Amelie. It’s as if the name is carried by a wisp of wildflower scented air.
I bury my face deeper into her skin, trying to lose myself … in myself. My desires, my secrets, my fears. They’re all magnified times ten, drowning me in the once perfectly contained emotions that seep from the cracks of my broken soul.
I can feel the pull … the pull towards her. Beckoning me to relent and stop the charade. My whole fucking life is a charade, and I’m nothing but a puppet, dancing around like a fucking fool in hopes of some type of acceptance. Some sign that I’m more than a philandering piece of shit. More than a cold, ruthless killer.
More than my father.
“Wake,” I growl against humid skin. Within seconds, another set of hands joins us, kneading my shoulders and back. The blonde kisses my neck as she moves her body into my line of vision, offering it to me. Roughly, I grab her waist and pull her to me, burying my face in her neck and chest. Her scent, her flavor, is subtly sweet, warm, but not warm enough. Not sweet enough. Not like her. Not like…
Amelie.
This time I pause, but only long enough to part her legs and sink into her without warning. She cries out from shock, pleasure, and even a bit of pain. I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck about anything right now. The brunette positions herself over the blonde’s mouth, sating her own fiery need. She offers herself to me, and again, I take her. But her magic is waning. She’s weak. And while her body seeks pleasure, her soul is slowly dying. She sags against me, trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm and fatigue. I push her aside, digging into the blonde’s wet core with unrelenting strokes.
Just focus on this. Just this lustful act. Nothing else but this. Because it means nothing. She means nothing. And I feel…nothing.
I fuck her until she can’t take anymore, breathing nearly every drop of life from her limp body. When I finally stop, I realize she’s unconscious and eerily pale. Doesn’t matter. I pull out of her and sit on the edge of the bed, tugging at my hair, wishing like hell it would help me forget. That it would take away that urge to go to her. I don’t understand it - shit, I’ve never felt it before - but it’s there. And, dammit, it’s stronger than anything I have ever felt. Maybe even stronger than me.
Amelie. A soft whisper caresses my ears before floating into my body, sinking deep into my hollow chest.
That’s the thing about names. Once you learn them, once they’re burned into your skull, you’re forever connected to that person. You know them. You wonder if they have family or friends that care for them. You wonder if they have dreams and aspirations they wish to achieve. Wonder if anyone would miss them if they suddenly disappeared. Names give way to guilt, and guilt is a useless motherfucker that has no business in my head.
But I know her name. And, fuck me, I want to know her.
Amelie.
A knock at the door causes me to flinch, although I’m expecting it. I always expect it. Nothing surprises me anymore … nothing until her.
“Enter,” I rasp in a hoarse whisper, not bothering to look up to see who it is. I don’t need to; I already know.
“Ready?” a deep, haunting voice asks. If he wasn’t my cousin, even I would be a little spooked.
I lift my head, almost tensing at his bright red eyes and menacing sneer that showcases a mouthful of razor sharp teeth. Years ago, Cyrus was known for his adventurous, borderline suicidal, zest for life. He never backed down from a challenge, and at 6-foot-5, he didn’t have to. He was a mountain of a beast and unstoppable when it came to the things he wanted.
That was before…before the accident. The accident that claimed his life and left us with mere seconds to decide his eternal fate. And when Dorian decided that he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to our family, he turned him. Turned him into the monster that stood before me today. A vampire.
Cyrus, of course, was a proud man, and less than pleased with the decision. Living out his days as servant to the Dark was never his plan. He would rather have died. But when you live your life making enemies and not giving a damn who it affects, you cling to the ones you truly care for. Cyrus was one of those people. We had grown up together, and Dorian valued his presence in our life just as much as I did. We needed him. Letting him die wasn’t an option.
“I’m done,” is all I manage to say.
Cyrus nods before swiftly crossing the room. He stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at the ghostly pale, naked bodies strewn across it. He turns to me and narrows his startling, blood red eyes.
“What did you do?”
