Lawrence’s nails dug into Kit’s chest, each claw cutting deep. Kit sucked in a sharp breath at the pain. “Open your eyes, or I’ll remove them,” Lawrence said. “If you choose not to look at me, I’ll make sure you never look at anything ever again.”
Kit’s eyes blurred with tears when he obeyed.
“You’re so beautiful when you cry,” Lawrence said, swiping a tear from Kit’s cheek. It was a soft gesture until Lawrence sucked his finger into his mouth, taking his time to savour Kit’s tears mingled with his blood.
Kit blinked as more tears fell from his eyes, unbidden, each one burning hot down his face. He wasn’t beautiful when he cried. He looked like a fucking wreck.
“You’re untouched, aren’t you?” Lawrence said as he gripped Kit’s waist, each finger pressing bruises into his flesh.
Kit gave the smallest of nods. There was no point in lying. Lawrence would make him tell him the truth; Kit had figured that much out already. He just hoped that it might make the monster go easier on him if he told the truth.
“Perfect. You saved yourself for me.”
Not for you, Kit wanted to scream. He almost did. Almost.
But he nodded again instead.
The smile that Lawrence gave him was all teeth. Teeth that were ripping open the skin at Kit’s neck.
He did scream, then.
ONE
Kit
Anstruther, Scotland
Present Day
Kit woketo find himself staring down at his bed, the sheet and duvet in complete disarray. He sighed before dropping to the floor and glaring mutinously up at the corner of the ceiling that he’d wedged himself into.
“I’m such a fucking stereotype,” he muttered to himself in a hoarse voice. He took himself over to the mirror, opening his mouth and checking out his throat. Red and swollen—like that time he’d contracted tonsillitis back when he was a child.
Back when he was human.
He needed to feed. But, these days, feeding was a chore. He wasn’t sure what was wrong, only that blood no longer sustained him like it should. It was bland and unfulfilling, like eating cardboard.
Regardless, Kit changed into something more appropriate for the outdoors and left the house, taking his usual route towards the coastal path, inhaling the salty air. The folks wholived in the seaside village all shared the same scent; fresh, like the sea had seeped into their bones.
Kit didn’t go for the first person he passed, or the second, or the third. He waited until he found someone walking alone: a man of middle age, average looks, and an unthreatening presence. Kit walked right up to him, stopping the man in his tracks.
“Don’t speak,” Kit said. “Don’t panic. Come with me.”
The man followed Kit down the street and then down a short lane. At this time of night, few were likely to come across them, but Kit still kept an ear out for any passersby.
“You won’t notice a thing,” Kit promised, and then sunk his teeth into the man’s wrist.
Kit knew how it felt to be hurt by the bite of a vampire, so he made it painless. He fed efficiently, drawing as much blood as possible without affecting the man. As expected, it tasted of nothing in particular, other than a hint of cabbage.
Kit let go of the man, wiping a hand over his face to clean himself. It wasn’t even worth licking the blood off. He’d shower when he got home.
“Go back to the main road. Continue on your way.”
The man did as Kit told him once again, returning to his walk as if nothing was amiss. Once he was gone, Kit sped—too fast for human eyes to see—back to his little rented house. It wasn’t much to look at, but it boasted a coveted sea view from the first floor. So that’s where he went, to the top of the house, where he perched on the armchair by the window and watched as the midnight waves rolled in.
He wrapped his arms around his knees. It might have been spring, but it was far from warm yet. Not that temperature affected him in the same way as before, but even the recent infusion didn’t heat him up. He put a hand to his throat,checking for tenderness. The blood had done the job of healing him, but he wasn’t sated.
Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever be full again. In life, hunger had been no stranger to him, so he shouldn’t have been surprised that it followed him in death. But the gnawing in his gut persisted, staying with him like an unwanted houseguest. At one point in his undead life, he’d found some level of satisfaction from feeding, a vital escape when he’d needed one. No longer, however.
