That’s why I know we can survive without our maker. We’ve been left to our own devices before, and we made it this far, didn’t we? The fact that Damien tried to mug a vampire and we got kidnapped by him doesn’t change anything. Anyone could have made that mistake. Vampires don’t walk around with neon signs over their heads.
Damien’s phone vibrates in my hand, startling me for a second. I can’t help but check it. It’s like a compulsion. Ineedto know he’s not getting into trouble.
It’s just Jacob, though. He sent a bunch of emoji’s. Black hearts, a devil, and a drooling face.
Eww. Did Damien send him a nude or something?
I won’t open the conversation, just in case. I don’t wanna know.
Yes, I do.
Well . . . maybe. But I shouldn’t.
The phone vibrates three more times and my eyes look at the screen on their own accord.
Thinking of how I’m gonna pierce
those pretty nipples of yours
Your blood is gonna smell
so damn good, honey
Can’t fucking wait
Shit. I don’t want to think about my brother’s nipples. God fucking dammit!
I jump off the sofa and head towards our bedroom before my mind spirals into God-knows-what. I sit on my single bed and stare at his against the opposite wall. This room is no better than the living space, with only the necessary pieces of furniture, which look like they’ve been through hell and back. It’s all empty white walls, battered and discolored hardwood floors, and ugly popcorn ceilings with dingy light fixtures that look like they belong in the ‘80s.
Why do we still share this room when there’s another one available since Ledger took off? I guess we’re just used to it. We’ve always slept in the same room. I fear that I’d feel alone if he wasn’t close by at night.
Also, we can’t know if our maker will show up again. This is his house, after all. Small, rundown, and in a rather bad part of town, but it’s been our home since we were turned. Ledger could return and act as if nothing ever happened, so we’re keeping it all just like he left it. For the most part, I hope he never comes back. As scary as it is to be on our own in this new reality, I prefer it when it’s just the two of us.
Two
Killien
Damien seems to be a damn magnet for attention. Entering a crowded room with him makes me feel small, somehow. Kind of insignificant. Silly, I know.
He strolls into the dive bar with his head up high, quickly demanding the entire room’s attention. Heads turn towards him as he cuts through the thick cloud of tobacco smoke, the constant hum of human voices almost vanishing for a second.
The way he carries himself makes him intimidating, though he doesn’t naturally look the part. His confidence somehow overrides the effect of his angelic face. The pouty lips, small nose, and doe-like blue eyes make him look like a soft doll. He’snot precisely tall, and his waist is very defined, but not feminine. Not anymore.
He used to be really skinny, but started gaining muscle when I forced him to work out with me. I did it just so that he could defend himself, since I can’t be there to protect him all the time. Now, after the vampire blood, he’s gained a lot more definition without doing much. But that seems to be the norm. I also noticed changes in my body at first.
Damien stops walking suddenly and I almost bump into him, my feet slipping on the grimy floors. I was too busy staring at the way he keeps his shoulders wide, flexing his muscles underneath the black tank top that covers nothing. He loves to wear the kind that are a bit oversized and open at the sides, basically showing everything when he moves around.
“Wanna sit at the bar or at a table?” he asks, looking at me over his shoulder with a little smirk.
“You choose.” I shrug. All eyes are on us and I can feel my hands starting to get sweaty.
Ugh. I fucking hate this.
Damien’s hair sways as he faces the crowd again, spreading his scent around. Sweet and overpowering, it reminds me of the smell of honey with a slight minty undertone. The humans that stand close by pick it up just as much as I do, even if they aren’t truly aware of it. I follow him to the bar and watch him hop gracefully on a scuffed wooden stool, performing for the small audience that surrounds us. I don’t know how he manages it, the fucker. It’s like they’re all hypnotized by him.
I don’t have to hop on the stool, fortunately, so I just sit next to him, pretending that I don’t notice the intensity of the stares. Some eyes have decided to set on me now, which only makes me more uncomfortable. I adjust my black T-shirt to make sure it’s covering the small of my back, and force my shoulders back.
I’m usually not insecure; I left that behind in my childhood years. I’m used to being responsible and acting with as much confidence as I can muster. That has helped me a lot through the years of hardship, since we ran away from Salt Lake County. It’s just this new version of my brother that makes me feel awkward, I think.
