Page 35 of Losing The Vampire King

“I want to look at you this time,” I tell her. “I want to look at you all the time. You are so beautiful, and you are all mine.” My hand caresses her cheek.

“All yours,” she nods, taking my finger and sucking on it gently.

“Fuck, Bianca…” I groan, as the tip of my cock finds her hot, wet entrance again, and I slam into her desperately, promising her everything she could ever want.

Chapter Nineteen

Bianca

“Do you think everything will be alright?” I wonder, gazing out the window.

“It’s Edmund,” my mother reminds me. “Of course, it will be alright.”

I sigh. I have to admit, I didn’t like the idea of him taking Kano and a few others to go and scout a nearby skin walker compound that seemed to have popped up unexpectedly. I know why he did it. He wanted to make sure that it doesn’t have something to do with Gala. He doesn’t want to risk having her around. Neither do I. But I’m still worried. So many things could go wrong.

Suddenly, I have a desire to ask my mother about something, something that we haven’t really been talking about a lot, because I saw that it brings her much pain. But I want to know. I deserve to know.

“Mother?” I call out to her. She seems to know immediately that I have something important on my mind.

“What is it, darling?” she asks me, taking a seat on the couch.

“Do you hate them?” I wonder. “The skin walkers, I mean.”

She tilts her head a little as she looks at me. She obviously wasn’t expecting this question, or at least, she wasn’t expecting it formulated like that. I guess the very formulation of the question isn’t that important. It’s the essence that counts.

“It would be easy to hate them,” she surprises me with her answer. It is still difficult for her to talk about this, but I appreciate her willingness to do so. “It would be like making it into an obligation of sorts, like vampires hate skin walkers. Theirs is a fight that has been going on for centuries, and it will probably continue to be like that indefinitely. Nymphs were never in such a war with anyone.”

“If you were, it would have been easier to hate them, no?” I ask.

“Hatred is a normal reaction when someone does something horrible to you,” she explains. “In my case, they stole my loved ones from me. They murdered one and kept the other one, leaving me for dead.”

Her story is so painful. I can’t even imagine what that must feel like. Curiosity is eating me up alive, but I can’t ask of her to revisit that day. Then, she surprises me by continuing the story on her own, without even being asked to.

“I know you wish to find out what happened to us,” she tells me. “I know I told you about it before. I told you little snippets of what happened, those parts which were not the most painful to retell. But I knew that I would have to tell you the entire story one day, and I guess today is as good as any other day.”

“You don’t have to,” I urge, taking a seat next to her. I gaze deeply into her eyes, the same color as my own. I see so much pain in them. Hopefully, I can take some of it away and make her a little happier than she’s been in the past.

“You are a sweet child, darling,” she tells me with a smile. “But I want you to know your father. I want you to know that he was a brave man, who died protecting us.”

Something inside of me clenches. It is hard to keep myself from crying, but so far, I can manage. I’m not sure I will be able to once she finishes the story, though.

“We were passing through their land,” she tells me, her voice trailing off, as if we were traveling back into the past this very moment. “That is how it all started. No one told us not to travel there. We thought we would be alright if we meant no one any harm. We were wrong.” She pauses a little, mustering the strength to continue. I give her all the time she needs. After all, this is not a story one retells every day.

She glances out of the window, into the sunny day. I wonder if that day was like today. But I don’t ask. Then, she continues.

“We stopped to rest,” she recounts the events of that day as truthfully as she can. “It was a small rest stop, with carved wooden benches, under the shade of the nearby trees. Your father thought it would be a good idea and not giving it a second thought, I agreed. You know, sometimes I wonder if I just told him to keep driving, if we would have just driven through their territory without being noticed.”

I know what she’s considering. It is the wishful thinking scenario, where one wishes to have changed a single, seemingly unimportant decision, that now, in retrospect, could have changed everything.

“I kept wondering that for so long,” she explains. “I just should have told him no, let’s keep going, and your father would have said alright. But I didn’t. Instead, I agreed with him.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” I feel like this is important for her to hear. “And it’s not dad’s fault, either. You did what anyone would do in your situation. You couldn’t have foreseen what would happen.”

“I know,” she smiles, looking grateful for my words. “But it is in our nature, to always question what could have happened. That’s not a good thing. It tortures you too much.” She pauses a little again. I wonder if she is thinking about my father. She probably is. After all, this is his story. His origin story, and also the story of his demise. In her mind, she has to choose the words carefully.

“We can take a break,” I remind her. “If this is too difficult for you.”

“No,” she immediately shakes her head. “I want to do this. Otherwise, I’m afraid that I might not have the strength to start it again.”

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