Sharp as a Razor's Edge
There are times when Mindy automatically bears her neck or offers her forearm to Drake when he comes by for a meal. It's been almost two months, seven weeks and three days, since he began feeding from her. Some days she just wants to get it over with and others she wishes he'd try something different, anything.
He's perched on her window sill one night when she broaches the subject.
"Do you ever bite any of your dates? While you're with them?"
He cocks an eyebrow. "I told you, I don't bite people that I like."
"And you don't always date girls that you like."
"Good point. No, I haven't. I don't want to get carried away in the heat of the moment. I'm not really prepared to handle messes or my own fledgling. Not yet."
"Oh." Mindy pulls the knot in the belt of her robe tighter.
Drake knows what's on her mind but he loves watching her fumble and squirm. It's not that he hasn't entertained the thought when he observes her in the minutes before he eats. It's amazing how uncomfortable and aroused she is at the same time, though her level of discomfort is steadily decreasing every week. He's not going to compel her, he's just going to bide his time, watching her unravel.
He loves watching her as she internally debates with herself. He's known about the stake she keeps under her mattress since the first night she put it there; he knows that she wonders what it would be like to drive it through his heart, past the muscle angled just right so that it goes between his ribs. If he concentrates and listens hard, he can hear her thoughts, he can hear her telling herself that she hates him as he sinks his teeth into her flesh. He wonders if it's a two-way channel, if she could take a peek inside of his mind if she tried too, if he can project thoughts and images into her head. One day, he'll try.
"Let's get this over with, shall we?" she asks, walking over to him and rolling up the sleeve of her robe.
He shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."
She furrows her brow. "Then why are you here? Did you already eat?"
Drake smirks at her. "You want me to eat you?"
Once the innuendo hits her, she blanches, tugging at the sash of her robe again. "You're vulgar."
He looks her up and down then snickers. "I love playing with your pretty little head."
She shudders and reminds herself that none of this is healthy, that she does not want him there, that she used to dislike him but now she hates him, and what he has become. "Gee, I'm happy I can help you get off on your psychological torture kink."
There's that determined bravado that he likes so much. He remembers being a little scared of her when he was still a mere mortal. The confidence laced with superiority with which she carried herself and spoke, the fire in her eyes, her seemingly unnaturally high level of intelligence, the question of her sanity and just what she might be capable of. Even when she's weak from feeding, she's still incredibly strong willed. One of these days, she will surrender.
As much as she wants to give in to this addiction, she refuses to. She fights to remain strong and she hates this codependency because he wants and needs her blood as much as she wants and needs him to feed from her.
He stands, reaches out and pushes her hair back, off of her shoulder and she flinches. "I could go for a snack."
She's stone faced and tilts her head to the side. As Drake lowers his head, Mindy repeats her mantra in her head: I hate him, I hate this. Her eyes close reflexively when his fangs penetrate the flesh of her neck; she can still feel the stinging pinches that subside oh so quickly. Relaxation. Euphoria. Breathe in, breathe out. He barely drinks and runs the tip of his tongue along the length of her neck. There's heat and desire coursing through her body, pooling, and she fights against it, through the haze back to her sensibility.
"Stop." It comes out soft, like a sigh.
He licks at her wounds once more before raising his head and taking a step back. A slow predatory grin comes onto his face. Her heart is pounding as she takes a few unsteady steps backward and sits on her bed. Adrenaline and arousal. It would be so easy to trample all over her boundaries and defenses; it would be so easy to push her over the edge, writhing and bucking, moaning and screaming, begging, pleading for him to send her flying and he would.
He might not be a good person and what remains of his soul might be a muddled patch of dimness and grey but he's not completely evil; he will feed from her but he will not take from her until she gives freely. He will wait until she crosses the line that they're toeing. Then he will make her come undone and he will take pleasure in it, in her.