Page 8 of Bite Me Baby
I raise an eyebrow, surprised by his admission. “Who is she?” I ask, unable to mask my interest in the woman who makes Marcus’ cock hard, because that is basically what his tirade comes down to.
“A fae,” Marcus says softly, a wistful smile gracing his lips as he gazes into the fire. “She personifies strength, beauty, and an indomitable spirit, being a fae of extraordinary prowess. Her mere existence presents me with unprecedented challenges, surpassing any previous encounters. However, destiny has dictated her unattainability. She assumes the role of a princess, entangled in solemn oaths, and fated to marry another. Her father, unwavering in his resolve, forbids the prospect of any union between her and a mere humble warlock such as myself.”
“I see,” I say slowly. “It sounds like a difficult situation. Have you tried to reason with her father?”
Marcus shakes his head. “Indeed, it transcends the mere sway of her father’s authority. The Fae community is entrenched in a web of exacting customs and regulations, guided by their unwavering sense of obligation. Being a princess, she carries the weight of her prescribed role and the obligation to wed the chosen suitor. Alas, I’m afraid I must withhold any additional particulars; I’ve already surpassed my boundaries concerning divulgence.”
I can sense the weight of regret in Marcus’ words, and a part of me feels a twinge of sympathy for him. Despite our differences, Marcus and I have a unique bond as immortal creatures. Marcus is a warlock, a being with powers that can manipulate the elements and control the forces of nature. As for me, I am a vampire, a creature that thrives on the life force of others. But in our own ways, we both understand the weight of immortality and the challenges that come with it.
“Xavier, your unworried existence invokes a profound sense of envy within me. The manner in which you wholeheartedly embrace life’s pleasures, unencumbered by the burdens that incessantly afflict my being, is truly remarkable. There are fleeting instants when I yearn to emulate your unrestrained freedom, to unshackle myself from the oppressive weight of my own existence, and to genuinely revel in the present moment. Occasionally, I find myself longing for an escape, a respite from the ponderous burden that incessantly weighs me down.”
I nod, understanding his sentiment. For all our powers and knowledge, we are still beings with emotions and desires, prone to moments of weakness and vulnerability.
His words resonate with me, and for a moment, I consider the possibility of love. But then I shake my head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it comes. I am not cut out for love; I revel in darkness and feed on the blood of mortals. Love is a weakness and a distraction that I can’t afford.
Tomorrow, I will return to my wicked ways and find a woman happy to spend a night with me before I send her on her way. That’s all my dead heart needs.
CHASING MOONLIGHT
CHAPTER THREE
Lyra
Iwalkthroughthebusy city streets, my leather jacket zipped up tight against the cold. The looming shadows of the buildings seem to swallow me, their jagged teeth of broken brick and shattered glass ready to tear my flesh from my bones. The surrounding air hangs heavy with the sour smell of decay and filth—a putrid cocktail of rotting garbage and piss mixed with the rusty flavor of spilled blood. My nose wrinkles in disgust as I push my way past the stinking mounds of trash that line the alleyways.
Loud and colorful graffiti defaces the walls. Strange symbols and obscene words are sprayed on the dirty walls. In the flickering lights of the streetlamps, they seem to tremble and pulse, as if they are alive with some evil power.
Despite the hustle and bustle of the city, I walk confidently, my hand casually resting on the silver knife strapped to my left thigh. Sure, I’m not as tough as the other supernatural beings roaming the streets, but I’m armed, and that gives me a sense of security.
I have a crossbow with silver arrows strapped to my back. It’s my main weapon, and I’m good with it. I’ve taken down more than a few monsters with it. The silver knife is just a backup in case the crossbow isn’t enough. And on my right thigh, I have a knife carved from bone. It’s a gift from the elders, and it’s more than just a weapon. It’s a reminder of who I am and what I am supposed to stand for.
I feel the eyes of others on me as I walk, the heat of their stares like a physical touch. Some are men who think I’m hot, and others are supernatural creatures sizing me up. The men’s gazes linger on my body as I walk by. They’re undressing me with their eyes, thinking about all the things they want to do to me. But I don’t care. I’m used to it. I’ve been getting that kind of attention since I was a teenager.
