Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“Careful now.”
I look over to my left and there he is. In his more… attractive form.
“Nightmare?” He asks this casually. Like he wasn’t just beating the fuck out of me in the dreamwalk. He holds up a bottle of Jack. “Let me refill it.”
I pull my drink back before he can pour. “What are you doing here? And what the hell was that?”
He screws up his face, like he’s not sure what I’m talking about.
“Don’t.” I point my finger at him. “You think I’m afraid of you? You think I care if you abuse me?”
“Come on, Ryet. Abuse?” He laughs. “It was a dream. I didn’t even touch you.”
“You’re fucking with my head and—” I stop talking midsentence because he has bitten his lip and blood is trickling down his chin.
All the old urges come rushing back in less than an instant.
I don’t have any control over my reactions to his blood. It’s like breathing to me. Something intrinsic. More than just an instinct, it is a compulsion.
Paul smiles. It’s coy, and knowing, and evil. “Would you like a drink?”
Even if I could form the word ‘no’ with my lips like I might actually say it, the answer is always yes.
Because when it comes to Paul’s blood, I’m no different than that meth fiend, Willie. That night Paul found me in the alley, he turned me into his own personal addict.
And then he pretends to wonder why I don’t want to see him.
He pretends like this sick compulsion I have is love.
It’s not. I don’t know what he’s doing, but there’s one thing I know for sure. He’s up to something and when it comes to me, he’s always got a plan.
Paul comes off as lazy, and easy, and cool. Like nothing bothers him and he hasn’t got a care in the world.
But it’s a lie.
Everything about him is a lie.
He’s doing something with me.
Using me, like he uses everyone.
And it starts and ends with this addiction he forced on me that night.
“I can hear your thoughts, Ryet.” Paul shakes his head and tsks his tongue. “I didn’t force you. You were falling to pieces, remember.”
“Shut up.”
“You were a walking suicide when we met.”
“Shut. Up.”
“I know you don’t like to talk about them.” He steps towards me and I want nothing more than to turn away and walk out. But I can’t. I smell his blood. I need it. “But they still haunt you, don’t they? Let me take it all away again. Hm?” He reaches out and brings his hand up to my cheek, swiping a lock of hair away from my eyes like he’s trying to be tender with me, the way he is with those whores he fucks. His voice is low and soft now, all the anger in the dream just that—a dream. “Would you like to pack them up one more time and put them away for another day?”
I would not. I would like to see them again, even if it was just a memory. I know I had a wife and three children, but I can’t remember their names, I can’t conjure up their faces, and there are no good times to look back on.
He took it all away.
He took them away.
And deep down, in some dark place I rarely visit, I know he did more than that to my human family all those decades ago.
He did more than that.
“Come now.” Paul slides his hand around the back of my head, pulling me into him. “I need you to drink so I can be sure things are still good between us.” I don’t know what that means, but I don’t care, either. The scent of his blood is so powerful I’m salivating before our lips even touch.
And then there it is. The tangy taste of him on my tongue.
But it’s only ever a taste. He denies me anything more than a drop or two. I eagerly kiss him back, trying to get every drop before his lip seals back up, healed.
And when it’s over, my head is on his shoulder like I’m about to weep. And I am spent.
“There you go. That’s all you needed. Tell me now. Do you feel better or worse?”
When I don’t answer him, he asks again. This time with more force.“ Ryet. Better? Or worse?”
“Better.” It’s barely a whisper.
“Good.” Then he sighs. Like he’s relieved. He guides me over to the bed and helps me lie down. He gets in next to me and plays with my hair.
I am too weak to move. But this is euphoria. This is bliss.
The blood is a powerful drug. Better than anything out there on the streets.
And I am just an addict.
Paul kisses my forehead. I can’t even manage to open my eyes.
And the last thing I hear is, “Sleep now, blood lover. Sleep.”