Page 10 of Take Her to the Grave

My hands are steady as I unlock my car, my mind already composing new scenes. But these aren't for my next novel. These are for him, my dark muse, my beautiful monster. Words of shadow and hunger, desire and surrender.

As I pull away from the cemetery, I catch a glimpse of him in my rearview mirror – a tall figure standing at the gates, watching me leave. But I'm not really leaving, not anymore. Part of me stays behind in that fog-wrapped darkness, dancing with my monster, waiting for the moment when the wait ends.

And the true becoming begins.

Chapter Five

BLOOD AND HUNGER

The words flowlike blood from my fingertips, dark and rich with promise. I've been writing for hours, pouring out scene after scene. My editor would probably have a heart attack if she saw these pages – they're nothing like my usual carefully crafted romantic fantasy. These words are raw, primal, dripping with a truth I'm only beginning to understand.

What are you becoming? The question echoes in my mind, but it doesn't frighten me anymore. If anything, itexcitesme.

The cursor blinks at me expectantly, but I lean back from my desk, stretching my stiff muscles, sore from too many hours hunched over the keyboard. My office feels different now, influenced by the knowledge that he readseverything I write. Every word is a message to him, every scene a dark confession of my growing desires.

Movement catches my eye – the curtains stirring in a breeze that shouldn't exist with all the windows closed. My heart picks up speed, not from fear but anticipation.

"Are you going to lurk in the shadows all night," I ask without turning around, "or are you actually going to join me?"

"Careful what you wish for, little ghost." His voice comes from directly behind me, dripping with amusement. "I might think you're getting too comfortable with monsters."

Finally, I turn to face him. He's foregone his usual suit tonight, dressed instead in black jeans and a charcoal sweater that does nothing to hide his predatory grace. The casual clothes should make him seem more human. Instead, they somehow emphasize his otherworldliness – like a wolf trying on sheep's clothing for fun.

"Maybe Iamgetting comfortable," I say, standing to face him properly. "Is that a problem?"

His smile shows the edge of fangs. "That depends on what you plan to do with that comfort."

"What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, he gestures to my computer screen. "You've been busy. Three chapters since our dance in the graveyard. Tell me, Elena – are you writing fiction, or a confession?"

Heat floods my cheeks. The scenes I've been working on are... intense to say the least. Dark fantasies of submission and surrender, of a woman embracing her own monsters while dancing with darker ones.

"Both," I admit reluctantly. "Neither. I don't know anymore. The line between fantasy and reality is blurring more and more each day. Sometime I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not."

"Good." He steps closer, fully inserting himself into my personal space. "That's exactly where I want you – caught between what you think you should want and what you truly desire."

His proximity makes it hard to think straight. He radiates that supernatural chill I've become addicted to, along with something else – a powerful energy that makes my pulse race.

"And what do you think I truly desire?" I ask, proud that my voice remains steady.

His hand comes up to cradle my face, thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "I think you desire exactly whatyou've been writing about. The surrender. The darkness. Themonster."

"You're awfully confident."

"I can smell it on you," he says, leaning closer to inhale deeply. "The want. The need. The growing hunger that mirrors my own."

I try to maintain my composure, but it's nearly impossible with him so close. "You talk about hunger," I say, "but you haven't told me what happened that night in the cemetery. Who was he? Why did you really kill him?"

His hand slides from my face to my throat, resting there with gentle menace. "Jealous?"

"Curious," I counter, meeting him with my eyes. "You said he was watching me.Huntingme. I want to know why."

Something dangerous flashes in his arctic eyes. "Because you're mine. And some young ones need to learn respect for their elders' claims."

"I don't belong to anyone," I protest, but the words sound pathetic as they roll off my tongue..

His laugh is dark silk. "No? Then why does your pulse race when I touch you? Why do you write such deliciously dark scenes about surrender and possession? Whydo you keep coming back to me instead of running like any sane woman would?"

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