As I approach my house, the grass glints like crushed glass beneath the moonlight, frost clinging to it in pale clusters.
Fuck, this is beautiful, too.
Great. Next thing you know, I’ll be crying over SPCA commercials and humming Sarah McLachlan like some broken-souled suburban mom.
A rough growl rumbles in my chest as I step forward, cursing every blade of grass that makes my lawn look like a goddamn 1996 Bedazzler disaster.
When my feet hit the front porch, I notice an unfamiliar sleeping bag blocking my path.
Did I forget to dispose of something?
I distinctly remember tossing the possessions of my last meal into the river.
Maybe it’s just kids mucking about.
Although, when I think about it, I have found a few other items on my porch recently.
I’m sure it’s nothing.
Existence is fucking strange. So some wayward human junk won’t keep me up at night.
I place the sleeping bag just inside the front door, then move through my house, flipping on the lights as I enter each room. I can see in the dark, but electricity is a treat, and I use it unsparingly.
With a heavy, unsettled sigh, I stomp up the stairs to my bedroom, grab a pair of sweatpants, then drag my grumpy self into the ensuite bathroom.
I quickly strip off my dark suit and drop my boxer briefs to the floor. My gaze meets the steel-grey eyes of my reflection as I run my hands through my short, jet-black hair.
I crafted this body with precision, sculpted every inch for strength, for survival, for dominance.
But the tattoos?
Those were never my choice.
I considered removing them, but something tells me this would be unwise.
A few centuries ago, when I began mingling with underborne society, I learned one thing for certain—they aren’t just decoration. They mean something.
During one wild night with two very enthusiastic verdalora, I learned tattoos correlate directly to an underborne’s or erevald’s ability to shift. While one had her mouth wrapped around my cock, the other rode my fingers, whispering that she’d never seen so many tattoos on an underborne. Most only have one—a feather, a horn, a fang. Some symbol of the beast they carry.
I’m covered in them.
Considering I’m neither underborne nor erevald, I had no idea if the logic applied to me, but it made a certain kind of sense.
She said I was something rare. Something powerful.
I shoved my cock down her throat before she could say it again.
I didn’t need meaning. I needed release.
The other one reached for my chest, ready to worship the damn ink, like it was sacred instead of a fucking curse.
I grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the wall before she could open her mouth.
The clever little nymph moaned. Of course she did. They always do. Doesn’t matter how hard I fuck them, how deep I force it down their throat—they always want a piece of the monster.
The women from that night are already blurring in my mind, fading into the countless others I’ve used and discarded.
But her? She lingers like a burn I can’t soothe.
