For Ana. Stephenie Meyer owns my life-ahem-Twilight.
It was her blood.
The faint blush that slowly crept to her cheeks.
Her body.
Those perky tits.
Both.
His teeth bared as her scent came crawling towards him on the baseball field. The burn was like swallowing coals—the pain so hot that he could barely feel it, yet still unbearable. He imagined that if this human girl was his singer, the pain would only be worse.
But his singer was in a stance before him, her hissing coming from deep within her throat. The insane girl from all those years ago. Mary Alice Brandon, the prophet from the asylum, now a vampire.