Page 38 of The Cannibal

A heartbeat in my ears, and it wasn’t my own.

With hesitance, my eyes were led to her neck. The jugular pulsed, the skin was as soft as the silk of her gown, possibly just as radiant. The skin appeared untouched, despite knowing it may have been bitten many times before.

Her scent held sweet notes, that melodic ringing in my ears heightened the more aware I was of its presence. It was like the kick of clover candy to hide the bitterness that would clear the sinuses. Every breath of mine became irritated as my hunger registered.

She tilted her head, leaving a kiss on my neck before she slipped off the arm of the chair and into my lap.

I froze, but I was salivating.

She pressed her cheek to mine as she whispered in my ear, “Take a taste.”

My heart was racing as fast as her pulse. My fangs were involuntarily peeling themselves from the roof of my mouth to flick forward, disturbing the still-raw flesh from where they sprouted.

My hand came to the other side of her neck. She was feverishly hot. Or I was unnaturally cold. The contrast in temperatures was so vast I thought we may produce steam.

This doesn’t feel right.

It doesn’t feel good. This is wrong.

But, by God, the hunger was emphatic.

Nothing could ever prepare for the sensation of breaking flesh, like a pop when you bite through a plum. Even as I’ve done it before, I may go on to do it hundreds of times before I would ever not be disgusted by it.

The blood flooding my mouth made me want to jump back, to pull away, but I was already overtaken by the first swallow. It stung, burned, bitter like citrus rinds. I am going to be sick.

Releasing her neck from my teeth, followed by a hiccup, I quickly made for the washroom.

The room, then the hall—all a blur.

I was either about to faint or . . .

The stall door slapped as my hands found the rim of the toilet. The heaving hurt my chest as much as it did my throat and stomach. A fight for an expulsion, as well as air. It stung like swallowing an entire peppermint.

My hair stuck to my face . . . then it was dragged back behind my head, the pressure of fingers gathering it as I coughed. When I had a moment to breathe, my head pulled back.

Luka peered down at me, half in disgust, half in pity. The damage to his face didn’t let it move as easily, but the healthy side was expressive enough to make up for it.

“Did your nerves twist your stomach?” he asked.

“This isn’t anxiety,” I said firmly, as I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, “the taste is foul.”

“Foul?” He let go of my head.

A breathless nod was my answer, then I spit into the bowl as if it would help me rid the taste. The crimson red filled the bowl and stained my saliva.

Luka got up to gather a hand towel, wetting it before returning.

I sat with my back against the stall, staring at the blood in the bowl.

He took my face in one hand, wiping roughly across my mouth with the other.

I swatted at him, pulling my face from his grip. “I’m not a child,” I hissed.

“I think the problem is you think too much.” He knelt before me.

I shook my head. “It was the taste,” I insisted.

“What taste?” he frowned.