Chapter 5 This is it

How convenient it would be to end it now. Snap her neck. Tear her heart out. Silence her once and for all.

But I don’t move.

Not because I lack the will. I’ve ended more lives than I can count, most of them far more deserving than her. No, it’s because Raza, the Blood Goddess my kind pledges allegiance to, whispers through my bones, her voice cold and clear in the hollow place where my faith still lives.

“To spill mate-blood is sacrilege.

To reject what is given is to spit on the altar.

To betray your bond is to betray Me.”

The words are ancient and binding. Older than I am. And I may be many things....monster, murderer, liar....but I am not a traitor to Her.

Still, I want to kill this girl.

I loathe the soft thrum of her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin, the sound of her voice, too fucking human. All of her. A reminder of what I’ve evolved beyond. What I’ve spent centuries scorning.

And yet, the moment she tries to run again, brave little thing...I catch her by the wrist. She thrashes, shouting something I don’t care enough to listen to, but I pull her flush against me.

“You’re wasting breath,” I growl, voice low and sharp. “You think screaming will do anything but annoy me?”

“Let me go!” she snaps, voice hoarse but laced with iron. “You don’t get to!–...You don’t get to do this to me!”

Her defiance sparks in the air between us like flint on dry stone, and for a second… I almost admire it. Almost.

Then I hear it.

Light and precise footsteps. Too fast and heavy to be human. I don’t need to turn to know who it is.

Damien.

Of all the cursed timing.

The bastard would sniff this out like rot in silk. And if he sees her still alive, if he senses what she is to me....

No. He can’t.

I shift my grip, yanking Eleanor’s arm up to expose the delicate hollow behind her ear. Before she can react, I press two fingers into a pressure point at the base of her skull and hold. She stiffens. Eyes flare wide with panic. She gasps...then goes limp in my arms.

Quick, painless and clean. A technique I perfected centuries ago, when discretion mattered and silence was survival. She’ll wake with a headache and bruised pride.

I lift her up in my arms. She’s lighter than I expect. Warm and breathing.

I hate how carefully I cradle her.

Damien’s steps are getting closer, too close. No time for a door.

I draw in breath, grip her tight, and in one fluid burst, I move. A flicker of a step, faster than the eye, just shy of teleportation. Bones compress. Air bends and sound peels away.

The world blurs.....and we’re gone.

ELEANOR'S POV

My head’s pounding. Not like ‘oh I had one too many’ pounding. More like someone took a sledgehammer to my skull kind of pounding. My throat’s dry, sandpaper and nails. I try to swallow and wince. Every muscle aches, like I ran ten miles in heels.

Hell of a hangover.

I squint, try to open my eyes against the heavy fog in my skull. The ceiling above me isn’t the cracked one in my apartment, the one with the water stain that looks like the Virgin Mary giving the middle finger. This one’s vaulted, smooth, painted the color of expensive milk. And the sheets under me? Soft. Like 'ruined a rich guy’s life' soft.

I sit up, groaning....and freeze.

What the actual—

I’m wearing a man’s white button-down. Big, crisp, and it smells like the woods and something musky and exotic. Underneath, I can still feel the tug of my tiny red outfit...my stage uniform.

My stripper outfit.

And that’s when it slams back into me.

The dressing room. The mirror shattering. That thing with eyes like voids and a voice colder than my ex's love life. His hand on my chest. The smell of my own blood. That look on his face.

Oh, fuck!....I've been kidnapped!

I bolt upright, wobble on unsteady feet and nearly trip over my own knees trying to get to the door. It’s huge, some kind of old-world wood with ironwork that screams “you’re not getting out unless we say so.” I grab the handle and twist.

Locked.

Of course it’s fucking locked.

I move to the window, pull aside the heavy drapes. Outside? Trees. So many trees. Endless, towering, like we’re deep in the middle of some creepy-ass forest where kids go missing and no one asks questions.

"What the hell is this?" I mutter.

My hands are shaking as I lift them up, and they’re bandaged. White gauze, neat and precise. I remember the sting. The glass. Crawling away from that beautiful monster, blood smearing the floor. I remember the sound his fangs made when they...when they just came out.

My breath hitches.

God, please no. That wasn’t real. That kind of thing isn’t real. I press my back to the door and slide down to the floor, biting back the scream clawing its way up my throat. My heart’s a jackhammer and my hands start to sweat beneath the bandages. My mouth is dry, my vision swimming again, but this time from panic.

“Okay,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “Deep breaths, Elle. You’ve been roofied before and came out fine. You’ve dealt with creeps and psychos. This is just one more freak on the pile.”

But nothing about this feels like any kind of freak I’ve ever met. This isn’t your run of the mill bad date or possessive sugar daddy. No. This feels bigger. Like being dropped into the middle of a nightmare.

I glance around the room. It’s gorgeous....big four-poster bed, a chandelier, old furniture that probably costs more than everything I own combined. Too elegant and quiet.

Too much like a cage dressed in gold.

And I’m the fucking bird.

I push off the floor and slam my fist against the door.

“HEY! Anyone out there?!”

No answer.

I pound harder, more desperate now. “Let me out, you psychotic Twilight reject!”

Still nothing. Just my voice echoing back at me, bouncing off pretty walls. My voice cracks. And I don’t even notice the tear sliding down my cheek until it hits my lip.

This can’t be happening...but it is. And I’ve got no idea what kind of monster took me, or what the hell he wants.

The sound of footsteps sends an electric shock through me. Fuck.

I jerk back from the door like it bit me, eyes darting around the room. I spot a decorative vase on a tall, gilded side table. It’s heavy and ugly. Perfect. I grab it, both hands trembling but tight, and tiptoe to the wall right beside the door.

This is it.

No plan, no backup and no shoes. Just me in an oversized white button-down and a goddamn thong, holding a vase like it’s a sword. The handle turns and my heart thunders like a war drum. He steps inside.

And I strike.