Sanguine [Young Dracula]

Sanguine

Maybe he was cruel. Maybe that was who he was. When they had her hanging over the fire, he could smell her fear and her breather blood boiling with confusion, betrayal. Oh, it was a subtle smell. It was still hidden behind that suppressant. But now he knew what to look for, he could make it out. And he liked it.

Of course, he saved her. Of course, he lied about why. But at that point, he'd already fallen into breaking. At that point, his love was already dead. He didn't care if she burned, not really. It was part of a nature he'd been fighting off all his life. The vampire that lived in his blood and told him to be cruel, evil, cold and violent.

He didn't care if she burned. He saved her to be cruel. To give her hope. And now, he was going to take it away.

He didn't knock on her door. He entered silently, without waking her. She lay in her coffin, her hands folded at her breast. She could have been laid out on an altar, dressed in pure white, a posy of daisies clutched bashfully in her hands, a dagger in his.

As it was, she was lying there in her normal clothes, very much not draped in white, very much lacking daisies, and very much not on an altar. And he... he didn't have a knife. Then again, he didn't need one.

He took a step towards her. It seemed like an accident, but the manner in which he provoked the floorboards to creak was entirely intentional. She sat up in her coffin with a gasp, as if waking from the dead.

The suppressant was wearing off. He could hear her heartbeat clearly, for all its speed it might have been a wren's. He could smell her startlement, the sweat on her skin and the blood beneath it.

She relaxed when her eyes met his, and for a split-second, it broke his heart. And then it didn't.

"Vlad," she whispered under her breath. It was the slightest push of air, and then it was over.

The room was that few degrees warmer because she was alive, and he could sense that. Chastised himself for not having noticed before.

"Erin," he mumbled.

He sunk to his knees. He watched her pupils dilate as he brushed his hand against her cheek. His cold skin on her warmth. His pupils were equally wide, but it wasn't because he loved her.

He smiled ever so gently as she allowed him to look directly into her eyes. He fostered the hypnotic connection with a snap.

"Don't scream," he whispered, and her brow furrowed.

A confused smile pulled at her lips. Their faces were perfectly level; she, sitting up in the coffin, and he kneeling before her.

"Scream?" she asked. "Why would I scream?"

"You won't," Vlad assured, satisfied with his ability to control her.

At first, he kissed her, and he felt the tension just melt out of her bones. She slipped like a liquid into the kiss, pliant and malleable. He could smell her desire for him.

When he lowered his lips to her neck in a flash, she didn't make a sound. No credit to her for that, it was all his work. Don't scream.

He hesitated, his lips brushing the skin for a moment. Paused there. What for, he didn't know. But he admired the mesmerising quality of the way he could sense the blood flowing right beneath her skin, right there.

And then he bit. Once again, she didn't make a sound. She struggled, tried to push him off, but he remained clamped to her neck, the blood flowing hot and slick down his throat, over his eager tongue to taste.

It was sad how he'd proved them both wrong. There should be good vampires. Vampires who aren't killers; vampires who care about breathers as much as the best of the breathers care for each other. But they were both wrong. He wasn't one of them. It was just too hard.

Like his uncle Ivan, he had discovered that monstrosity was inevitable.

His father flitted to the doorway, closely followed by Bertrand.

"I can smell fresh blood," the Count said, before looking down at his son and the woman beneath him.

Vlad pulled his dripping fangs away from Erin's neck. He could no longer hear her heartbeat.

"We had a spy in our midst," he whispered.