Page 31 of Feathers From the Sky

She’s furious, and I get even harder than I already am. I haven’t seen her angry yet, and she has so much to be angry over.

She’s about to shove me, and I laugh. It took me days to come down from what her blood did to me last time, but I don’t think it’s going to take as long this time. I wonder if the more I’m exposed to it, the less it’ll affect me. Right now, I feel invincible, and she’s so fucking beautiful I want to hold her face in my hands and stare at her. But this will fade, and I’ll be hounding her for a taste once more.

I don’t know why the fuck I’m thinking about it like I’ll have it for long. Like I’m not about to hold her heart in my hands instead.

I’m still laughing, not even realizing what I’m doing as I grab her wrists. I lift them above her head and pin them to the tree behind her. Her brows furrow and her mouth drops open, affront and confusion warring.

“What are you doing, Roman?”

This is when I see it in her eyes. The look I’ve been expecting. I hadn’t realized I’d dreaded it until now.

Fear.

And itincensesme.

She’s trying to pull free, and that’s when I hear him. He’s not bothering to be quiet, knowing what I’m doing. He has to smell the blood, the sweat, the cloying arousal.

I’ve accepted my instincts on this. I’m not fucking done with her, but if anyone else touches her, I’ll tear them apart.

“What are you doing?” she asks, quieter this time, eyes darting back and forth between mine and her chin trembles. She’s fighting as hard as she can against me, and at the very least, I know she’s shaken off some of the beast that tells her giving up would be easier.

“Roman?” Desperate, her voice is getting higher, and I know Emile is listening.

I show her my fangs. Her sweet mouth drops open, plump lips still red from our frenzied kissing, but she stays shockingly quiet. Her heart is pounding so fast, I can almost taste the blood waiting for me. She breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she stares at my teeth. Perhaps she thinks she’s hallucinating. Maybe she thinks I’m insane. “Are you—are you going to kill me?” she whispers, blinking fast.

“Unfortunately for you, no. I’m not going to kill you,” I say, and I hear my uncle curse. “I’m going to claim you.” Before he can intervene, I dive forward, burying my razor sharp canines into her neck.

11

GWYN

I cover my eyes,squinting against the blinding light after being kept in the dark for hours. I smell like piss, and I’m covered in blood, and I’m breathing the fresh air like I never will again. Someone laughs, high-pitched and loud.

“Fous le camp!”

The laughing stops, and I hear Roman’s low voice murmuring something else in French.

My eyes haven’t adjusted yet, but I can tell it’s Roman who moves in front of the spotlight shining down on me. He’s adjusting the sweatshirt he’d so graciously left me, attempting to cover me up. It’s covered in my pee, the only absorbent thing in the plastic-lined trunk, and he makes a face as he tries to arrange it on me. While he’s distracted, I sit up on my elbow and grab the metal rod from beneath me, all that’s left of the jack, and grip it in my right hand. It’s the only thing he left in the trunk, and I have no choice.

“Filthy,” the other voice says, and I assume it’s the person who laughed only a moment ago. “She smells wretched.”

“Could you fuck off, please?” Roman snaps, and I hear footsteps moving away from me. I haven’t spoken yet, biding my time. I’m finally able to see better, everything coming into focus. It’s nighttime, and the tall light shining over us is the kind you see in a store parking lot. After adjusting his stupid fucking sweatshirt, Roman bends down, fumbling around with something, and I decide it’s now or never.

I scramble out of the trunk, screaming, as I take the rod to his head, his shoulders, his back, anything I can reach. Judging by his reaction, it can’t be more bothersome to him than a fly to a horse’s ass, but I do it all the same.

“Fuck, Gwyn!” he grunts, and before I can get past him, both his hands scoop me under the back of my legs and toss me backwards into the trunk. He takes the metal rod from me and throws it before bending over me. He’s standing between my thighs, and his mouth is a straight line. Those thick brows are bunched, and he’s looking at me like I’m the one who did something wrong.

“Get off me!” I scream, and he’s putting a hand over my mouth as a slow clapping sound comes from somewhere in the distance. I’m lucky he didn’t bash my head on anything when he unceremoniously threw me back into the trunk.

“Stop screaming,” Roman orders, and it’s that voice again. It’s no longer alluring, pure demand, as if I’m a child being called to task for doing something bad. I make a sound, the scream I attempt to unleash bottling up in my throat.

“Let me go,” I say, trying to close my legs and scramble away from him. I’m aware I’m half-naked and in a compromising position.

“You didn’t mind me being here this morning.” A sharp-edged smile curves the corners of his mouth.

“Is that what you want? You want to fuck me? You could’ve done that without kidnapping me!”

He laughs, and I hear a snort from his accomplice.

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