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love Devon. If I did I would feel more than just a twinge at never seeing him again. In some way I feel relief, which just proves the awkwardness our relationship was barreling toward.
    In this moment with Christian, there is the smallest hint of a type of freedom I couldn’t have with Devon. He was filled with expectations of me. I could always see it shining out from his eyes. There was an undercurrent of a struggle. He would push a little for more. I would resist. He would back down and then regroup for his next attempt.
    Christian won’t ever attempt anything. He’ll simply do. In some ways it takes pressure off me. In other ways it’s much worse than the Devon situation. I’m aware that I’m trying to reshape things so I can cope, but I wonder how true these feelings are anyway.
    I look up to see Christian’s head is cocked to the side, an amused little grin playing at the corners of his mouth. He’s reading me like a damn book, and I can’t stop thinking things. Nor can I bring myself to shut the silver door again, not after seeing a glimpse of his anger.
    Without warning, he strikes. My breath is caught in my throat as his fangs slice into me. I let out a shriek that hurts my own ears. Yes, it fucking hurts. It hurts so much that every nerve ending begs for death just to make it stop. It’s a searing burn that digs into me and latches on. I can see Christian as nothing but the parasite he is. Right as I’m thinking this, something shifts.
    There must be some kind of venom in his fangs. Or maybe that’s not the right word. But there is something that just happened because I can breathe and think again and the pain is gone, but his fangs are still in my throat. He’s got to be doing something to ease it.
    He backs us against a wall and allows me to sag and press my weight against it. I feel like I’m outside my body, hovering, watching all this like it’s happening to someone else. But the floaty feeling isn’t trauma. It’s something else. It’s a drug. I’m being drugged.
    The insistent pulls on my blood don’t hurt. They lull me into calm acceptance. My hands are on his shoulders. I don’t know how long they’ve been there, but to an outside observer this might look like a consensual act, like a lover’s embrace.
    A couple of minutes pass like this, and then he’s licking the puncture marks clean. Then in that blur-speed he does, he’s sitting in an overstuffed chair by the fireplace. His hand is propping his chin up, and he’s observing me.
    I feel light-headed, even after eating, and I’m afraid he’s taken too much. I find my legs not wanting to support me and then I’m sitting on the ground. My hand moves to my throat. There is no blood, but I can feel the little puckers and I wonder if I’m going to look like a vampire snack from now on, not that it matters in the grand scheme anymore.
    “Come here,” he says.
    There is no way I can stand up now, so I just crawl across the floor to him. I’m pretty sure that pleases him more, anyway. I feel like I’m crawling through invisible molasses. Every inch is a struggle, and I resent him for not helping me.
    “Pet, your thoughts will be your own in a few moments, but until then it’s wisest for you to not think such ungrateful ones. I can leave you like this. Believe me, your suffering has just started. Perhaps I should leave you for the rest of the night so you know how vital my blood is to you now.”
    Cramping has already starting in my stomach and the muscles of my arms and legs. I know he’s not kidding that this is going to get very painful very soon without his aid. The only thing I care about right now is appeasing him.
    “I’m sorry, Master. I can’t help every thought or feeling I have. I’m human.”
    This confession seems to placate him, and he motions me closer. I don’t pull away when he rips into his own wrist with his fangs and places it in front of my mouth. I thought I would recoil, that I’d be paranoid about