Chapter 63: 63
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Soren lowers his eyes further, sooty lashes brushing against the alabaster of his cheek. A small smile plays on his face, as if musing over the fact I had actually called him a 'gentleman'- albeit in mockery.
"Certainly. Naturally, I had to move us, you were still dreaming, I was getting closer to ripping apart your friend by the second with all the nonsense he was shouting in my mind," Soren sighs, and presses his fingers to his temple. "Such a pain, your little friend is far too protective of you, I was not going to hurt you, anyway," he mutters, brows drawing together in a fleeting pain, a look of anguish flitting onto his face. I eye him cautiously, fingers clenching and unclenching around the sides of the chair in an unconscious effort to keep myself thinking straight. I don't think I have ever seen him so… unhinged.
"Well, that's…" I think for a moment, grasping for the words. "Interesting. But it doesn't explain why you have been looking like you want to drain me for the past ten minutes- especially considering you just said you don't want to hurt me." I press, my tone a little blasé. I raise my finger to point at him, twirling is accusingly.
"Not very truthful of you, hm?" I say, flashing him a toothy smile. I have gotten so used to that look by now- the one of blazing hunger, pricked with lust and a beautifully zealous wanton, that it is barely concerning any more. I suppose that says a lot about me.
Soren chuckles to himself, flashing a pair of needle-like fangs as if just to show me the power he wealds, to tempt me into thinking what those fangs might to- for better or worse. It is a trap I can hardly help but fall into. My eyes linger on the softness of his lips, his fangs, and for a moment I let myself wonder what it would feel like if he sunk them into me, to feel his teeth puncture the tender skin of my mortal flesh and- in the last second of my fragile breath- feel my life ripped away by a creature who is just as deadly as he is beguilingly handsome. I shudder.
"I would imagine you would quite enjoy it," he says, rising now as he pushes back loose curls of midnight hair from his face, demonstrating the silky smooth movements I had grown so used to seeing. I frown at him, glaring up as if to say: Stop getting in my head.
All this simply earns me another honeyed laugh.
"Even if we don't glamour you, a vampire's bite is…" he runs his finger of the rings on his hand carefully, contemplating the word carefully in his mind. "Addictive."
A perfect predator indeed, I think numbly to myself, and rise with him. I am not about to become a sitting duck for whatever plans he has been mulling over- good or otherwise, my training as a divinist has taught me as much.
Suddenly my eyes catch a glimmer of silver through the dimness of the room, a faint twinkle of hope in case things go sour, leaning up against the ashen remains of a long dead fire. My sword.
If I could reach it, just for protections sake, I would be better off than I am now.
But I can't imagine how well that would go down with Soren.
The Scarlet Prince begins to pace between the two couches as he shrugs off his fur coat, frown deepening, contemplating, thinking. Then he halts for a second, just for a second, before striding purposefully to an oak carved cabinet on the other side of the room. With each step he takes, the tenseness in his jaw becomes infinitely tighter.
"You see, Serena darling," he says, throwing open the cabinet with enough force to make the lines of wine bottles shake in their stands, threatening to spill their liquid red contents draining all over the floor. I wince at the suddenness of the sound. "I haven't drunk fresh blood for days. And when I get angry, the only way to alleviate such a burden, is simply to drink."
Frustrated, he pops off the cork topper of one such wine bottle labelled 'sanguis de flumen ancilla' and materialises a glass out of the air, pouring himself a generous serving with an agonising slowness that makes my skin crawl. He takes a long sip. "You are about as tempting as a forbidden sweet is to a little boy. They know they cannot have it, and yet this only makes them want it moreso. Believe it or not, I am trying very hard not to drain you, because I do not want to hurt you," he says, swirling his glass and taking another sip, licking his lips as he lets out a gruff moan of satisfaction, savouring the taste on his tongue.
Slowly, very slowly, I edge a little closer to the sword, not daring to take my eyes off him.
"And what of the dream I had? About the souls? What am I supposed to do with that information? You are telling me you have one of those souls?" Another sip. With the subtlety of a lion stalking its prey in the thick grasses of the plains, I edge closer to the sword.
"Patience, little dove. Let me drink. Or would you rather this blood be yours?" he asks, eyes shimmering, perhaps with hunger, or maybe with intolerance, tapping the glass with a careless flick of his black nails. I purse my lips shut, sealing my answer from him. The blood he is drinking isn't fresh. It would quench his thirst, certainly, but it would not sate his hunger, especially not given how unstable he looks. This is dangerous.
Very dangerous.
And I love it.
