Page 47 of A Velvet Kiss After Dark

With deep concern, his eyes tracked over her face before his hands cupped her cheeks to wipe away sand dust and reside. "Tabitha, can you hear me?"

She shook her head violently in denial, though she heard every blasted word he said.

For some sick reason, tears flooded her eyes, and she couldn't slow her rapid-fire breathing. Harsh breaths, short and brief, circumvented all thoughts in her brain. She had to get out of here. She couldn't die down here!

"Tabitha, slow your breathing, honey, you're having a panic attack." He sounded far too calm for her own liking, but his words were nothing to her, and there was nothing she could do to control her body's natural response to what just occurred.

Blood from that creature dripped from his hair and spilled onto her cheek dripping across her cold skin. Hyperventilating, she tried to form words, but her teeth merely chattered. It's like what she was telling her mind to do wouldn't comply with what her body needed to do.

"Babe, come on, slow your breathing with me. I'm sorry. They're dead. You did a good job." He sat up and grabbed her hand which was holding the gun with a tight grip. He had to ply each finger off the handle and wrench it from her grasp, which only made her suck in a long breath of air. He'd just taken away her only weapon.

How could you, she wanted to accuse, but her teeth wouldn't stop chattering long enough to get it out.

Again, he returned to cup her cheeks. "Babe, slow down," he said softly, his voice enigmatic like he was trying to cast a spell over her. He laid his weight atop her like a blanket and cradled her shivering body close. "It's just your body's natural response to what happened. You did a great job. You're safe now. I'm here, honey. You're safe."

Her eyes stared widely up at the midnight black sky as her breaths chugged in uneven gasps of air. Long minutes passed, what must have been a clear half an hour before she could lift a hand to curl it into his shirt. He let loose a relaxed breath finally and his weight sank deeper into her.

Pressing his cheek against hers, she was grateful he didn't look her in the face as warm tears slid down her cheeks and her breaths slowed down ever so gently, minute after minute.

Scared. She was so scared. Her heart hurt and not from the run. But it felt like a fissure had cracked inside her. Like something was broken in her heart that couldn't be undone. Like she'd never be the same.

Earthworms from Hell: A Novel by Tabitha Burke, she thought cheekily and cracked a chattering, bloody-toothed smile up at the night sky.

15

"Step on a crack, break your mother's back."

"Step on a hole, break your father's pole."

"Step on me, get squished with glee."

"Step on a goat, you can't climb the boat."

"Fish for me, food for you, eating nothing forever with glee."

"Helpless, hopeless, mongrel dog, Zeke, you've done no wrong."

"Terror, fear, and wolfs oh my, beware that which you cannot find."

"Slippery, whippery, dockety, clockety, oh poor Zeke, what little time you have-ty."

The black witch Olivia stared into the empty fireplace that her mate Ezekial dared not light her, for he'd already learned that lesson—that as soon as he lit the pyre, she'd scrub her wrist across it till blood poured forth—and vanquish him in an instant with her limitless power.

Her pupils black, nails sheared flat by the mongrel, yet naturally ebony in color, her skin bathed in pallid luminescence, Olivia fettered with rambunctious energy inside her cell. Having gone from one prison to another, she'd say she much preferred the previous one. At least there she'd had her magical concoctions of cards, potions, and illusory freedom. Of course, back then she'd still retained her "saintly" aura. However, Olivia would take illusory freedom over true purgatory any day, and so she caterwauled gaily and loudly for Ezekial to hear through her prison walls.

"Traipse over here, fall over there, by midnight you'll all belong to me!"

The man was maniacal, and she'd never accept him as hers. Dumb, filthy, werewolf. He wasn't worthy of her lips, her power, or her sexual energy.

Yet, between her pale legs blood spilled forth with her incoming menstrual cycle. She swiped the fresh blood with a pointed fingertip and dragged it across her bottom lip like a rouge-colored lip balm.

Oh, poor, Ezekial, you should have left me long ago.

Even this you cannot stop.

And, so, as the blood began to flow, she summoned forth the putrid hatred of all her might and worth, all that which the Revenant Lesther had pulled forth from her heritage and bloodline, and she dragged forth the magic like pulling a long, winding weed from the earth, allowing it to unfurl and billow up and around her. As she did so, a plume of black fog arose around her feet, then began the long climb up her legs until she was engulfed in a black haze.

A dribble of blood spilled down her naked thigh. The clothes he'd offered of various kinds stayed where he'd put them, well-kept and hung adorned their hangars. Clothes were for humans. She was not human. She was a witch. And well her mate ought to know it. And, as inside her, her womb pulsed with need for sex like a hunger, it pulled her toward him—Ezekial—her one true mate like a longing to bequeath his sword inside her until he expunged her of her fervid needs.

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