Chapter 5

Chapter Five

BLOOD AND HUNGER

The words flow like blood from my fingertips, dark and rich with promise. I've been writing for hours, pouring out scene after scene. My editor would probably have a heart attack if she saw these pages – they're nothing like my usual carefully crafted romantic fantasy. These words are raw, primal, dripping with a truth I'm only beginning to understand.

What are you becoming? The question echoes in my mind, but it doesn't frighten me anymore. If anything, it excites me.

The cursor blinks at me expectantly, but I lean back from my desk, stretching my stiff muscles, sore from too many hours hunched over the keyboard. My office feels different now, influenced by the knowledge that he reads everything I write. Every word is a message to him, every scene a dark confession of my growing desires.

Movement catches my eye – the curtains stirring in a breeze that shouldn't exist with all the windows closed. My heart picks up speed, not from fear but anticipation.

"Are you going to lurk in the shadows all night," I ask without turning around, "or are you actually going to join me?"

"Careful what you wish for, little ghost." His voice comes from directly behind me, dripping with amusement. "I might think you're getting too comfortable with monsters."

Finally, I turn to face him. He's foregone his usual suit tonight, dressed instead in black jeans and a charcoal sweater that does nothing to hide his predatory grace. The casual clothes should make him seem more human. Instead, they somehow emphasize his otherworldliness – like a wolf trying on sheep's clothing for fun.

"Maybe I am getting comfortable," I say, standing to face him properly. "Is that a problem?"

His smile shows the edge of fangs. "That depends on what you plan to do with that comfort."

"What do you mean? "

Instead of answering, he gestures to my computer screen. "You've been busy. Three chapters since our dance in the graveyard. Tell me, Elena – are you writing fiction, or a confession?"

Heat floods my cheeks. The scenes I've been working on are... intense to say the least. Dark fantasies of submission and surrender, of a woman embracing her own monsters while dancing with darker ones.

"Both," I admit reluctantly. "Neither. I don't know anymore. The line between fantasy and reality is blurring more and more each day. Sometime I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not."

"Good." He steps closer, fully inserting himself into my personal space. "That's exactly where I want you – caught between what you think you should want and what you truly desire."

His proximity makes it hard to think straight. He radiates that supernatural chill I've become addicted to, along with something else – a powerful energy that makes my pulse race.

"And what do you think I truly desire?" I ask, proud that my voice remains steady.

His hand comes up to cradle my face, thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "I think you desire exactly what you've been writing about. The surrender. The darkness. The monster ."

"You're awfully confident."

"I can smell it on you," he says, leaning closer to inhale deeply. "The want. The need. The growing hunger that mirrors my own."

I try to maintain my composure, but it's nearly impossible with him so close. "You talk about hunger," I say, "but you haven't told me what happened that night in the cemetery. Who was he? Why did you really kill him?"

His hand slides from my face to my throat, resting there with gentle menace. "Jealous?"

"Curious," I counter, meeting him with my eyes. "You said he was watching me. Hunting me. I want to know why."

Something dangerous flashes in his arctic eyes. "Because you're mine. And some young ones need to learn respect for their elders' claims."

"I don't belong to anyone," I protest, but the words sound pathetic as they roll off my tongue..

His laugh is dark silk. "No? Then why does your pulse race when I touch you? Why do you write such deliciously dark scenes about surrender and possession? Why do you keep coming back to me instead of running like any sane woman would?"

He's right, damn him. I should be terrified. Should be fighting this inexorable pull toward darkness. Instead, I find myself swaying closer, drawn by that magnetic combination of danger and desire. Drawn by the most devastatingly handsome creature I could have ever dreamt up.

"Tell me about your world," I whisper. "If I'm going to dance with monsters, I should at least know the steps." The pun is so cringey that I almost take it back, but his face keeps the words from my mouth.

Torrin studies me for a long moment, then steps back. "Come with me."

"To where?"

"You want to understand darkness? Then let me show you what true darkness looks like."

He holds out his hand – an echo of every devil's bargain ever written. But I'm tired of being just the writer of dark tales. I want to live them.

I take his hand.

