Page 9 of Dark Flame
Fuck this.
I turn and run.
Three
ALEC
She so wisely andstupidly tries to escape, though it’s taken her longer to attempt than I assumed it would.
I let her go, cocking my head to listen as she rushes down the stairs, her heartbeat thrumming. The rate it’s going is enthralling. So few things make someone’s heart beat that quickly—fear and lust being two of the most common.
Both make my fangs extend far past the gums, the urge to satisfy those parts of me elevating my own excitement as I wait a moment, granting the little Sinclair a brief head start.
ThemagicklessSinclair. That was certainly a surprise. As far as all my reports go, she has powers. Orhad, at the very least.
The front door of the house opens and shuts before I move, slowly following her scent through the house.
Her fuckingscent. Being at the distance I’ve been for days, I wasn’t graced with nearly the same amount of it until entering her home earlier, butfuck. She smells like pure sin, the ultimate temptation luring me to death. That’s what humanity would be for me: death.
Thankfully, I was wise enough to feed last night, capturing a human in the next town over, so it’ll keep me going for a few days. At the very least, until Sinclair is behind bars and the temptation passes.
I maintain my pace to be no faster than a human’s brisk walk, allowing her to get farther, knowing with every step she takes, catching her will be that much more thrilling.
At our core, vampires are hunters. Chasing prey, letting their fear tinge the taste of their blood…the only thing sweeter is the vein between a woman’s legs. The hunt is half the fun, and Miss Sinclair is appealing to the monster inside.
Outside, my hearing picks up her feet smacking against the cement on my right, so I head in the opposite direction. My night vision has her about a block away, entirely too close and easy to catch, so I slow to allow her to believe she’s winning for a short while and take a detour.
Sinclairs have always been a prideful bunch. There’s never been one who hasn’t fought me, and it’s fun to witness the second they realize they’ve lost. The light of determination that fades in their eyes right before the light of their life is snuffed.
My steps pick up.
I rub my tongue along the pointed edges of my fangs despite the fact I will not be feeding from the being who’d rob me of my abilities. They’re out because my body is responding to the hunt, the chase, and the ultimate high of soon being the victor.
Eventually, I chase her, the human neighbourhood becoming a blur of muted colours and scents until catching up, even going a few feet past her before stopping.
She slams into me, her gasp as delicious as her fear, but she quickly spins on her heel and bolts down the connected road, as though she has any chance of escape. Even with her few minutes’ head start, I still caught up, so what she’s attempting now won’t get her far enough. At this point, running will tire her out, so I’ll let her do this all night if it so pleases her.
Something shifts inside me. Aneedurging me to satisfy it—whateveritis or why it’s come.
There’s something about this Sinclair that’s different from the others, though I can’t place why I feel it at all. She hasn’t done anything to warrant the thought.
Whatever it is, it’s something beautiful.
Something…sinister. Something that makes me think Sinclair has more going on than she’d ever let slip.
I shake my head of the unwanted thoughts and notice she’s now a block away, so I run, stopping in front of her again, this time my hands latching onto her upper arms as I walk her backwards, forcing her to the nearest streetlight pole.
She gasps, her vibrant purple eyes wild as she scans the surrounding street for a saviour. No one’s coming for her, and any human she hopes to convince would be sorely mistaken. Or she will be when their heart ends up crushed at her feet.
No one’s taking my magickless, pathetic, money-making witch from me.
While she’s scanning for help, I’m studying her. Her hair, the signature mark of her bloodline, is a shade between red and orange, so representative of the flames she controls. Or, used to control. It falls in long waves around her shoulders, mussed from running. I’ve always despised the colour on her ancestors, but on this one, it captivates me. Her cheeks are rosy, puffed with her heaving breaths, calling my attention to the spattering of freckles decorating her face. A quick count has me determining exactly how many. Her eyes, a few different shades of purple—not remotely concealing her witch identity—are mixed into a colour so lovely, even I can’t help but notice the story they tell.
A story of pain and loss I find myself curious about. There are too many questions circling around this Sinclair. Why she doesn’t have her powers; why she and her parents don’t live with the Highridge Coven, the very covenherancestors began; and why she’s all alone in this human town are a few of them.
In truth, her being powerless makes my job easier. She’ll have less fight without them, making her practically human. A witch’s strength is their power, and without it, they’re nothing special. But the questions still remain.
While she’s scanning for help, trying to pull herself from my hold in a few pathetic attempts, I finish my study of her. She’s barely tall enough to reach my shoulder, and the skin beneath my grip is broken out in goosebumps, a stupid affliction from the cool nighttime fall air. They coat every part of her skin bared to me. She’s dressed in pyjama pants with little images scattered on them, and the same shirt I watched her wear to bed. It’s shapeless but taut enough over her chest to reveal nipples erect from the cool air. I tear my gaze away, ignoring how the sight sent an aching signal to my fangs, and catalogue the rest of her. There are marks around her wrists—white lines that are only visible in the dark with help of my enhanced vision.
