Blood from his kill (the first kill of his entire life- quite the occasion) stained his teeth and lips, coloring them in shades of rusty red, and dripped from between his fingers, making them hot and sticky. His hands were wrapped around the dead girl's bloody, ruined neck in an almost affectionate embrace, and he let her fall. Her glassy, staring eyes seemed to watch him from the ground, and his spine prickled with an eerie unease. He kicked her away, and her light, drained body yielded to his foot, tumbling away, her eyes no longer watching.
He had meant to kill her, but he hadn't meant to be a killer. Not until recent events had broken what remained of his spirit ravished mind, forcing him on the path to the pitch darkness he had, for so long, been trying to deny.
He examined his hands, white as fresh snow, and covered with blood that he started to lick slowly away, savoring the taste. He had never imagined this in his future. On the rare occasions that he had removed himself from his wild present and thought of the future, he had imagined it intertwined with Rose's. Perhaps she was his lover, or maybe a close friend- their relationship ended amicably with mutual consent and goodwill- but he had always pictured her by his side and him at hers. His lovely rose, his little dhampir, soft and hard, silky petals protected by glossy thorns. He thought she had let him through the thorns, but he had been wrong.
She had spat in his face and laughed, scorned his love and had gone behind his back, into the arms of a man she had sworn (lied) she was done with. She had betrayed him with an earnest, compassionate sincerity, insulting him with her gentle indifference and well-intended sympathy. And she had called him a victim, too, her words harsher and more painful then he could have ever anticipated.
In a state of near-delirium he had wandered through the court, looking for the nearest warm body. He had seen many women, but realized none enticed him, and moved to the feeders, looking for a snack.
A pretty feeder with long, golden-red hair and dazed brown eyes had caught his attentions, and he found he needed her, wanted her, in more ways than just a meal. The scandal that was sure to come only increased his desire, and he coaxed her into coming to his room- she was only too willing, eager to please.
He kissed her lips, and then her neck, opening his mouth and piercing her skin with his fangs. Somewhere during his feeding it occurred to him that he could kill her, and be rid of the pain and insanity- forever. So he drank from her until there was nothing left to drink, taking so much of her life-blood that it cost her her life. He feed from her until she was a corpse in his hands, and until her was no longer quite alive, either.
Then he put his mind to the task of killing Rosemarie Hathaway.
He finished licking away the blood, and moved for the door, his new status as undead granting him grace of movement and a quickness and strength that he had never before experienced. The clarity of his senses was unparalleled, and he allowed himself a moment to marvel in it, before heading out.
The scents of the Moroi and dhampirs saturated the air with an irresistible flavor, but he was only interested in the blood of one. Rose.
It was still nighttime, but dangerously close to dawn, and he supposed he have to be quick, as much as he'd love to enjoy draining her. He smiled to himself, filled with a helpless glee. He darted through the grounds, hovering in places he expected Rose to be, but not staying long enough for anyone at Court to recognize him- and his new status.
Finally, he located Rose. She was alone, fortunately, away from other guardians and her Dimitri. She sat alone on a bench, looking beautiful and alluring. He breathed in her scent, inching closer towards her. However, he had forgotten something. Although she was no longer bonded, she was still very much shadow-kissed, or perhaps her guardian training kicked in, and she sensed his approach, her body tensing, her hand going for her stake.
He snarled, leaping forward, lunging for her throat, as she whirled around. Her eyes were intent, and he knew she hadn't yet recognized him, only seeing his unnaturally pale skin and red eyes- identifying him as a Strigoi, and a threat. She stabbed him with her stake, the silver burning and searing, penetrating his heart.
He gasped with renewed anger and shock, and her eyes widened.
"Adrian?" she gasped, her hand dropping from the stake, still lodged in his chest, and moving towards his face.
He managed a wry smile. "Hey, Rose," he choked out. He tasted blood in his mouth, and it was only when he winced at its flavor that he belatedly realized it was his own.
"Why?" she asked, "Why would you do this?" her voice cracked.
"Because," he started, grunting slightly as the words caused the stake to go deeper into his heart, "Because now I'm not-" He broke off, unable to finish, unable to make any other sound then a low, pained moan.
But that was alright. He could tell from the look in her eyes that she understood.
Because now I'm not a victim.