CAELAN

A TASTE OF BLOOD

Anya

The moonlight poured through the small cottage window, drenching the room in a silvery haze that blurred the lines between shadow and light. The rustic simplicity of the space—the worn wood, the soft bedding—did little to quell the storm rising inside me. My body felt alive, charged, the air thick with anticipation that hung over me like a storm waiting to break. Every breath I took seemed louder, each heartbeat a steady drum, but beneath the surface, my pulse raced wildly. I had heard the stories about Caelan—the nightwalker whose very name sent chills down spines. A creature of equal parts danger and desire. A being feared but craved. And tonight, he was mine.

The faintest sound—a creak—slipped through the air, and I knew he was here. The door hadn't fully opened, but his presence filled the room long before his body crossed the threshold. It was an overwhelming thing, dark and suffocating, yet intoxicating at the same time. I didn't need to open my eyes to feel his gaze, heavy and possessive, grazing over every inch of my exposed skin. The stories had done nothing to prepare me for the sheer weight of him, how his aura dominated the air around me, thick with promise.

I kept my eyes closed, savoring the moment—the tension that coiled tighter with every second that passed. My skin prickled with anticipation, and I could almost taste the electricity sparking between us.

"Are you ready?"

His voice—low, rough—wrapped around me like smoke, curling deep into the marrow of my bones. It was dark velvet, but underneath, there was a razor-sharp edge, a threat hidden within the promise. My breath hitched, my fingers curling into the fabric beneath me, and I finally opened my eyes.

There he stood, his tall frame a silhouette against the night, the moon's glow framing him like a ghost. His eyes—a deep, predatory gaze—locked onto mine, and in that instant, I knew. I knew I wasn't just a woman lying in wait. I was prey. And Caelan? He was the hunter.

"Yes," I whispered, barely audible. Yet, I knew he heard. His lips curled, the faintest trace of a smile, but it wasn't one of kindness. It was hunger. Pure, raw hunger.

He moved, his steps silent, as though the earth bent to his will. There was a grace to him, but it was deceptive, hiding the raw power that simmered just beneath the surface. He didn't just approach me—he stalked toward me, his movements deliberate, calculated. When he reached the bed, he paused, his body towering over me, casting me in his shadow.

I tilted my head slightly, offering myself to him. My breath came shallow, my heart racing in anticipation, but I didn't flinch. I wanted this. I wanted him.

Without a word, his hand reached out, brushing my skin with the lightest touch. Goosebumps rose in the wake of his fingers, a trail of fire against my flesh, and my body trembled in response. His hand traced the curve of my throat, down to the hollow between my breasts, teasing the line of my skin, making me ache for more.

"You're not afraid," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent vibrations through me.

"No," I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper. I wasn't lying. There was no fear here, only desire. Deep, unrelenting desire.

His lips twisted into something darker, more dangerous. "You should be."

Before I could respond, his mouth was on mine, devouring me with a fierceness that took my breath away. His kiss wasn't gentle—it was demanding, consuming, his lips crushing against mine as though he couldn't get enough. I responded in kind, my body pressing up against him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His taste was intoxicating, his scent—dark and wild—clouding my senses.

Then, just as abruptly as it began, he pulled away. My lips felt swollen from the force of the kiss, and my skin burned from the sudden loss of his touch. But I didn't have time to dwell on the emptiness, because in the next moment, his mouth was at my throat, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin there.