Book Two in The Elite.
CRAVING. His was my blood. Mine was his touch.
I've tasted your blood. I'll never forget it. I'll always crave it.
I'll reintroduce you to the world you think you know. I'll show you everything and relish in you completely.
When I'm done, I'll either kill you or change you. That will depend on whether or not I still desire you.
Something tells me, I'll always crave you.
"I loved Everette. He is world weary but surprisingly enough he has a shadow of a heart that seems to beat while with Farah."
This isn’t what I agreed to or at least it isn’t what I envisioned when I agreed to her request. That damn foolish, completely pointless request.
What possible reason would a dead girl have to work?
It would appear that Farah has yet to realise her fate. That’s the only explanation I can find for why she is so bloody insistent about returning day in and day out to this blasted café.
I’ve humoured her for a week.
A week too long if you ask me. Which she doesn’t.
She doesn’t like it when I show up. She says I make her nervous. I don’t care. I do it anyway. I sit at that same table from where I first watched her, drinking a disgusting Americano and responding to emails on my phone, my gaze rarely leaving her.
No one else would even be able to tell I’m watching her. My eyes move too fast, flitting between her and my phone’s screen. She probably doesn’t even realise it herself.
It’s harder now, sitting here watching the humans gawk at her, drooling over what is mine.
Farah is oblivious though. She hasn’t got the faintest clue how much I crave her. Or how much the men around us lust after her. And I sure as hell won’t be the one to tell her.
I like her ignorance. I like that strange naivety that seems to belong to a long ago age, a simpler time when women knew nothing about the minds of men. What bullshit!
Of course, she knows. All women know. It’s impossible to miss the way they stare at her. Farah might be naïve but she’s not blind.
I’m irritable today, thirsty.
When I first agreed to her coming and going as she pleased, I never realised how much waiting I would find myself doing.
I hate waiting.
It’s not something I’m accustomed to. Humans and Vampires alike usually obey my every whim. But not Farah.
She’s about as obedient as an obstinate bull.
Fortunately, she’s far prettier.
I wouldn’t mind so much except I can’t even stand coffee. It tastes like dishwater. Why couldn’t she work in a bar or a pub or something? At least alcohol I’d be able to enjoy.
She catches my eye but doesn’t so much as smile. The girl who struggles to refuse me anything when we’re alone, is very good at ignoring me in public.
It’s probably because she feels safer here. She thinks I can’t kill her if we’re surrounded by others but boy, is she wrong.
If I wanted her dead, there’s nothing on this earth that could stop me.
The only thing keeping her alive is my thirst, a thirst I’ve yet to quench. Once I stop craving her, when I’ve finally had my fill, I’ll end her life.
It’s already been decided. It was a fate determined with our very first meeting.
She approaches my table, playing indifferent. With a blue cloth, she wipes the table top, not meeting my eye.
‘We’ll be closing in a moment, sir,’ she tells me as politely as she would a stranger. There’s none of the intimacy you’d expect from the woman you’re currently fucking.
‘I’ll wait outside,’ I say for her ears only.
She scowls at me, opening her mouth to protest.
‘I’m going back to my place tonight,’ she says it with as much confidence as she can muster.
I’m not a patient Vampire. I’ve had no cause for patience in all the centuries I’ve existed.
‘That’s not the agreement, Farah.’
Her nostrils flare but she doesn’t speak. Glaring at me for only a moment, she moves to the next table as I drop some money onto the table and clamber to my feet.
I brush past her, enjoying the way I make her shiver. She wants my touch almost as much as I want her blood.
She takes her time. It’s as if she thinks I have all fucking night. And I guess she’s right. I have eternity but I have no intentions of spending it waiting for her.
When she finally locks up the café, I’m sitting behind the wheel of my Bugatti, impatiently tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.
She knows I’m here. She’s looked my way more than twice. But she has no intention of getting in the car. I can tell from the way she hesitantly waves goodbye to her co-workers before placing her hands in her coat pockets.
I don’t know where this new streak of rebellion has come from but it won’t last.
She begins to walk in the direction of her apartment building and I drive slowly behind her. I won’t force her but she will get in my car and I will take her home.
It’s just a matter of time.
Something I have plenty of.