“Do you promise not to hurt her or touch her without permission? Lucifer’s balls, you’re practically steaming. Fucking gross.”
Louie’s nose scrunches in disgust, baring her jagged teeth once again.
“I can’t promise I won’t hurt her. My tastes are … a little rough. But for all the power I possess, I’ve never forced or tricked a soul into my bed. In fact, most humans beg me to fuck them. Sometimes on their knees.”
I smile again, bearing my own fangs, as she slowly backs away.
“I’m going to hold you to that, you old fuck,” Louie says as she disappears into the night.
That went shockingly well.
And look at that. I didn’t even have to kill something Aurora cares about.
That, my friends, is what we call character growth.
… Shit.
I should probably kill someone just to even it out.
I turn on my heels and head back toward the house. If she’s asleep, I’ll slip inside.
See what secrets she’s hiding.
See why she calls to me—when no one else ever has.
Ezra
This little human has me tangled, tied, and utterly consumed. I take a moment to walk around her small cottage to get my bearings and ensure there aren’t other dangers lurking in the shadows. When I’m satisfied I’m the only monster in the vicinity, I wander up to her bedroom window and peek inside.
The sweet human lies in her bed, curled up in a ball, fast asleep. Even through the walls of her home, something tugs violently at my chest, steering me toward her front door, where I shift into my Umbraeth so I can silently enter.
Once inside, I shift back to my Løkkda before I fully invade her privacy.
Her home is small and cozy.
Too cozy. Almost suffocating.
Art and band posters cover the walls. Every surface groans under the weight of knick-knacks and tchotchkes, each onewhispering something about her I haven’t earned the right to know.
It feels lived in. Loved.
In her living room, I run my fingers over her threadbare reading chair while I scan her bookshelves. So much fantasy and science fiction.
Aurora is a dreamer, which may make her more receptive to my unique composition.
When I glance at the table beside the battered, overstuffed reading chair, my breath catches.
1Q84?
I’ve never met another soul who’s read it. Not one. And yet here it is—held in her hands, resting beside her chair, the pages bent and worn with use.
Something dark curls in my chest like a thread winding tighter and tighter.
1Q84is an absolute favorite of mine. A strange thrill ripples through me at the prospect of discussing this book with the little human.
Underneath1Q84, I find another favorite,The Only Good Indians.
Of course, I enjoy the classics, but even those were new once, so it’s exciting when I encounter unique stories written by brilliant authors.
