“Have you arranged the new feeding yet?” I ask.
“No, young master. I never do until three days before.”
He quakes like a terrified rodent. I growl in disappointment, my patience fraying.
I know not from whence this inquisitive impulse came, as the knowledge of his pitiful answer had already been clear to me before he crossed my threshold. Perhaps I merely wished to bring my ire upon someone, anyone. But there is no satisfaction in scolding this imbecile, for his weakness is inadequate to my anger.
“Prepare the carriage. I shall go out,” I command.
“But has the master approved of this?” he presumes to ask.
“How dare you question me?”
I storm toward him just before I feel my brain setting aflame. My hands fly to my head, clutching my hair as though I might dig the pain from my skull. The agonised groans wrenched from my throat stifle any sounds from Bayard’s running feet. The world around me fades to nothingness until only torment is left.
“Please,” I manage to grind out through gritted teeth. With just this one word, I taste the rancour of my own flesh.
The acrimonious voice of my maker speaks. “You wish that I should cease, you mewling gentis?” “How dareyoutake a single step unbidden?”
His words cut every artery, slowly—savagely—slicing through each muscle and tendon. I sink to the ground, panting with the effort not to rip my hairs out by their roots.
“I hunger,” I gasp.
“What does your hunger mean to me?” he says with a voice only I can hear.
“You deserve nothing but the dregs I deign to grant thee. You should be grateful that I let you consume the drops I deem beneath myself.”
“I do not know if I can control myself any longer,” I plead.
“You have endured centuries on less. Do not be greedy. Ask this of me again, and I shall allow you nothing for the span of a decade.”
“I shall perish.” My voice is but a whisper.
“Only if I will it so. Until then, you shall suffer. You shall wither till naught remains but a dry husk, a wretched form, made only for torment and writhing.”
“Please,” I beg. I will his words to stop cutting me, stop etching themselves into my being, to no avail.
“You shall be grateful for that which I bestow upon you, sandio,” my creator shouts. Abruptly, his voice softens. “Who else would grant you such kindness? All others deem you an abomination. Behold thyself: cowering, hideous, deformed. I alone took you in, and I alone gave you succour. Remember?” he says gently, almost kindly.
I do not want to remember the past. I refuse to. My frame involuntarily tenses with the threat of it.
“Come hither, that I may whisper of my boundless love for you,” his sickly sweet voice murmurs.
“No!” I shout, pushing my maker out of my head.
I remain there, crumpled on the floor, until the heat of the fire leeches from my body and I am left chilled and empty. I stay like this longer than I would admit, like a wretched creature trapped in purgatory. Eventually, I rise on weakened legs and glance at the place where Astaire sat mere moments ago. Or had it been hours? Perhaps even days?
I approach the bed, sliding my fingers over the familiar threads of the counterpane. His sticky seed is there, still damp and faintly warm. I lift my hand, where it glistens on my skin,then I lap every single drop off my fingers, savouring his sweet and salty essence, drawing from them even after it has been consumed, trying desperately to gather more.
There I crouch, sucking as greedily as he looked at me when stroking himself. I fall to my knees, burying my face in the fabric, inhaling his scent. I can almost see his unnaturally coloured eyes scintillating in the gloom of my chamber—blazing amber like autumn leaves left too long in the sun. I inhale deeply, imagining the cloth of the linens to be the silky softness of his skin.
I remain thus until darkness grants me release from my tormented mind, lingering till dreams claim me with their restless embrace.
X
Ishould probably be upset as I walk back to my room. Or, better yet, scared. But all I feel is exhilarated curiosity with a side of astonished disbelief. Not because Abas can seemingly use magic or because he acted so violently, but because even as strange as the situation is, I feel seen. Seen in ways I never have before.
I know, I know, I must be insane. I’ve heard it all too often throughout my life. I should be afraid, but…scars winding over a broad back, a too-pouty mouth. Obscene. Screaming. I shouldn’t care. I should stop. Stop wanting, stop trying, stop thinking. Red eyes, gleaming like a river of blood. Fuck.
