Chapter Seven
Azizi
Hunger is a terrible bedfellow when neglected for too long. It leaves one stupid with it, makes them forget things they very much should not forget.
In the end, it is my own foolishness that will be my downfall, I am sure of it. I am usually so careful, so aware. My father drilled it into me when he first brought me to his home—the importance of secrecy, of safety.
We all learned our tricks to not get caught. How to hide the bodies and cover up the disappearances. How to drain every last drop so not a single sip went to waste. How to bottle the rest to draw out the hunger until time to replenish our stores. We are careful. Cautious.
To endanger oneself is to endanger the family, so we must be vigilant, always.
But there is only so long bottled blood can last, and two months into my self-imposed isolation in my cliffside manor, my stores have run dry or been deemed unusable.
Even the bottle Jonas sent me two weeks ago has separated and congealed, left as nothing but a muddy brown sludge that gets poured down the drain and washed away.
I should have been more careful to watch my consumption, I know. I’d grown lazy at my father’s house, so used to the cellar being filled and regularly rotated and restocked. I hadn’t realized how quickly my own dwindled until Jonas’ was the only one I had left.
Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue. On the many occasions I’d lived on my own the past hundred or so years, all it took was a trip to the nearest red district for someone to traipse away with, or a word put in with certain friends who knew the kind of meal I was searching for and could get me what I needed.
But now I am too far from the city to visit often enough to keep my stores filled, and the village at the base of my mountain is too small for a few missing people to go unnoticed.
Perhaps I should thank Jonas for convincing Allard to join me in my isolation. As soon as he’d realized how low my supply had gotten, he took off in his ridiculous little motorcar for the city and promised to return in a few days with more blood.
But I was hungry, having neglected my own needs for too long as I spiraled into another painting that only ended up abandoned and thrown in the corner as all the others had been.
So, when a traveler appeared on my doorstep not long after Theodore left for the night, claiming the storm was getting too unruly for his comfort, I graciously invited him in.
I did not apologize for my loose hair and simple tea gown as I led him into the parlor, nor did I rebuff his wayward glances as I fetched some wine and a few of the finger cakes Allard made for Theodore the day before.
When his hands lingered a moment too long on mine and his fingers twisted in the ribbons holding my wrap closed, I did not bat him away.
And when I settled sweetly in his lap an hour later, I did not so much as try to stifle the moan that slipped passed my lips as I sank down on his cock and pierced his throat with my teeth.
I did not account for Theodore to rush back into the house, drenched from the downpour and searching for shelter until the storm passed.
This day was always coming, I suppose. An inevitability I wouldn’t be able to avoid.
One could hardly keep secrets when they spent nearly every day with a person, even when boundaries and rules were set.
I was foolish enough to ask Theodore to visit me more often than required, foolish enough to grow closer to him, to grow curious.
Foolish enough to let him grow comfortable in return.
I should have known better than to find interest in a human, for they were such fragile things and so easy to break.
"Lady Azizi, I apologize for barging back in, but the storm is rotten, you see, and—"
Had I not been so focused on the slowing heartbeat beneath my teeth, or the frantic puffs of air against my cheek, I might have heard him coming.
Foolish, I scold myself. He has made you weak.
When I glance over to the open doorway, Theodore is standing there, one hand on the frame and the other running through his dripping hair. He stares at me with wide eyes, his mouth ajar and tongue working like he is searching for words—or a scream.
There is no hiding what he sees, no talking my way out of this. It is all too obvious with the stranger spread out beneath me, his cock still hard in my cunt and his throat sluggishly bleeding from the puncture wounds I've left there.
My muscles tense, but I do not move, watching Theodore for any sign of what he might do.
Will he run? Will he scream? Will he beg me, plead with me, when I track him down and drain the very life from his veins?
I would prefer not to, but this village is too small and my home too precious.
I do not wish to lose it to a mob of torches and pitchforks so soon.
Do not wish to lead the stories and the rumors back to my family.
But Theodore does none of those things.