I inch a little further, an unspoken rhythm forming between us. He drinks, I move. Drink. Move. Drink, move. Like a game of cat and mouse, a deadly, fantastical game between two creatures who should never be together, and yet somehow, are never seen apart. Adrenaline spikes in my blood, quickening the breath in my lungs, and filling me with the reckless abandon as I drive myself slowly backwards. And I wonder silently to myself in that moment, watching him drain his glass with the hungry fevour of a starved animal on its first catch of prey, if he realises the game I am playing too. If he is letting me get close to the sword, like the cat who is letting the mouse scuttle hopefully back to its home, readying itself to snatch away its hope and it's life before it can ever fully reach it. A cruel tragedy.
The warmth of the dead embers radiates behind my back, raising a shiver up my spine. Close now. My hands fumble behind me as I search as discreetly as possible for the sword, grasping thin air again and again, lashing my with waves of disappointment and unquenchable frustration. Then, my fingers brush past metal.
My sword. I clasp it firmly. Relief rushes through me in a tidal wave, easing the panic in my heart to a gratifying numbness, my breath slowing in synchronisation to the wide erraticism of my heart. And you know, perhaps that feeling would have lasted longer. Yes, maybe I would have even had the strength to draw my sword, had there not been one prevailing factor.
Him.
His wine glass shatters behind me in one swift burst, coating my hand and the side of my dress with the coppery tang of aged blood, and spraying my pale skin with angry speckled red blisters. In one swift movement, he crosses the room and captures my chin in his hand, forcing my gaze to align with his. In that moment, looking into his eyes that swirl with red and gold and a deep angry black, I remember the distant words of the councillors, how they warned me about the vampires all those years ago.
You must be afraid, your life depends on it.
Yet facing this creature, this terrible, fantastical, monster as my sword slides from grip, slippery with blood that is not my own, I think perhaps I was never meant to be afraid to begin with. That this fear, this primal, instinctive fear, was devoid from my body from the very start.
"A valiant effort, little dove, a second more and you might have been able to draw that on me," he coos mockingly, thick, crimson blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, pooling around his chin and then, finally, dropping. I smile widely. Soren leans in, and I catch the sickly sweet smell of copper on his breath, his face so close to mine that- if I had the daring, I might have pressed myself forward and pressed my lips flush to his. He returns my grin. It's a wicked monstrous smile, the picture of death and decay, but beautifully, tragically evil.
"What happened to not being afraid of me, hmm?" he asks, tilting my head a little higher, his eyes scanning over the soft planes of my face. I flash him a smirk.
"I'm not afraid, you are still as harmless as a puppy," I retort, and he narrows his gaze in response, perhaps hearing the soft beating on my heart in my chest, faint, delicate, but wholly unafraid. He licks his lips.
"Your action's never cease to amuse me," he whispers, a dark chuckle arising from his crimson stained lips as he kicks away the sword like it is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His free hand draws circles on my waist, trailing down the sides of my body and dancing over my clothed skin, eliciting a wonderful shudder to run through me.
"I suppose you wanted to kill me with that sword," he adds, lifting my head further under his clawed nails. There is humour in his voice, humour underlined by a venomous undertone, a warning.. Do not mess with the Scarlet Prince.
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Soren lowers his eyes further, sooty lashes brushing against the alabaster of his cheek. A small smile plays on his face, as if musing over the fact I had actually called him a 'gentleman'- albeit in mockery.
"Certainly. Naturally, I had to move us, you were still dreaming, I was getting closer to ripping apart your friend by the second with all the nonsense he was shouting in my mind," Soren sighs, and presses his fingers to his temple. "Such a pain, your little friend is far too protective of you, I was not going to hurt you, anyway," he mutters, brows drawing together in a fleeting pain, a look of anguish flitting onto his face. I eye him cautiously, fingers clenching and unclenching around the sides of the chair in an unconscious effort to keep myself thinking straight. I don't think I have ever seen him so… unhinged.
"Well, that's…" I think for a moment, grasping for the words. "Interesting. But it doesn't explain why you have been looking like you want to drain me for the past ten minutes- especially considering you just said you don't want to hurt me." I press, my tone a little blasé. I raise my finger to point at him, twirling is accusingly.
"Not very truthful of you, hm?" I say, flashing him a toothy smile. I have gotten so used to that look by now- the one of blazing hunger, pricked with lust and a beautifully zealous wanton, that it is barely concerning any more. I suppose that says a lot about me.
Soren chuckles to himself, flashing a pair of needle-like fangs as if just to show me the power he wealds, to tempt me into thinking what those fangs might to- for better or worse. It is a trap I can hardly help but fall into. My eyes linger on the softness of his lips, his fangs, and for a moment I let myself wonder what it would feel like if he sunk them into me, to feel his teeth puncture the tender skin of my mortal flesh and- in the last second of my fragile breath- feel my life ripped away by a creature who is just as deadly as he is beguilingly handsome. I shudder.
