He's A Monster

You Let Him Feed?

Danielle's Perspective POV

"Wakey, wakey, oh darling... wakey."

A low groan escapes me as pain flares sharply through my skull. My eyes blink open, struggling to adjust to the heavy dark. Above me, faint reddish and orange circles pulse in the shadows, like eyes, like burning embers watching.

The air is thick, musky, tinged with freshly cut grass, and beneath it all, the faint sweetness of roses. Warmth presses down on me, not comforting, but suffocating.

"Finally," a voice murmurs. "You're awake."

My lip curls despite the throbbing in my head. "Maybe if I didn't have some stalker breathing into my face, I'd still be asleep. Forever."

I regret the words immediately as pain lances across my cheek. My head whips sideways. He struck me.

He hit me. The bastard actually hit me. Fear churns low in my stomach. He has no filter, no restraint. He could do anything, and I am too weak to fight back.

I shift carefully, testing my arms, my legs. Relief trickles in when I realize I'm not bound. I'm lying on something soft... velvet, maybe, and the air carries the faint perfume of tulips, roses, and... him.

"See?" His voice is soft, mocking. "I'm not so evil."

I want to laugh in his face. But some instinct keeps me silent.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks.

"I don't know," I mutter. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Feisty." He chuckles. "No wonder brother fancies you so much."

My breath hitches. "Don't you dare. You're not his brother. You're a monster. How could you even be related to him?"

Light floods the room, blinding me. I flinch, squinting hard. When my eyes finally adjust, I see walls drenched in crimson, gold-framed windows sealed shut, and paintings. Paintings like the ones in Marshal's room. My stomach twists.

"Like what you see?"

The voice makes me flinch again, and he's suddenly in front of me. Vincent. His smile is sharp as he twirls something in his hand: a paintbrush, though the "bristles" look like a feather, tipped in dark, wet red.

My stomach drops. That's not paint.

"What did you do?" My throat feels raw.

"I used you," he says, casually, as though commenting on the weather. "For my next piece. For brother."

My head shakes violently. "What? No--"

But his fingers are already on my arm. His touch burns, cold and sharp, stinging through my veins. My breath catches as I glance down: bite marks mar my wrist, faintly pink around the edges, the skin still raw.

"You.."

"I only drained a little," he says smoothly. "Not all. I do have self-control. Still... you were delicious." His grin widens. "Sweet. Innocent. But tainted. You let him feed, didn't you?"

My throat closes. I say nothing. I won't give him more.

"Where?" His fingertip drags slowly, deliberately, down my thigh.

"D-don't touch me."

He laughs, a cold sound that echoes off the painted walls. The air drops several degrees, an icy breeze curling around my legs.

"You always get the richest blood here," he murmurs, pressing harder into my inner thigh. "It pulses so beautifully from the source--"

I jerk my legs up, knocking his hand away, though the effort makes me dizzy, weak. His face darkens. In an instant, his hand clamps my throat, pressing me into the velvet beneath me. His mouth hovers inches from mine, his breath sharp and metallic.

"You could do so much better," he whispers.

The pressure releases. I gasp, dragging air into my burning lungs. His laugh coils through the chamber, cruel and amused.

I turn my head weakly and freeze.

A canvas stands near the wall. Red lines streak across it in precise, deliberate strokes. Not paint. My blood. My chest heaves. My vision swims.

"It's almost done," Vincent says, voice light, almost giddy. "Almost as pretty as you."

He steps back, admiring his work. "I call it Unnamed Man."

"Why?" My voice cracks.

"Because that is what I am to you. A man. A cruel, blood-sucking man."

I glare, though my body trembles. "What else would you expect me to call you?"

For a moment, he studies me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then...he falters.

His knees buckle, his hands scraping the floor. He hisses, his left eye twitching, his voice breaking into a growl.

"Stop," he rasps.

"What? I'm not doing--"

"Stop!" The room shudders, the velvet beneath me trembling. Petals rain from flowers, scattering across the bed.

"Stop!" he roars again.

The air crackles. Shadows split apart. My heart leaps.

"Mars--?"

A familiar voice cuts through the chaos.

"Yeah, it's me, love."

Marshal.