The Beast I Am

Chapter 11

Bombs dropped behind my eyes, exploding my vision into a million tiny stars.

Consciousness engulfed me as I curled on my side, my tongue too thick as it rested against my teeth, sore with an ache that shivered down my body.

Sticky lips parted in a grunt as I was jerked upwards, my shoulders burning from the weight of my body swinging forward. My wrists scraping against the cuffs that drew me backward. My ears ringing like the blade suddenly pressed against my throat, the drum at my temple holding the steady beat.

A Jolt of electricity hummed against my spine, forcing my fuzzy eyes to open. To look– at the large white screen.

The image focused as the grainy footage spurred to life.

A street corner.

Not any.

Times fucking Square.

In any other district, you'd only see two huddled forms on the ground.

In the city of opportunity, lit up by capital plaques, glowing like a prophet of death–

Me.

My body shuddered in relief at each greedy mouthful I swallowed.

My skin sang, rejoicing the moment, greedily sucking in his blood that now ran through my veins– the taste of him, I could feel his skin against my teeth–it tore so effortlessly, like biting wet tissue–My hands were pressing under his chin, my fingers buried into the knuckle at his throat. Spectators emerged from their cars in horrified herds, hands covering their mouths, faces lighting up from screens. There was no sound.

But there didn't need to be.

I could still hear the snap it made when I dislocated his head from his spine. The pop a round of applause for my strength– the thud as it hit the van's hood, my standing ovation.

The footage seemed to shake, as if the camera was somehow clouded, distorting the image, the projector clicking as the screen went black.

Lighting up Valentine.

The silence was a cut sharper than the steel pressing into the top layer of my throat. Reminding me of my place. Estelle.

Oh God.

Oh Fuck.

"What a mess you've made, neonate..." Valentine's words were ashes on my skin, fluttering from my funeral pyre.

The lights gathered the tightness in my chest, hardening at the group slotted behind him.

Rhazien's eyes burned me with their impassivity.

Aramastus, smug, opposite the Seneschal, his dark eyes shifting to glance at Rhazien.

Done. I was done.

The Seneschal's words flipping my stomach, "A boon, my Prince. For my Childer's innocence."

The Prince snickered, bowing towards me in a mocking grin. "Oh my! Do you know how special you are, little neonate? Your Master has the tightest purse in the city, and yet here he is, practically dumping his wealth on the floor." Valentine hummed, "A pity I do not often build my throne off of dead favors–"

Rhazien's blue eyes flew open– too late to predict the hands gripping his shoulders, pulling his chair beneath him. The stage thumping painfully with the force of his knees.

I could feel the rage and confusion seeping off him, his limbs thrashing beneath tightening hands, his skin rippling in preparation. Hardening like concrete. His textured tan skin suddenly wiped clean as shiny cuffs were clasped around his wrists. The anger in his eyes dimmed, the rage consistent, but the fire lowered as if something dampened his powers.