"I would imagine you would quite enjoy it," he says, rising now as he pushes back loose curls of midnight hair from his face, demonstrating the silky smooth movements I had grown so used to seeing. I frown at him, glaring up as if to say: Stop getting in my head.
All this simply earns me another honeyed laugh.
"Even if we don't glamour you, a vampire's bite is…" he runs his finger of the rings on his hand carefully, contemplating the word carefully in his mind. "Addictive."
A perfect predator indeed, I think numbly to myself, and rise with him. I am not about to become a sitting duck for whatever plans he has been mulling over- good or otherwise, my training as a divinist has taught me as much.
Suddenly my eyes catch a glimmer of silver through the dimness of the room, a faint twinkle of hope in case things go sour, leaning up against the ashen remains of a long dead fire. My sword.
If I could reach it, just for protections sake, I would be better off than I am now.
But I can't imagine how well that would go down with Soren.
The Scarlet Prince begins to pace between the two couches as he shrugs off his fur coat, frown deepening, contemplating, thinking. Then he halts for a second, just for a second, before striding purposefully to an oak carved cabinet on the other side of the room. With each step he takes, the tenseness in his jaw becomes infinitely tighter.
"You see, Serena darling," he says, throwing open the cabinet with enough force to make the lines of wine bottles shake in their stands, threatening to spill their liquid red contents draining all over the floor. I wince at the suddenness of the sound. "I haven't drunk fresh blood for days. And when I get angry, the only way to alleviate such a burden, is simply to drink."
Frustrated, he pops off the cork topper of one such wine bottle labelled 'sanguis de flumen ancilla' and materialises a glass out of the air, pouring himself a generous serving with an agonising slowness that makes my skin crawl. He takes a long sip. "You are about as tempting as a forbidden sweet is to a little boy. They know they cannot have it, and yet this only makes them want it moreso. Believe it or not, I am trying very hard not to drain you, because I do not want to hurt you," he says, swirling his glass and taking another sip, licking his lips as he lets out a gruff moan of satisfaction, savouring the taste on his tongue.
Slowly, very slowly, I edge a little closer to the sword, not daring to take my eyes off him.
"And what of the dream I had? About the souls? What am I supposed to do with that information? You are telling me you have one of those souls?" Another sip. With the subtlety of a lion stalking its prey in the thick grasses of the plains, I edge closer to the sword.
"Patience, little dove. Let me drink. Or would you rather this blood be yours?" he asks, eyes shimmering, perhaps with hunger, or maybe with intolerance, tapping the glass with a careless flick of his black nails. I purse my lips shut, sealing my answer from him. The blood he is drinking isn't fresh. It would quench his thirst, certainly, but it would not sate his hunger, especially not given how unstable he looks. This is dangerous.
Very dangerous.
And I love it.
I inch a little further, an unspoken rhythm forming between us. He drinks, I move. Drink. Move. Drink, move. Like a game of cat and mouse, a deadly, fantastical game between two creatures who should never be together, and yet somehow, are never seen apart. Adrenaline spikes in my blood, quickening the breath in my lungs, and filling me with the reckless abandon as I drive myself slowly backwards. And I wonder silently to myself in that moment, watching him drain his glass with the hungry fevour of a starved animal on its first catch of prey, if he realises the game I am playing too. If he is letting me get close to the sword, like the cat who is letting the mouse scuttle hopefully back to its home, readying itself to snatch away its hope and it's life before it can ever fully reach it. A cruel tragedy.
The warmth of the dead embers radiates behind my back, raising a shiver up my spine. Close now. My hands fumble behind me as I search as discreetly as possible for the sword, grasping thin air again and again, lashing my with waves of disappointment and unquenchable frustration. Then, my fingers brush past metal.
My sword. I clasp it firmly. Relief rushes through me in a tidal wave, easing the panic in my heart to a gratifying numbness, my breath slowing in synchronisation to the wide erraticism of my heart. And you know, perhaps that feeling would have lasted longer. Yes, maybe I would have even had the strength to draw my sword, had there not been one prevailing factor.
Him.
His wine glass shatters behind me in one swift burst, coating my hand and the side of my dress with the coppery tang of aged blood, and spraying my pale skin with angry speckled red blisters. In one swift movement, he crosses the room and captures my chin in his hand, forcing my gaze to align with his. In that moment, looking into his eyes that swirl with red and gold and a deep angry black, I remember the distant words of the councillors, how they warned me about the vampires all those years ago.
