Page 4 of The Salvation

MERIKH

Blood isthe ink of our being.

Each drop is like a musical note. And I hold the notes of millions in my being. Notes I hear, drops I taste to this day.

Millions of ghosts plague the fabric of my mind, their silent screams haunting my every waking thought. Never more powerful than when I come home. Home has become a relative term.

If one drop is a note, one taste of hers is a whole damn symphony. The unsung symphony of the soul serenading me into those fleeting moments of bliss when I’m buried inside her—cock and fangs. She is the only one who may quiet the demons. Even they know how much she wants to play with them, accept them, love them.

But I’ll never love her the way she needs. I’ll give into the dark side of my monsters every time. And seek the pain and punishment destined to follow.

The ghosts breathe down the back of my neck, welcoming me home with their mocking whispers as I carry my little doveto the Sea of Bones. My realm may exist underground, but it is vast, able to match Kyan’s with all his mountains or Mayce with all his forest territories. Mine is the only one with a small sea, one where the origin gods spilled their blood into the waters, transforming them into sources of healing as all other realms hold.

Passing beyond the ruins bordering the private shoreline, which belongs to me, I exhale. A small relief the ghosts cannot follow beyond the ruins.

I take a moment to breathe in the scent of the cold mist hovering upon the surface like an eternal black shroud. The waters are black as ink—any borders fading into the distance, considering the Sea of Bones extends for thousands of miles. Gnarled trees with roots roaming the ground like skin peeled away to show the veins line the shore's edge. The damp chill of the wind drifts all around us, playing with the ends of Quintessa’s hair.

Thanks to my restored powers, I know just how weak she is...and how long she will last before she requires healing. Despite her resilience, her stubbornness, and her fortitude, she is still delicately and achingly human.

A human I do not deserve.

The ghosts taunt me as much as I forsake them, dismissing them here but unable to cast out their voices from my mind. My endless nightmare, from which Kyan and his Shadow alone gave me a reprieve. But Quintessa is more than a reprieve, more than an escape.

Carefully, I tilt her back, admiring how her hair falls upon my arm, pulling her head to arch her neck, exposing the tender curvature of her throat. Her full heart-shaped lips part in sleep. The skin of her face, throat, and collarbone, bereft of ink and scars, is soft as gossamer. Not as soft as her breasts, I smirkto myself but carry her to the shoreline when I sense her pulse slowing.

Resting her upon a bed of damp leaves and aged bones with my coat as a barrier, I take a moment to remove my clothing, discarding it near the trees. Not once do my eyes stray from the little queen at my feet. It’s not long before gooseflesh rises along her body while her nipples pebble from the wintry wind. With her fair skin and its artwork of ink, she resembles the gray ghost of a siren slumbering upon my dark shores. Too much of a dream for this nightmarish place. Too much life for one surrounded by death.

The waves lap at the shore, a discordant rhythm that seems mournful and melancholy.

I carry her into the cold waters, commanding her blood to warm. The bite marks on her skin begin to fade. The rosy hue of her cheeks returns. She will need to be strong for tonight—stronger than any other time. I steel my jaw. My brothers’ courts are child’s play compared to mine.

When vampires acknowledge power above all, it will take everything to maintain my claim upon her. I have no intentions of dancing around the fucking matter. Or pretending she is some trifle consort who will sit upon my lap while I brood over my court upon my throne. If I want any hope of her protection in my realm, this is what I must do.

The irony. For all their circumspection over blood purification rites and untainted heritage lines, my race still holds power upon the highest pedestal. Creatures of the night, of darkness and shadow and death.

None brought more death than me.

I will bring death to her as I have all others. And she will have no other desire, no other choice but to run from me. And when she does, she will take everything. Her blood, her warmflesh, her scars...she will take my damn brothers, my partner, the child, even the goddamned fox. Everything.

I’ll be left with nothing but the ghosts punishing me with their screams for my sins.

My sick and twisted memories set my teeth on edge. Before they drown me, I grip my little dove’s bottom and hold her in place with her legs wrapped around my waist. My muscles contract. No hesitation. I drive myself deep into her, buried to the hilt, and groan from the feeling of her wrapped around my dick. Even with the iciest waters around us, she is warm and flushed, tight and soaked, swollen—her sweet pussy pulsing and shuddering around me.

I gather her warm mouth to mine, opening her lips to taste her. No mercy, I’m ruthless in how I pound her, punishing her for the future I know will come. The vision of her running from me, stealing everything that matters, invades my mind, spurring me on to fuck her harder, deeper, stronger. I feed more blood to my cock. I quicken the blood in her system, waking her with the adrenaline rush until she’s gasping and moaning into my mouth.

She clings to my arms, fearful because she cannot swim. But she is in my realm now. She has no choice but to surrender to the waters and trust that I will carry her upon the tide.

Licking my way down her throat, I imagine the shade of blue that will grace it from my hand and how I could summon the blood to linger. Quintessa will wear my bruises for weeks if I desire. Swelling the blood flow to her cunt, so her tight pussy gushes more around me, I feel her shiver. Her inner muscles spasm, but I growl a low warning. I’m nowhere near finished yet.

I skim my nose along the soft skin of her lower neck, breathing in the scent of her blood. It’s not sweet. Not anything of the fucking sort. I’ve tasted sweet blood. I’ve tasted the blood of thousands of hosts and familiars, blood whores, slaves, offerings.

Nothing, fucking nothing, compares to Quintessa. My blackest opium.

She is the blood moon on a starless night gazing down at me while I drift upon an endless black sea.

“Merikh,” she whispers as I scrape my fangs close to her fluttering jugular. “I’m-I’m?—”

Decreasing the blood flow to her system, I pull out to the tip, leaving her on the precarious edge. She asked me to break her, to break her heart. And take everything. She fucking prayed to me.

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