Page 107 of White Noise

For one blinding second, the surge fuses us.

I can feel her soul's frequency perfectly, a clear, screaming vibration that harmonizes with my own dark hunger.

I collapse against her, my skin still humming with static, the searing heat slowly receding.

I pull back slightly, lifting my hand from her wrist and breaking the physical contact, though the air between us still crackles with the residue of my violation.

I hold my breath and listen with the predatory sensors of my mind.

Even without touching her, I can still fucking feel it.

The rhythm is still there, a faint, ghostly echo of her signature lingering in the air, branded and scarred by my energy.

I have found, and mapped her

I’ve etched myself into her very fucking essence, marking her as mine.

Afterward, I stay beside her, staring at her shattered, trembling form and savoring the lingering vibration of my conquest.

She is nothing but a toy I've broken and rebuilt to my liking.

Usually, this is the point where I lose interest.

Humans make a ridiculous fucking production out of sex afterward.

Holding each other.

Whispering shit neither person means.

Asking questions they already know the answer to because apparently silence becomes unbearable the second everybody finishes.

Saga doesn’t give me any of that.

She sleeps.

I prefer it.

Her pulse is still elevated, but it begins slowing as her body settles

I rest two fingers against the side of her throat and feel the steady beat beneath skin that is warmer than mine should ever be able to understand.

One.

Two.

Three.

I remove my hand.

The rhythm remains, and my eyes narrow.

Not the sound of it.

Something else.

There are thousands of tiny electrical movements inside a human body at any given moment. Nervous impulses. Muscle contractions.

The heart forcing itself through another beat because flesh has always been desperate to keep itself alive.