I shake my head and look at the floor. “Went a little too far. I don’t know … I don’t know what got into me.”
He nods and jerks the blonde towards him by her ankle before slinging her virtually lifeless body over his shoulder. “I’ll handle it.” Then he does the same with the brunette, holding them both effortlessly as if they weigh next to nothing. He turns just as he hits the doorway, inhaling deeply through his mouth, no doubt tasting the air. Tasting fresh, live blood. He takes a step back into the room. “And her?”
I force my eyes towards the dark corner of the bedroom, where Amelie’s body is shrouded in shadowy night. She still sleeps peacefully on the carpeted floor. I’ve even placed a pillow under her head and covered her with a quilt.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Leave her.”
Cyrus narrows his crimson eyes and frowns like he doesn’t understand. But I match his glare; mine even more menacing and cold. It screams of hostility and the promise of violence. It dares him to challenge my authority.
“Very well,” he mutters. Then he’s gone, the soiled sheets the only reminder of my guests for the evening. I rip them from the bed and hastily replace them with fresh ones, determined to forget the lives that were so greedily taken tonight. I know those girls won’t live. Cyrus will drain them and then dispose of their bodies. He’ll clean up any evidence that they were even here. He’s done it before for me, even for Dorian.
Amelie deserves better than that. Better than having the life sucked out of her soul before being drained of every drop of her blood. Better than being discarded in an abandoned alleyway, made to look like just another cracked-out Quarter whore with a syringe jabbed into her pale arm.
Still, I know that better is not me. I’m not the one to give it to her - I can’t. Better is not in my nature. And feeling like this - so drawn to her, so completely vulnerable to my conflicted feelings - is so far out of my realm that I can’t even comprehend it.
I don’t fucking get it.
She’s human. An inconsequential, human girl that is good for nothing more than fucking and breathing. She’s disposable, just like the rest of them. I am Dark - a god amongst men. And she is nothing to me. I don’t know her. I don’t need her, and I don’t want her.
Uncontrollable laughter rings in my ears. Hell, even the voices in my head know that I’m full of shit.
I mindlessly cleanse myself of the scent of sex and cheap perfume, determined to erase any trace of the past hours. I can’t wash it all away though. The guilt, the shame remain. I can’t run from my Achilles heel.
Before I know what I am doing, I am crouched beside Amelie’s sleeping body. She breathes deeply, her body perfectly relaxed in slumber. So trusting. I trail a finger from her cheek to her collarbone, feeling the slight burn that lights my fingertip with tiny gold sparks. I saw it the first time I touched her, but concealed it from the rest of my men. They knew she was different, they just didn’t know how different. And how devastating her eccentricity could be for our kind … and for me.
I know what she is, and she knows what I am. Because of this revelation, there’s only one solution. Only one conclusion to this tragic tale that has only just begun.
I will kill her.
Sunlight kisses her lips and caresses her cheeks, before warming her eyelids. I watch with rapt attention as the brilliant heat flushes her translucent skin before slowly parting. She blinks rapidly, then rubs her weary ey
es with the back of her hand. Then, as lithe and graceful as a cat, she stretches her arms above her head and yawns, a raspy, sultry sound rumbling her throat.
“Well, good morning, love,” I smirk, my voice as smooth as silk.
Shock pries open her tired eyes and she tries to scream, but fear has stolen her breath. It wouldn’t matter. No one would hear her cries. Nor would they care.
“Whe … where am I?” she stammers.
I look on either side of us. “Well … this is what you’d call a bed. You know, some people like to sleep on them. Even fuck on them. I prefer the latter.”
Amelie narrows her eyes and purses her full lips. “I know that. How did I get here? And what did you do to me?” Pulling the comforter up to her chin, she shifts to the edge of the bed.
“I obviously put you in bed - my bed. And I haven’t done anything to you. Not yet, at least.” I move closer to her, and watch as her eyes widen, taking in the sight of my bare chest. “And if I wanted to see what was under that nightie, believe me, you’d be naked and spread eagle right now. And if you’re lucky, my tongue would be buried deep inside you.” I tug at the covers just to rattle her further, and she doesn’t disappoint. A slow smile spreads across my face.