The supernatural creatures want something else entirely. They’re trying to figure out who I am, and they’re wondering if I’m a threat. If they leave me alone, I’m not a threat, but if they mess with me, well, then they’re in for a surprise. I’m not scared of a damn thing; I’m pretty badass, and I have the weapons to back up my attitude.
The bloodsucking vampires might have their fancy speed and strength, but I have my bone knife, their one true weakness. Shapeshifters can morph into any creature they want, but I have the precision of a crossbow and the ability to strike from afar. And the humans? Well, they’re just collateral damage in this world of magic and mayhem.
As I make my way to my destination, my mind isn’t focused on the grimy streets or the presence of supernatural beings. No, my thoughts are consumed by the unfairness of genetics and the frustrating feeling that fate has dealt me a lousy hand.
It’s a load of bullshit.
The idea that some people are born with all the advantages while others, like me, struggle to keep up with them, is a constant source of pain and disappointment—a reminder that I am different from everyone else.
I have four brothers—Lucian, Declan, Asher, and Logan—and they hit the genetic jackpot. They have all the good genes, while I am left with nothing but my half-blood werewolf status, stuck between the human and supernatural worlds. My dad, Rowan Starling, a towering figure with broad shoulders and a thick beard that hides his face, is the alpha of our pack. It’s no secret that my mother, Candy, was a human—a stripper in a seedy bar where my dad sought refuge from his duties as a leader. It all started with a lap dance and ended with a bun in the oven. Candy wasn’t cut out to be a mother. She was a user; she snorted anything she could get her hands on—heroin, cocaine—but ecstasy was her poison of choice.
Yeah, I am really rocking it with the gene pool I come from.
My dad is a good guy and has a soft spot in his heart for me, even though I am just a half-blood. Unfortunately, my brothers don’t share the same sentiment towards me, and they make it clear that I’m not welcome in their family. They hate the fact that my dad brought me to live with the pack. He didn’t have a choice, though, because my mother’s fate was sealed by her own vices, and I was left to suffer the consequences of her mistakes. When I was thirteen, my mother passed away from an overdose, and the police arrived to take me away. My inner wolf manifested, and I bit the police officer who was leading me to the back of a squad car. That’s when they decided to search for my dad because they had no interest in a feral kid who bit one of their own. They knew that only my dad, who was also a werewolf, could control me and prevent me from causing any more harm. My dad came for me and took me to the trailer park that was home to our pack, where he ordered the elders to teach me about the ways of our people and train me to fight.
My old man is kind of weird. He is more than just a paranoid conspiracy theorist; he is a damn prophet. He doesn’t trust the government, technology, or anyone outside of our pack. He banned the use of technology altogether—no internet, no phones, no computers. We live in a trailer park, and the electricity is powered by a generator he believes is safer than the government-controlled power grid. He is always ranting about how technology is being used to control and manipulate people, and how we need to stay off the grid to avoid being brainwashed.
Our home leaves much to be desired, but we are survivors. We don’t have much on the technological front, but we have enough moonshine to keep us going and more guns, knives, and weapons than we know what to do with.
I appreciate that my dad brought me into the pack, but my gratitude doesn’t protect me from the hatred and disapproval of the other pack members. Their looks cut like knives; their shoulders shove me aside like an unwanted toy; and their taunts and sneers leave scars that even my healing abilities can’t erase. Still, I remain with the pack, knowing that it is safer to be among my own kind.
My werewolf powers are limited, and it serves as a constant reminder of how I don’t quite measure up. I am weaker than other supernatural creatures but still stronger and faster than regular humans. My healing capabilities are sluggish, which is disappointing, and I envy those with pure werewolf blood who get the full package of strength and agility. They lucked out without even trying, and it makes a world of difference in our society.
Yes, my fangs are sharp, and my eyes turn yellow when I get pissed, but I never go full-on wolf mode when the moon is at its brightest. It’s tough accepting my half-blood status because I feel the wolf inside me howling to be set free. I want to tap into the full potential of my werewolf blood, to run wild under the full moon, and to let my instincts guide me. But for some reason, my wolf stays locked inside me, and I have no clue why she refuses to come out and play.