You must be afraid, your life depends on it.
Yet facing this creature, this terrible, fantastical, monster as my sword slides from grip, slippery with blood that is not my own, I think perhaps I was never meant to be afraid to begin with. That this fear, this primal, instinctive fear, was devoid from my body from the very start.
"A valiant effort, little dove, a second more and you might have been able to draw that on me," he coos mockingly, thick, crimson blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, pooling around his chin and then, finally, dropping. I smile widely. Soren leans in, and I catch the sickly sweet smell of copper on his breath, his face so close to mine that- if I had the daring, I might have pressed myself forward and pressed my lips flush to his. He returns my grin. It's a wicked monstrous smile, the picture of death and decay, but beautifully, tragically evil.
"What happened to not being afraid of me, hmm?" he asks, tilting my head a little higher, his eyes scanning over the soft planes of my face. I flash him a smirk.
"I'm not afraid, you are still as harmless as a puppy," I retort, and he narrows his gaze in response, perhaps hearing the soft beating on my heart in my chest, faint, delicate, but wholly unafraid. He licks his lips.
"Your action's never cease to amuse me," he whispers, a dark chuckle arising from his crimson stained lips as he kicks away the sword like it is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His free hand draws circles on my waist, trailing down the sides of my body and dancing over my clothed skin, eliciting a wonderful shudder to run through me.
"I suppose you wanted to kill me with that sword," he adds, lifting my head further under his clawed nails. There is humour in his voice, humour underlined by a venomous undertone, a warning.. Do not mess with the Scarlet Prince.
Soren lowers his eyes further, sooty lashes brushing against the alabaster of his cheek. A small smile plays on his face, as if musing over the fact I had actually called him a 'gentleman'- albeit in mockery."Certainly. Naturally, I had to move us, you were still dreaming, I was getting closer to ripping apart your friend by the second with all the nonsense he was shouting in my mind," Soren sighs, and presses his fingers to his temple. "Such a pain, your little friend is far too protective of you, I was not going to hurt you, anyway," he mutters, brows drawing together in a fleeting pain, a look of anguish flitting onto his face. I eye him cautiously, fingers clenching and unclenching around the sides of the chair in an unconscious effort to keep myself thinking straight. I don't think I have ever seen him so unhinged. "Well, that's" I think for a moment, grasping for the words. "Interesting. But it doesn't explain why you have been looking like you want to drain me for the past ten minutes- especially considering you just said you don't want to hurt me." I press, my tone a little blas. I raise my finger to point at him, twirling is accusingly. "Not very truthful of you, hm?" I say, flashing him a toothy smile. I have gotten so used to that look by now- the one of blazing hunger, pricked with lust and a beautifully zealous wanton, that it is barely concerning any more. I suppose that says a lot about me.Soren chuckles to himself, flashing a pair of needle-like fangs as if just to show me the power he wealds, to tempt me into thinking what those fangs might to- for better or worse. It is a trap I can hardly help but fall into. My eyes linger on the softness of his lips, his fangs, and for a moment I let myself wonder what it would feel like if he sunk them into me, to feel his teeth puncture the tender skin of my mortal flesh and- in the last second of my fragile breath- feel my life ripped away by a creature who is just as deadly as he is beguilingly handsome. I shudder."I would imagine you would quite enjoy it," he says, rising now as he pushes back loose curls of midnight hair from his face, demonstrating the silky smooth movements I had grown so used to seeing. I frown at him, glaring up as if to say: Stop getting in my head.All this simply earns me another honeyed laugh."Even if we don't glamour you, a vampire's bite is" he runs his finger of the rings on his hand carefully, contemplating the word carefully in his mind. "Addictive." A perfect predator indeed, I think numbly to myself, and rise with him. I am not about to become a sitting duck for whatever plans he has been mulling over- good or otherwise, my training as a divinist has taught me as much. Suddenly my eyes catch a glimmer of silver through the dimness of the room, a faint twinkle of hope in case things go sour, leaning up against the ashen remains of a long dead fire. My sword.If I could reach it, just for protections sake, I would be better off than I am now.But I can't imagine how well that would go down with Soren.The Scarlet Prince begins to pace between the two couches as he shrugs off his fur coat, frown deepening, contemplating, thinking. Then he halts for a second, just for a second, before striding purposefully to an oak carved cabinet on the other side of the room. With each step he takes, the tenseness in his jaw becomes infinitely tighter. "You see, Serena darling," he says, throwing open the cabinet with enough force to make the lines of wine bottles shake in their stands, threatening to spill their liquid red contents draining all over the floor. I wince at the