“You’re sick.”
“I’ve been called worse,” I shrug.
“You’re a disgusting, perverted piece of shit.”
“Worse than that, too.”
Her bottom lip trembles and she quickly tucks it away between her teeth. “What do you want from me?”
I finger the delicate fabric of her satin nightgown. The image of me ripping it off her flashes in my head, and warmth sinks into my abdomen.
“For now…I want you to tell me who sent you.”
Amelie turns to me and frowns as if I’ve just slapped her. “Who sent me?”
I smile. Not my usual panty wetting grin that makes chicks weak in the knees. No, I give her the one that lets her know how fucking crazy I can be. The one that tells her that I will rip her limb from limb just for the fuck of it. The one that shows her just how evil I truly am. How Dark I am. If she was unsure of what I am capable of before, there’s no mistaking it now.
Amelie swallows, the annoyance in her expression wiped clean and replaced with inimitable fear. She sees me for what I am: a monster. Vile, disgusting, ruthless. The stuff nightmares are made of. And here she is, sharing a bed with the epitome of sin. Not even her innocence can save her.
“No one sent me,” she states with unwavering conviction.
I move in closer, so close that I’m surrounded by her scent. So close that I can feel the heat of her body wash over me and count every one of her precious heartbeats.
“Oh?” I smirk with a raised brow. “No one sent you yet you just happen to know who I am? As if it’s public knowledge?”
Desperation lights her eyes, the unusual color growing brighter, hotter. “I swear no one sent me.”
Before she can take her next breath, I am on top of her, pinning her body underneath mine. She can’t move. She can’t speak. She can hardly think. All she feels is me, dominating the very air she rapidly breathes.
“Now, sweet girl, I’m going to ask you one more time before I rip that pretty little head off your shoulders. Who sent you?”
She shudders, her mouth agape in horror. I know what she sees when she looks at me. Eyes so cold that they’re almost opaque. White, gleaming teeth that now appear as razor sharp fangs. Pale, ashen skin that speaks of old Voodoo legends told around the fire, warning children of the dangerous, evil creatures that thirst for their souls.
She sees me, and I allow her. Maybe for shock value, or maybe because I know she’ll never survive long enough to confirm the legends of her people. But I let her take it all in … the nightmare that is me. The Dark One that needs to kill her … yet wants to own her.
“Please … I swear,” she rasps through trembling lips. “No one. No one sent me.”
I release a hiss between clenched teeth. “See, I don’t believe you. Now you can either tell me the truth, or I will be forced to resort to more … carnal … forms of persuasion.” I bring my face closer to hers, so close that we share the same breath. “And I really don’t want to do that. Such a pity for that pretty face to go to waste.”
Tears sprout at the corners of her eyes and slide down the sides of her face. I don’t even try to resist; I can’t. I lean forward and lick the salty moisture, tasting the mixture of her sweet skin and tears. When shudders rack her frame, I look down at her through my euphoric haze and smile. “You want me to torture it out of you, huh? You want me to pop that sweet little cherry and fuck you until the point of agony. Don’t you? Because you are a little whore. You are all lying, scheming whores. Maybe I’ve been too lenient. Maybe you only respond to pain.”
Her frightened eyes widen as my hand wraps around her slender neck, applying just enough pressure to let her know that I’m serious. She won’t win this. There’s no escape. I can and will kill her, no matter how badly I want her.
I close my eyes and suck in a breath. Fuck … the feeling of her body beneath mine sheathed only in thin satin, her scent so potent it’s damn near palpable, the taste of her tears…
How can I resist her? How can I not want to rip her flimsy nightgown off her and sink into her for hours?
I shake the thoughts from my head and tighten my grip. “Tell me,” I growl. I’m angry - with her for being so fucking enticing and with myself for being so weak. I can’t let my father be right about me. I am a Skotos, goddammit. Mercy isn’t even in my vocabulary.
