He's terrifying, feral, hypnotizing. He's a vampire.
I know I am, too—the chest full of ripped and blood-stained garments in my room leaves little doubt—but during my more lucid hours, it's difficult to imagine myself as I see my mate now: snarling and snapping, wild. And over something so innocuous as a letter, at that.
I ask him for the fifth time what the parchment reads and am rewarded with yet another growl. There's no malice behind it, only pure frustration, but I avert my eyes anyway, decide to be patient and just wait him out.
He likes me sweet.
"They want us to visit," he finally says, and there's more to his eyes than fury. There's fear; it's an interesting color on him.
"The Volturi?"
"Who do you think?" he hisses, and I hold his gaze that extra beat in reproach of the tone. It's all I dare. It's all I need, for he sighs, beckons me to him.
His hold is suffocating, and I love it. Not out of any masochistic tendencies, but just for the fact that his tight grip leaves me well aware that, while he may be cradling me, it's for his comfort. I'm the sponge that soaks up all the tensions as he clings, and with me in his arms, the bravado's gone.
There's only his terror.
"I don't want them near you," he whispers into the crook of my neck, and I smile because he can't see. I know what it costs him to admit anything scares him, without excuses, without rationalizations. It's as close to a declaration of love as I'm ever going to get.
"It's only a mind-game," I say. How many times has he recounted the twisted ways of Aro to me? "We've no gifts for them to covet; they're just asserting their dominance now that they think they're kings. You told me they might try."
"I also told you they'd have to send a half a dozen of the guard to rip me apart and carry me there in pieces before I'd answer Aro's every beck and call. Convenient how you forget that part." He pulls back and taps me on the nose. I want to bite his condescending finger right off.
I smile bashfully instead.
"Isn't it, though?" I murmur, and his embrace crushes into my ribs, leaves no room for air in my diaphragm. If I was human, I'd collapse from the lack of breath. He'd murder me with his need.
I sometimes wonder if that's the only reason he changed me; he knew no frail, mortal form could take the love he had to give.
We both say nothing for a long stretch. Him presumably because he's lost in thought. Me because I have an opinion I know he won't agree with, and I don't want to argue. What I want is for him to take me to bed and remind me of all the other ways he can be feral.
"What aren't you saying?" he asks instead of kissing me.
"Nothing."
"No," he growls, frustrated again—this time at me—and my eyes drop to the floor. "That's what you are saying. Tell me." My posture falls away, and I just slump into his arms.
"It's just a thought—"
"Eyes," he cuts me off, chucks me under the chin with impatience when I don't heed his command immediately and meet that iron gaze. I don't want to look at him. Amun's always one to scowl—whether he's just focusing all of his attention on you or you've truly awakened the always close to the surface fury—but when he's searching me out for lies . . .
I can deal with the searing blaze of a scowl; heat is no terror to those born of the desert. The cool calculation of a glare, though? The intensity as he reads my expression for a falsehood I haven't even thought up yet? It's a dagger in my gut.
But I know Amun doesn't offer second chances; there will be no leniency if I defy him on this. We will argue.
I can't. I can't fight with him right now. So I steel myself and meet his gaze.
"It's only my opinion," I caution, and am met with a long-suffering look, "but wouldn't it just be easier to give in on this? We go, they see us, they leave us alone. "
"That's not the point. I don't bow to them; I owe them nothing."
"I thought the point was to keep me safe?" I ask, my voice gentle, maybe even a bit weak.
Because what if that's not the point?
And now I'm gripping him, holding on for dear life as I try to let go of the thought.
He chose me, he chose me, he chose me. He made me. He'd never leave me.
"Kebi," he says, "eyes," and he has to force me to look at him this time. There's no scowl, no glare, and our roles are reversed as I search his face for the words I need.
"You're the only point," he says, and I think the strength of my embrace may snap him in two.
Author's Notes: Probably no updates until the end of the week. Thanks for reading!