The Broken Children
-Dominique-
She is a fatal beauty.
Her strawberry-blonde hair falls in lustrous waves down her back, framing her delicate features and ethereal blue eyes, stark in contrast to the scars beneath her blouse, the jagged edges of which traversed her throat.
She grins, revealing teeth that are slightly pointed and oh so very sharp, the tips stained slightly pink with the blood of her meal. Delicately, she reaches up and picks out a bit of sinew, flicking it onto the carpet with nails varnished scarlet.
"Did you have to play with your food?" asks the man across from her, one leg over the other as a trail of acrid smoke leaves his parted lips. Before she can respond, he's taking another drag of the cigarette, a few flecks of ash falling across his bare chest. Like her, his torso is covered in scars – bite-marks – the wounds that show them for what they are.
"Don't you know, Lorcan," she smirks, "That their screams are the most delicious part."
"Indeed," he agrees, his short, dirty-blond hair matted to his head. It had been his turn to hunt today and whilst capturing their prey was not as fulfilling without the full moon to guide their path with fang and claw . . . it was satisfactory all the same.
As was the meal that would always, inevitably follow.
"Uncle Harry sent a few aurors searching for us," she sneers after a while, breaking the silence and causing him to look up from his own plate of barely-cooked meat (just a few seconds on the fire to char the skin and heat the juices within, so to speak)
"Admirable yet foolish," Lorcan replies, "How many has he lost in the past few months against us? I assume that they would run short of wizards soon enough."
"You speak as though we kill them," she giggles, "We just play with them, it isn't our fault that humans are just so . . . breakable."
"They are, aren't they?" he chuckles, though there's a gleam of delight in his eyes as he realises that she's captured a few new toys for them to break.
Dominique nibbles at what is left on her bone, before cracking it between her teeth and sucking out the marrow, a delicacy that cannot be matched by even her late grandmother's cooking.
"Has there been any word from the Mistress?" she asks, as she sets the bone aside, her tone bored.
"We are expected at the Manor this weekend," smirks Lorcan, "Her Ladyship intends to set the plan into motion this Saturday."
"So soon?"
"Who is there left to stop us? Your sister and her husband are much too busy killing each other, your cousins, those who stood against us, have been scattered to the four winds . . . and the Order? Let us not even speak of them . . . even my mother doesn't have the strength of will left to stand against us."
"For a werewolf, you are quite eloquent," laughs Dominique, rising from her seat and letting the wooden plate clatter to the floor before leaping across the room and landing on his lap, straddling his hips and leaning in so that their lips were millimetres apart.
"How old was she?" she smirks, licking the rivulet of blood and savoury juices from his lips as he unbuttons his ragged jeans. The fragile bones, cracked and drained of marrow, have long since fallen from his plate.
"Four, soft and tender . . .just the way you like them."
"She was tantalising, my love," she simpers, before losing herself in blood and ecstasy.