No, he watches with a familiar spark in his eyes, his gaze locked on the blood smeared across my lips. He watches it drip, and I can hear his heart thundering in his chest as he follows it from chin to navel, his breath hitching when he sees the place I am joined with the man beneath me.
He swallows. Licks his lips. Clenches his fingers around the door like it is the only thing holding him steady.
Curious.
Though he doesn't look frightened, there is a note of fear in his scent—a heady spice that lingers in the back of the throat and burns like aged whiskey. But there is something else there too, something sharper, something sweeter.
Lust. Desire. Need.
I weigh my options, consider the risk of letting him live.
In the end, my curiosity and hunger win out, and I grin at him, licking my teeth when his breath hitches at the sight. I move slowly, rocking down on the stranger's cock, stretching my body into a lovely arch that puts my breasts on display.
Distantly, I can hear the man below me grunting in pleasure or pain, I do not care which. His sounds are nothing compared to the way Theodore's breathing speeds up, or the scent of sweat beading on the back of his neck, mixing with the rainwater still dripping from him.
"Close the door, Theodore."
He follows the order without hesitation, and I tip my head back with a pleasurable moan. He looks half mad, like he is unsure why he did it, unsure why he's stepping closer and closer to the settee.
"Ah—miss, please, I am—" The voice of the faceless man irks me, and I silence it with my fingers around his throat.
He grunts, and I can smell the pain burning through him when I pull him towards me.
The change of position drives his cock deeper, and I dig my fingers into his short hair, yanking his head to the side to expose the bleeding wounds in his throat.
I dare not take my eyes away from Theodore as I lean back in and bite.
A whimper breaks past Theodore's teeth, and his legs tremble.
If not for my superior vision in the dark, I might not have seen his pupils blow wide, leaving barely a ring of gold around them in the dim light.
I may not have seen the way his mouth drops open even further, long strands of spit connecting his top and bottom lips.
He looks delicious. He looks hungry.
Though this situation might suggest otherwise should any of my family hear of it, I am no fool.
I have noticed the strangeness in the boy before.
I have seen the way he eyes Allard’s food with veiled distaste, the way he chokes it down as if forcing himself for politeness’ sake.
I see the way his cheeks grow gaunt some days and his movements sluggish and clumsy.
I see the way he stares sometimes when he believes me ignorant—his eyes lingering along the expanse of my bare shoulders, not with lust, but with something else.
He is human, of that I have no doubt, but there is something about him that is also Other.
There is nothing I want more than to know what that other is. To know what secrets lie behind those pretty eyes and those reddened cheeks. To know the needs of his heart and the taste of him on my tongue.
An idea blooms in the forefront of my mind, and I grasp at it with hungry teeth, reaching a hand out for him as I surface from the depths of my meal once more.
"Come, Theodore. Would you like a taste?"
He wants to. I know he wants to. I can see it in his face, in the way he lurches forward a few steps only to stop himself with white-knuckled hands on the nearby drawing table.
"Why do you hold yourself back?" I ask him. "You are curious, are you not?"
"I can't—" He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Droplets of rain fly in all directions, cold where they land on my exposed skin. "Forgive me, my Lord, for I am a wicked thing. I have let the Devil lure me, and I have let his perversive thoughts consume me—"
"Theodore."
He bows his head, his back hunching as he tries to ignore me.
His arms tremble where they hold him up.
"Forgive me, my Lord, for I am a wicked thing.
My thoughts have been unholy; my dreams have been unkind.
I am a sinner led astray, and I have lost the path to heaven. Lord have mercy on my vile soul."
Oh, my dearest thing. Without a thought, I release the man in my arms, uncaring as he falls back onto the sofa. The cushion bounces slightly, driving him deeper inside, but I hardly notice as I reach out for the boy before me.
"Theodore," I call to him again, grasping his fingers in mine and prying them from around the wooden table.
He does not fight me, though his eyes remain closed and I smell the salt of tears mingling with the rain on his cheeks.
I tug at his hands until he rounds the settee, pull until he stumbles onto the seat beside my prey. "Won't you open your eyes for me?"