The world... shifts. There's no other way to describe it. One moment we're in my office, the next we're standing in a part of Ravencrest Cemetery I've never seen before. The transition is so smooth I would think I imagined it, except for the lingering sensation of movement through shadow.

"How did you—"

"Shadow walking," he explains. "One of the simpler gifts of my kind. Distance means little to those who travel through darkness."

We're standing in front of a massive mausoleum I've never noticed before, though how I could have missed it is beyond me. The structure is Victorian Gothic at its finest – all soaring spires and grotesque gargoyles, looking more like a miniature cathedral than a tomb.

"Welcome to my home," Torrin says, and there's dark humor in his voice. "At least, one of them. I find it convenient to maintain a residence near my hunting grounds."

"You live in a mausoleum?"

"Appropriate, don't you think? The dead watching over the dead." He leads me toward the ornate bronze doors. "Though I've made some improvements over the years."

The interior is... not what I expected, although I don’t know what I would have expected in the first place. Instead of crypts and coffins, I find myself in what can only be described as a gothic library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes that look ancient and priceless. Leather armchairs are grouped around a massive fireplace, and oil paintings hang between elaborate sconces that cast warm light over everything.

"Not quite the nest of bones and cobwebs you were expecting?" Torrin asks, amused by my obvious surprise.

"It's beautiful," I breathe, trailing my fingers along the spines of leather-bound books. Some of the titles are in languages I don't recognize, alphabets that look more like artwork than writing.

"I've had centuries to collect," he says. "Books are one of the few human creations that never grow tiresome. Your kind may be ephemeral, but your stories..." He picks up a volume, handling it with a softness I wouldn’t have expected from him. "Your stories are immortal."

"Is that why you read my work? Looking for immortal stories?"

His smile is knowing. "I read your work because it calls to the darkness in me. Because somehow, without ever having known a real monster, you understand us. Understand the hunger, the need, the eternal dance between predator and prey."

"And now?" I ask. "Now that I do know a real monster?"

He sets down the book and stalks toward me with fluid grace. "Now you're becoming something far more dangerous than just a writer of dark tales. You're becoming a bridge between worlds – not quite human anymore, but not yet fully creature of shadow."

"Is that what's happening to me? Why everything feels different? Why I can sense things I never could before?"

"You're awakening," he says, circling me slowly. "The darkness in your blood, in your soul, is responding to mine. Like calling to like."

"The man you killed," I say suddenly. "The vampire. Is that why he was watching me? Because he could sense this... awakening?"

Torrin's expression dims. "Yes. Young ones are often drawn to humans on the cusp of transformation. Like moths to flame." His hand slides into my hair, gripping firmly. "But you are mine to transform. Mine to guide into darkness. Mine to break and rebuild."

I should protest this possessiveness. Should assert my independence, my free will. Instead, I find myself melting into his touch, offering my throat in that instinctive gesture of submission that makes him growl.

"Show me," I whisper. "Show me what I'm becoming."

His other hand cups my face, turning it until I'm forced to meet those ancient eyes. "Are you certain? Once you see, truly see, there's no going back. No more pretending this is just research for your books. No more hiding behind fiction."

"I'm tired of hiding," I admit. "Tired of pretending I don't feel this fucked up side of me growing stronger every day. Tired of fighting what I know I want ."

"And what do you want, little ghost?"

"You." The word comes out before I can stop it, raw with truth. "The darkness. The monster. All of it."

Something wild and hungry flashes across his face. Then he bends down and kisses me – not the savage claiming of before, but something slower, more deliberate. I taste power on his tongue, ancient and intoxicating. My hands come up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as heat builds between us.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glowing with supernatural light. "Your blood is singing," he murmurs. "I can hear it calling to me, begging to be tasted."

Instead of frightening me, his words send fire through my veins. "Then taste it."

His laugh is low and rich. "Not yet, little ghost. First, you need to understand exactly what you're offering. What it means to give yourself to someone like me."

He leads me to one of the leather chairs, settling me into it before taking his own seat across from me. The firelight plays across his features, making him look both more and less human.

"Ask your questions," he says. "All the ones I can see burning behind your eyes. You're a writer – you need to understand the story you're walking into."

