Mr. Death was instantly in her space. Those blackened irises were in front of her. His fangs were bared, his beautiful face marred with an ugliness she didn’t want to begin to try to decipher. His breathing was slow and shallow, as if he was asthmatic. Fog began to billow out of his mouth, as if they were in sub-zero temperatures.
“Tristan,” she whispered, feeling her heart pound like thunder against her chest. She backed up against the bathroom door.
His nose was in the crook of her neck. It was cold, like ice. He bit in and the sound of her throat piercing was sickeningly audible. It hurt but then it felt so good, too. She let out an “Ah.” Her eyes rolled back. But the feeling inside, it wasn’t Tristan’s bliss entering her veins. It also wasn’t monster Tristan. No spiders. No sludge. It was hollow. Bile rose in her throat and it tasted like rust.
“Tristan, baby, are you in there? Please be in there. Don’t do this. We could find a happily ever after, couldn’t we? You could make me happy. You do make me happy. I wanna make you happy.”
She felt a gush down below and he let go of her throat and sniffed the air and then dropped to his knees and reached for her hips.
She spun around and then slid by him back into the closet, the cage. He rose and slowly followed. She reached toward the tranquilizer on the floor but before she got it he grabbed her hips with freezing cold hands, dropped to his knees, taking her pants and panties down roughly and then his nose was in between her legs. He jerked her down onto the rug, then she was pinned, her legs tangled in her clothes. She felt his tongue there, tasting, seeking. She stretched but couldn’t reach the gun.
If I don’t fight, maybe he’ll take it and he’ll stop. Is it possible?
She started to try to visualize her feelings and push them toward him from her mind. He let out a moan and his cold tongue was pushing hard on her clit and down toward her opening. She shuddered, pleasure spiking and her legs were like mush, wide open. How on earth could the demise of her do this? How could she begin to feel pleasure when she probably had seconds left to live?
She lifted her upper back so she could see him. His hand flew up and pinned her to the floor by the throat. He was squeezing. She tried not to panic and struggle. It wasn’t easy to fight that reflex. His grip loosened enough to make breathing easier. She felt another gush of fluid down below. He was moaning.
Emotion surged forward in her,
“Tristan? I know you can’t control this. It’s okay,” she whispered, tears streaming down, and then his tongue started to really move and he added suction into the mix. Like a tidal wave a massive orgasm washed over her. It went on and on and on. And on. She thrashed and moaned and then his grip tightened on her throat again and it somehow made the sensations all the more intense. She was on the verge of losing consciousness.
He let go.
Her eyelids fluttered. She looked up. He was standing over her, towering and seeming like a giant. His chest was heaving. His fists were clenched at his sides. He reminded her of a gray, instead of green, Incredible Hulk. He had blood on his chin. He roared. Roared!
Oh fuck…
Kyla scampered backwards against the opened panic room door and looked up to see him lunging for her. She braced herself as he pulled her to standing by the underarms and pushed her against the door, making it snap shut. She was against that door and her feet weren’t touching the floor. It was about to be over, she could feel it, he’d drain her. She wanted to look at him one more time and hoped that somehow inside there the real Tristan, the guy who’d wanted to open his own restaurant, the guy who sang beautifully, and whose smile could light up the room, whose touch lit up her body, who’d swam through the molten lava moat to break down her walls would somehow see her. His gaze was on her throat and he opened his mouth and started to move toward it.
She stared hard into those black depths, trying to will them to be blue, and prepared to try to win the ultimate stare down,
“Tristan, I… love you,” Kyla whispered, feeling her feelings for him well up inside of her.
His gaze came back to look at her eyes, her throat momentarily forgotten. His eyes were starting to change. They were stormy gray, on the verge of turning blue again. She touched his cheek. It wasn’t cold or warm, it was clammy. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. He stood still, his eyelashes fluttering.