it becomes more deeply embedded in his memory, and what ought to have been said or even done is no longer of any import. His howl of confusion is lost on the wind, and before it has faded another scent demands attention, another path presents itself.
That which can be broken, must be broken.