Mine. Mine. Mine.
The human is mine. The word echoes around my sand-filled being as if it could possibly sate the thirst I feel for her. How I have planned on feasting upon this woman, devouring her lush body until she is nothing but sweetness and her soul burns brightly for me alone. Every rational thread holding my body together is being snipped. My thoughts turn desperate. If I do not have her, surely this time, I will finally die. If I do not complete our bond, I will die without knowing what it means to be full, to be truly sated and to want for nothing.
She won’t run from me. I won’t let her. And if she does, I will chase her. This time I will have my mate.
The lights on Main Street are reminiscent of the gas lamps that once lined the street, the warm yellow glow just breaking up the darkness of the stormy night. They glow so faintly; the beasts of the night can so easily slip from a building to an alley to a secret alcove in this district. Yet another reason why I needed to find my human. She does not fear the dark, but she does not know what goes bump in the night. She cannot protect herself from man or monster.
I walk beneath the scaffolding that is being constructed across the street from the library at the armoury. It is ghastly but necessary to keep the historic district in working order for the wealthy and for the tourists, even if it is an eyesore. I push my soaked hair back and take a moment to calm myself before I turn to cross the street.
My composure breaks.
She is here. Standing out in the rain, in the white glow of the new Ravenscroft Somnium Library sign, my mate stares into the abomination I was strong-armed into adding to my library by the city council. For as much as my name is on the building and my “families” history with it, it is still partially funded by Gwenmore taxes. Waves of need crash into me as I am pulled towards that light now, to her, like a moth to a flame. Decades of control slip through my fingers like my sands, and I stumble up the pavement next to her.
“Can I help you find something, darling?”
I echo my first real words to her. Then spoken with hints of missed derision at someone interrupting the quiet of my sanctuary, but now they almost sound hopeful. As my sands prickle against my skin, I remind myself I can’t spook her. Not now that we are so close.
Say me, my thoughts plead,say you are looking for me, my sweet little morsel.She blinks slowly, coming back from whatever spell she is under. The lost expression on her pale features is replaced with a heated blush, her gaze caressing my features slowly. Soft, rosy cheeks that I can still picture flushed and hollowed as she sucked the ichor from my fingers.
“I-” My darling yawns, interrupting whatever she intended to say.
“Let’s go inside.”
Efficiently, I usher her to the back, away from the plainness of the new amenities and into the comfort of my space. My gaze is solely focused on her and getting her away from everyone. There could be a fire and I would only notice how the warmth of the flames makes her skin glow. She moves slowly but surely. My hand rests on her low back and the chill on her skin has me urging her a little faster. Everything in me is suddenly pushing me to care, protect, provide.
In the furthest corner of the library are my office and the stairs to the basement archives and tunnel system. Without thinking, I swiftly break the lock to my own office and guide my human to sit down in the plush chair in the corner I keep for myself. Her thighs squeeze between the rigid arms, and I cannot think of a time when I have been jealous of furniture, but I am. How I long to be the object holding her up, moulding her plush form to fit my desires yet easing her discomfort as if it were nothing. A few moments pass, but the air that was saturated with her desire, in the unfinished bond between us that begs to be made whole, is tinged now with something keen to shame.
As the sour taste hits my senses, my control snaps into place and I do what is proper.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
I am already walking over to my kettle to fill it with filtered water. Every part of me, now that I have her so close, is driven to please her, this baser instinct to prove to her that I can provide, that I am the right choice.
“I-” My tongue-tied mate is flustered as well as tired. “Do you not need to work?”
“No,” I state simply because while I technically work as a librarian, as I have on and off for centuries, there is no need for me at this late hour. Nothing is required of me.
Except what you require of me.
The thought nearly slips past my lips when my mate turns her head to the side. I put the kettle on to boil and begin the process of preparing the tea. There is proper etiquette for these things; no matter how my body burns, I will follow the unwritten rules. While I am not such a purist as some, I do believe in the importance of selection. On a wood tray, I place two cups from my 18th-century Italian set onto saucers and open a sealed canister of Chamomile blossoms.
She watches my every move. I do not need to look up from the side board near where she sits to know this. I can feel her eyes on my skin like they are caressing my hands, my chest, my jaw. It is muscle memory that guides me to add the correct amount of blossoms and the corresponding amount of water. While it steeps, I add chocolate-dipped Viennese biscuits to a separate plate. Delicately, I arrange them in a radial pattern so the chocolate is facing inward. This small action gives me a moment to think about how I am going to broach a real conversation with my human.
I pour the steaming, floral tea into our cups and present the tray to her like a proper host, even with these meagre offerings. My darling picks up the tea, both of her hands gripping the saucer. Visions of her gripping my lapels as she presses her full, soft body against mine fill my mind. My soaking wet lapel.
My jaw clenches. We are both soaked to the bone still. I should offer a towel, my handkerchief at the very least, but I now cannot think of anything but peeling off her transparent shirt and ill-fitting trousers to see all of her in the waking hours. Stiffly, I replace the tray and remove my wet outer layer to hang up on the hook by the door. An aroma stronger than the floral tea wafts through the air. Her cup rattles quietly against her saucer.
I look over my shoulder to see her staring at me again, the flush on her cheeks covering her soft jawline and throat. The hints of shame that I once tasted are fully replaced with lust now. I peer down at myself, trying to assess what has caused this reaction. Perhaps it is the suspenders I decided to wear today instead of a waistcoat.
This is good. I am learning more about what she desires in her mate.
“I am sorry I do not have more than this.” I offer her my handkerchief before picking up my own tea.
It is only once I take a sip, does she. The apple tart notes dance across my tongue and I long to taste them on hers now. She dabs at her skin discreetly with one hand, but I watch the beads of water that decorate her features disappear in my handkerchief. Little droplets infused with her essence to carry with me. She pushes back loose strands of her dark hair as if they are not perfect where they lay framing her face already. I take another sip of tea, almost content to watch her for the rest of the night.
Almost.
The gnawing aches that twist and knot in my stomach like I have not been fed an ounce in years is ever present. My tongue is heavy in my mouth as saliva threatens to drip from my lips like a beast. I wonder how she would react if she saw my sharpened teeth, the way my maw can open to encase her throat. I feel my sands begging to reach out, to seep into the soft folds of my darling until we are one.