He's right. For all my growing comfort with darkness, there's still so much I don't know. So much I need to understand before I can fully commit to this path.

"How old are you really?"

"Three hundred and forty-seven years," he answers without hesitation. "I was turned in 1677, during a great war."

"Were you a soldier?"

"A nobleman. The second son of a minor French comte, sent to negotiate treaties and instead finding eternal night." His smile is bitter-sweet. "The vampire who turned me was... less gentle than I'm being with you. Less interested in consent."

The implications make me shiver. "Is that why you're giving me a choice? Because you didn't have one? "

"Partially. But also because willing surrender is so much sweeter than forced submission. Because I want you to choose this – choose me – with your eyes wide open to what it means. I don’t want you to have regrets fifty years down the road."

"And what does it mean? What happens if I say yes to everything you're offering?"

His expression grows serious. "Pain. Pleasure . Death and rebirth. The end of everything you are now, and the beginning of something more powerful than you can imagine."

"Would I…,” I trail off, lessing my voice drop lower. “Would I have to kill people?"

"To feed? No. Not unless you want to. There are other ways to sustain ourselves. But make no mistake – you would be a predator. You would hunt. You would need to embrace everything you’d become. Darkness and all."

I consider this, trying to imagine myself as a creature of shadow and hunger. To my surprise, the image doesn't disturb me as much as I know it should.

"What about my work? My writing?"

"You could continue, if you wish. Many of our kind maintain human facades – it makes hunting easier. But your words would change, become darker still. The stories you write would be born of true pitch-black, not just imagination."

"Like they already are," I murmur, thinking of my recent pages.

"Yes." His grin gives me a glimpse of his sharp fangs. "You're already changing, little ghost. Already becoming something new. The only question is whether you'll embrace it fully or try to fight it."

"And if I fight it?"

"Then I walk away. Leave you to your safe, mortal life and fictional monsters." His eyes burn into mine. "But we both know that's not what you want. Not anymore."

He's right. The thought of going back to my old life, of pretending none of this happened, feels impossible now. Like trying to return to childhood after glimpsing adulthood's corrupt truths.

"What happens next?" I ask softly.

"Next?" He leans forward, predatory intent clear in every line of his body. "Next, I continue pursuing you. Continue nudging you toward the edge where light ends and darkness begins. And when you're finally ready – when you're desperate for it, when you're willing to give up everything for just one taste of true night – that's when I'll make you mine forever. "

"How will you know when I'm ready?"

His smile is deadly. "I’ve watched you long enough, learning who you are inside and out. I will know when you’re ready, and until then..." He rises with without effort. "Until then, I’ll wait for you to find the closure you need. To sort through everything you’ve learned and the unknown to come."

I stand as well, drawn to his movements. "And tonight? What happens tonight?"

"Tonight?" He pulls me close, one hand tangling in my hair while the other traces the line of my throat. "Tonight, I give you a taste of what's to come. Just enough to fuel your growing desire for me. Just enough to make you hunger for more."

His head dips to my neck, soft lips brushing over my pulse while one of his hands wraps around my lower back, sliding down until it cups my ass tightly. I feel the sharp scrape of fangs, not breaking skin but promising what's to come. My whole body trembles with anticipation while goosebumps pimple across my body. The heat between my legs is immediate, making my bottom lip quiver as I try to hold in a moan. He even smells inhuman. His scent is too divine to be real. I inhale him, letting my eyes flutter closed while he brings his free hand to my jaw, tilting it to expose my neck to him even more. I’m spread for him, unsteady on my feet while I wait for him to bite me.

"Sweet dreams, little ghost," he whispers against my ear, sending chills down my spine. "Write well."

Then I'm alone in my office again, gasping and trembling, my neck tingling where his fangs had rested. I reach to touch it, inspecting my fingers for blood immediately, but there is none. He didn’t break the skin. Only the lingering chill in the air and the taste of power on my tongue prove I hadn't imagined it all.

Breathless, I turn to my computer, fingers already moving across the keyboard. The words pour out of me – twisted and feral. Not fiction anymore, but prophecy.

A promise of what's to come.