CHAPTER 2
She knew she couldn’t stay on the street. The detectives would not remain incapacitated much longer and the gun shot would probably bring a 911 call from the restaurant down the block. The unfortunate boy who foolishly tried to intervene on her behalf was bleeding to death. A decision had to be made. She felt guilty, responsible for what happened to him. If she had paid closer attention she’d have disarmed the fat, idiot cop before hitting him with the Taser.
“Je suis ici pour toi. I am here for you.” She tried to comfort the young man in his pain and delirium. Living most of her life in Paris, she tended to backslide into her native tongue in moments of high stress.
“Je vais le regretter.” Knowing she would probably regret it, she made the snap decision to take responsibility for him. Without another second’s delay she scooped him up in her arms, cradling him like a child. He weighed about 165 lbs., nothing for her preternaturally strong physique. Though only 110 lbs., she could easily lift several times her own body weight.
She sped down the street, away from the restaurant and the blood-splattered sidewalk. She opted for the dark alleys, keeping out of sight as she ran flat out with the young man in her arms and her Prada heels hanging by the straps in her teeth. It was damn near impossible to run in high heels.
She reached her fourth floor apartment via the fire escape catwalk and took stock of the situation. He’d lost too much blood already and was losing more every second. She had to stop the bleeding, now. He smelled delicious, wonderful red syrup all over his shirt, and the scent raw meat. She could barely stand to be near him without feeding. Her sharp teeth came out full length, ready to sink into all that juicy flesh. She swallowed down her urges and forced herself to lean in close. Her mouth filled with venom like a dog salivating over a meal held under its nose. Might be helpful. The boy need the healing and pain-killing properties of her venom.
Forcing herself not to bite, she licked away the blood and gore to reveal his lean, well-toned chest. He had long striated musculature from work and everyday use––no iron-pumped, steroid-induced, weightlifter bulges. Not an ounce of fat on his young, sleek torso. His high cheek bones and angular features lent him a sharp, elfin look. He had light skin with dark hair and eyes, reminiscent of a Spaniard or Italian. Il est très bea. Oui, he is very fine. The gaping wound does spoil it.
The boy’s bleeding slowed, but didn’t stop entirely. Somehow he managed to gain consciousness for a few moments. His lazy eyes looked up at her, glazed and drugged. Her venom had worked its chemical magic of pain-killer-endorphin-dump. But it was not enough. A more drastic remedy would be necessary. She noticed the change in his aura, and smelled his impending death from shock and trauma. Her first aid could only delay the inevitable and perhaps make his demise relatively painless.
The only way she could see to reverse his fate was to give him her life blood, making him as she was. She hated to do it, had purposely avoided it for many years. If he survived the change, it would create an unbreakable psychic bond, bending his will to hers. She would be his master, and he enslaved––not a convenient arrangement for either party.
She knew how it felt to be enthralled and enslaved by such a bond to a master. She had hated every single minute of it. The irresistible imprint had forced her to submit to her former master’s every command, her body and mind acting according to his will.
She vowed years ago to never subject another person to the humiliation of enslavement that she had endured. Granted, she didn’t believe herself to be sadistic or intentionally malicious. Until now, she had never been willing to do this with anyone. If she was to try, it shouldn’t be without his consent. That’s how it had been with her, forced, with no knowledge of what was happening at the time. At the very least she should give him a choice before going forward.