suddenness of the sound. "I haven't drunk fresh blood for days. And when I get angry, the only way to alleviate such a burden, is simply to drink." Frustrated, he pops off the cork topper of one such wine bottle labelled 'sanguis de flumen ancilla' and materialises a glass out of the air, pouring himself a generous serving with an agonising slowness that makes my skin crawl. He takes a long sip. "You are about as tempting as a forbidden sweet is to a little boy. They know they cannot have it, and yet this only makes them want it moreso. Believe it or not, I am trying very hard not to drain you, because I do not want to hurt you," he says, swirling his glass and taking another sip, licking his lips as he lets out a gruff moan of satisfaction, savouring the taste on his tongue. Slowly, very slowly, I edge a little closer to the sword, not daring to take my eyes off him."And what of the dream I had? About the souls? What am I supposed to do with that information? You are telling me you have one of those souls?" Another sip. With the subtlety of a lion stalking its prey in the thick grasses of the plains, I edge closer to the sword."Patience, little dove. Let me drink. Or would you rather this blood be yours?" he asks, eyes shimmering, perhaps with hunger, or maybe with intolerance, tapping the glass with a careless flick of his black nails. I purse my lips shut, sealing my answer from him. The blood he is drinking isn't fresh. It would quench his thirst, certainly, but it would not sate his hunger, especially not given how unstable he looks. This is dangerous.Very dangerous.And I love it.I inch a little further, an unspoken rhythm forming between us. He drinks, I move. Drink. Move. Drink, move. Like a game of cat and mouse, a deadly, fantastical game between two creatures who should never be together, and yet somehow, are never seen apart. Adrenaline spikes in my blood, quickening the breath in my lungs, and filling me with the reckless abandon as I drive myself slowly backwards. And I wonder silently to myself in that moment, watching him drain his glass with the hungry fevour of a starved animal on its first catch of prey, if he realises the game I am playing too. If he is letting me get close to the sword, like the cat who is letting the mouse scuttle hopefully back to its home, readying itself to snatch away its hope and it's life before it can ever fully reach it. A cruel tragedy.The warmth of the dead embers radiates behind my back, raising a shiver up my spine. Close now. My hands fumble behind me as I search as discreetly as possible for the sword, grasping thin air again and again, lashing my with waves of disappointment and unquenchable frustration. Then, my fingers brush past metal. My sword. I clasp it firmly. Relief rushes through me in a tidal wave, easing the panic in my heart to a gratifying numbness, my breath slowing in synchronisation to the wide erraticism of my heart. And you know, perhaps that feeling would have lasted longer. Yes, maybe I would have even had the strength to draw my sword, had there not been one prevailing factor.Him.His wine glass shatters behind me in one swift burst, coating my hand and the side of my dress with the coppery tang of aged blood, and spraying my pale skin with angry speckled red blisters. In one swift movement, he crosses the room and captures my chin in his hand, forcing my gaze to align with his. In that moment, looking into his eyes that swirl with red and gold and a deep angry black, I remember the distant words of the councillors, how they warned me about the vampires all those years ago.You must be afraid, your life depends on it.Yet facing this creature, this terrible, fantastical, monster as my sword slides from grip, slippery with blood that is not my own, I think perhaps I was never meant to be afraid to begin with. That this fear, this primal, instinctive fear, was devoid from my body from the very start."A valiant effort, little dove, a second more and you might have been able to draw that on me," he coos mockingly, thick, crimson blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, pooling around his chin and then, finally, dropping. I smile widely. Soren leans in, and I catch the sickly sweet smell of copper on his breath, his face so close to mine that- if I had the daring, I might have pressed myself forward and pressed my lips flush to his. He returns my grin. It's a wicked monstrous smile, the picture of death and decay, but beautifully, tragically evil. "What happened to not being afraid of me, hmm?" he asks, tilting my head a little higher, his eyes scanning over the soft planes of my face. I flash him a smirk."I'm not afraid, you are still as harmless as a puppy," I retort, and he narrows his gaze in response, perhaps hearing the soft beating on my heart in my chest, faint, delicate, but wholly unafraid. He licks his lips."Your action's never cease to amuse me," he whispers, a dark chuckle arising from his crimson stained lips as he kicks away the sword like it is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His free hand draws circles on my waist, trailing down the sides of my body and dancing over my clothed skin, eliciting a wonderful shudder to run through me. "I suppose you wanted to kill me with that sword," he adds, lifting my head further under his clawed nails. There is humour in his voice, humour underlined by a venomous undertone, a warning.. Do not mess with the Scarlet Prince.
