Page 94 of Besieger
“Have you eaten?” Victor asked, not liking the way Erik’s lips twitched in a suppressed smile at the mention of Stefan.
The words came out harsh, like a mutt being tossed a plate of scraps, yet a flush ran up Erik’s neck and cheeks.
“Let me finish this sentence—”
But Victor was already climbing over the sofa and on top of him. His face wore a mask of grim determination, a man out to do an errand and impatient to be done with it. Efficiency strained every muscle, every movement of his body. Erik’s eyes widened,the flush from earlier replaced by shock, and the book slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor.
The light from the floor lamp now fully illuminated his face, and for a whisper of a moment, Victor caught a glimpse of a hazel halo around Erik’s pupils, before it was swallowed by black. Even his dark hair had a chestnut sheen, with streaks of gold. Victor wondered how long a vampire would last in the sunlight before it destroyed them.If artificial light can do this to you, how would you fare outside, under the sun?
“Arm or neck?” Victor’s tone was too emotionless for how fast his heart was beating and the thoughts racing through his head.
“Neck,” Erik muttered, and Victor leaned in, careful not to crush him with the weight of his body.
Erik slipped a hand behind Victor’s neck and yanked him down, forcing him to turn to the side so Erik’s mouth could fit in the crook. Only when his teeth pierced the skin did Victor ease into the embrace.
He took slow sips, the softest of sounds came from him, no louder than a sigh or a moan he did not want to let out. It reminded Victor of how Erik had held him up in the shower, helped him wash and redid the bandages. Back in Berlin when Tobias—
“You keep thinking about showers. It is distracting.” Erik looked at him, his pupils were dilated and darted back and forth. There was a drunken sheen to him. His mouth and teeth were impossibly red, sticky. Victor was unable to look away, his own breath grew ragged. “Do you want to take a bath with me,mein Freund?”
“No. And you’re saying this like it’s a pet name. Call me something else.”
“Do you want a taste,Victor?”
Victor huffed and yanked Erik’s shirt open. He ran his palm across the collarbones and up the throat, closed his fingers like a snare, and tilted Erik’s head back.
“I will not gnaw at your hand like a dog at a bone.”
Erik snorted and Victor felt the movement of the Adam’s apple under his palm. He wanted to bite at it and watch the blood bubble and rise in Erik’s mouth, ram his claws into the wound and spread skin, muscle and vocal cords, and feed, feed, feed. Every time Erik drank from him, Victor wanted to beg for a taste in return. The hunger burned him; his throat was parched as he watched Erik drink and swallow. Victor had a mind to press his fingers into the vampire’s mouth and push them inside, all the way to the last knuckle and make him gag and suckle, biting until they bled.
Without ceremony he buried his face under Erik’s chin, irritated by the long strands of hair getting in his way before unhinging his jaw and biting down. He tore at the jugular, teeth sinking deep and hard, feeling the flesh reform and try to heal—only for him to gnaw anew, chewing on the raw meat, swallowing it down with the blood. A snarl tore out of him, Erik’s body buckled, and Victor shoved him down, pinning his shoulders. He took another greedy gulp, mouthful after mouthful of salt, an ouroboros of blood, the tissue and muscles moved and grew around his jaw, the blood pumping and hissing. Erik gurgled, blood spilled in black foam from his mouth, he tried to kick Victor off, his legs scrabbling for purchase and found none. He tore and ripped Victor’s top, as the artery burst into Victor’s mouth, showering them in red before the nerves stitched themselves back together. He chewed on bits stuck at the back of his teeth, observing the body under him.
Erik was a mess, dishevelled, clothes crumpled, blood ran down the length of his upper body in rivulets on the sofa and the carpet. Victor growled at the sight; the blood covered his chin and he licked at his fingers. The taste of copper and salt was making him heave for breath, his own body suddenly too small, too tight for him. Erik’s neck stood intact, the only giveaway of their frenzied game was the gore covering them both, dripping on the floor.
“You are a messy eater.” Erik clicked his tongue and Victor preened at the sound, at how wet the organ sounded inside the mouth.
He was salivating, hungry to wolf down more. Meat or blood or something else entirely.
“Something else?” Erik echoed Victor’s thoughts and at that moment he did not care, let all of him be exposed. He was itching to shift. “Do you have to shift? Or do youneedto?”
Victor nodded. He was running a fever, flexing the fingers of his hands eager, desperate, for it. Shift now and jump on the body before him, it was already laid out for him. He could eat Erik, gobble his innards and juices, and Erik would heal.Erik would live.
Under him Erik frowned and tried to get up but he was still pinned down, unable to get away. Without touching it, the glass door leading into the back garden slid open, letting in the cool night air.
“Outside then,” he tilted his head, slowly and gently guiding Victor off him.
“Come. Join.” Victor’s mouth was full of teeth and the tips of his fingers had split like bark, sweat beaded on his forehead and beneath his arms. He willed himself to stand up and walk on two legs, moving past the carnage without waiting to see if Erik would follow him outside.
Victor held his jacket in one hand, his wallet and new set of keys in the other. He had to make a stop at the coffee shop before heading to the bakery. He had promised Stefan they would talk about this month’s deliveries. Somehow the pack leader had gotten it into his head that allowing a vampire to stay in Tarnovo meant Victor was now going to bake whatever pastries Stefandemanded. The man’s stubbornness, and sweet tooth, knew no boundaries.
Again, he found Erik on the sofa downstairs, this time perched at the end of it, sitting cross-legged, as far away as possible from the brown stains of blood. He was reading another book… or was it the same one from before; Victor could not tell. It could have been one of the books left from the previous owner, which meant it was probably in Bulgarian, but Erik had said offhandedly how he was not particularly fond of socialist literature. Partisan letters to the homeland and the trepidations of tobacco manufacturers and their workers did not interest him. Victor considered getting new reading material on his way back. There were boxes with children’s games and puzzles in the basement, but judging by how fast Erik read, those puzzles must have already been ordered and discarded in seconds.
The ruined sofa, the stains on the floor and the carpet bothered Victor. It was a mark of what they had done. Unlike the blurred memories and thoughts he carried from the times he had shifted into a wolf, this he remembered—this he saw. He could still taste Erik in his mouth, the memory of the body twitching under him, the foam of blood.
“I will order replacements,” Erik said, sensing his discomfort.
Victor thought about arguing, but then his attention snagged on Erik’s hair. It was cut short, and a little ruffled and damp from the shower. Victor had been too preoccupied with the blood to notice. Erik looked better with short hair: it suited him. There was a spring in his step, and it seemed he carried himself more freely, more easily. Victor preferred him like this;thiswas the familiar Erik, the man he knew, the man he trusted.
Until the night fell, and the hair grew back: long again, smooth as silk.