“No one! I swear it! On my life!” she cries hoarsely, the pressure on her vocal cords restricting her screams.
“Then how? How do you know me? How the fuck do you know who I am?”
Her tears flow freely, wetting my hand and her hair. I squeeze harder. “Fucking tell me now or so help me-…”
“I dreamt of you!” she screeches brokenly. Even through the garble of tears, I hear her clearly. Dreamt of me. It’s a trick - I know it is. But still, I release her neck and roll off her, huffing out frustration and … shame? No. Of course not.
“You dreamt of me?” I’m panting but not winded.
“Yes,” she whispers, refusing to meet my gaze. Her hand flies up to her neck, and she winces.
“When?”
Look at me. Please. I need to see the truth.
Finally, Amelie turns her heated amber glare on me, fear and loathing still clouding the unusual irises. She hates me, and she should. But I can’t help but feel … I don’t know … conflicted about it. She swallows and fresh tears fill her eyes. Right about now, I hate myself too.
“Since I was young. Since I was just a little girl, I have dreamt of you every night.”
“Bullshit,” is all I can say in disbelief. But I see it - the truth in those mysterious eyes.
She shakes her head in disgust and looks away, focusing on some random spot on the wall. “I wish it were. Every day of my life, I have wished that I could close my eyes and not see your face. Not hear your voice. Not have you haunting me for 10 fucking years!”
Suddenly, she turns her head and I almost wince at the look of pure hatred and repugnance on her face. “Do you know what that’s like? To have to see evil every single day? To have your nightmares replayed on a continuous loop? To be forced to know someone that makes you wish you had never been born? Because I do. I know you because I have to. Because I was cursed to in order to live. And you know what? I wish I would’ve died. How does that make you feel, your majesty? How do you feel knowing that I would rather be dead than have to see your face for one more day?”
Her words sting like a slap to the face, but I press for more. “Why do you have to?”
She turns away with a grimace as if tasting something foul. “When I was young, I fell ill. Doctors couldn’t find the root of the infection. My parents were told that I only had days, maybe weeks, to live.”
I move closer, hanging onto every w
ord, every breath. She exhales and continues, although I can see the painful memory is a struggle to conjure. “My mother’s family had certain beliefs that led them to believe I had been cursed. See, my mom denied their way of life. She didn’t want that for me. Her name was Genevieve. Genevieve Laveau.”
Laveau.
“Your mother is a witch,” I hiss, my eyes lighting with blue fire. If there’s one thing the Dark despise, it’s unnatural magic. Magic that calls upon the dead and worships false deities, disrupting the balance of nature. Amelie and her mother are direct descendants of Marie Laveau, also known as the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. We had exterminated most of the Voodoo garbage in the city over a century ago, but Laveau and her family had ways of evading us. And I’ve had one lying beside me this entire time. I should have known. I should have fucking known.
“No,” Amelie whispers, shaking her head. “She wasn’t. Maybe Voodoo was in her blood, but she never practiced. At least, not when I was around. Doesn’t matter anyway - she’s dead.”
“She sacrificed her life to save yours,” I say, trying to piece together the story.
“If only it were that easy.” Amelie’s voice is thick and strained with emotion. “One night, a woman came to me at my bedside in the middle of the night. I don’t remember much, just that she was beautiful and kind. And that I felt oddly at peace with her presence. She was … like a dream or a ghost, but I wasn’t afraid.
“She said that I would not die yet - that it was my destiny to do a great and remarkable thing. Something necessary that would aide in the safety of our world. I didn’t understand then, and honestly, I still don’t. I didn’t stop her when she cupped my face and smiled down at me. Then…something crazy happened. I know it sounds insane, but she started, like, glowing in the dark. She was as bright as the sun - so bright that I thought it may blind me. And then, she was gone.”
Nikolai: A Dark Light Novella (Dark Light #2.5) Page 3