Page 99 of Her Vampire, His Ruin

It is the catalyst to my undoing, shredding me apart from the inside out.

Sunlight warms my skin between the gap in the curtains and I blink slowly, a deep ache between my legs as I push upright in bed. For a moment, all I’m able to do is drag in slow, even breaths as my body pulses in the aftermath of last night’s events.

Dorian was here.

We fucked…

As if on its own accord, my hand lifts to my neck, pressing against a tender spot there.

He bit me.

My stomach lurches, my heart skipping a beat as my body recalls something my mind is finding hard to comprehend.

Dorian bit me. He feasted on my blood.

My blood.

“It’s not possible,” I mutter, trying to convince myself that what I’d seen, what I’d experienced, wasn’t real. It can’t be.

I begin to tremble, refusing to believe what my body and mind are screaming at me to understand.

“No,” I exclaim, jumping out of bed. Yet, despite my mind on full alert, my body is weak and I stumble towards the bathroom.

On shaky legs, I push open the door to my ensuite, and walk drunkenly towards the mirror. Pushing my hair over my shoulder, I stare at my reflection, at the spot where his abnormally long canines pierced the skin.

There are no holes, no trail of dried blood, not even a bruise.

But that makes no sense. I can still feel the lingering tenderness.

My head spins, a horrid feeling of vertigo taking over me, and I have to grip hold of the vanity unit to keep myself upright. Pressing my eyes shut, I drag in more shaky breaths as my mind conjures up disjointed memories.

His moans as he drank from me.

His fingers digging into my skin.

The utter, unbelievable bliss that made my body go lax despite what he was doing.

The throb in my neck, and the deep pulls as he drank, only heightening the pleasure.

The pulse of his dick as he came inside of me.

I’d come. Over and over again.

And then the sharp, sudden tug as he removed his teeth and cursed.

I’d blacked out, waking up moments later as he cradled me in his arms, agony in his voice, grief scrawled across his handsome face, regret etching deep grooves into his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he’d muttered, pressing kisses against my forehead as he carried me back into my house.

He’d laid me down on my bed, pushing my hair off my face. His touch was gentle. Reverent. Then he dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “I am not who you think I am,” he’d said. “I’m so much worse.”

When I roused again, he was standing beside my bed, the rising dawn dousing him in a soft orange glow.

He’d hissed, stepping into the shadows of my room.

I could smell the scent of something burning.

Bile rises in my throat and I gag, stumbling towards the toilet, heaving up the contents of my stomach.