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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 27, 2009 9:17:09 GMT -5
When she entered the room, Amandine headed directly for the bathroom. That was all well and good. It was one of the reasons he’d given for bringing her back here, wasn’t it? Tarquin wasn’t sure what she was going as she left the door open. His curiosity and wariness took him to the window; the blinds that blocked the sun were up, and he glanced down at the street to see if there was any possibility the two of them had been followed. The street was empty. Excellent. He didn’t want any disturbances.
After he’d ascertained that there was no one lingering near the gate, Tarquin dropped the blinds and pulled the heavy curtains across the window. The two meagre covering worked together to make the room pitch black when the sun was in the sky. He’d never thought to make them any more secure than that. Perhaps he would once the house was swarming with more kindred.
Behind him, the shower had started to run. He expected to be greeted by a closed door, but he discovered that bathroom door stood open. He took that as an open invitation. A devious smirk tainted his otherwise inviting expression as he unbuttoned his pants. They fell heavily to the floor as he sauntered toward the bathroom; steam had started to creep out of the door, and Tarquin slipped into the humidity of the white room beyond.
Stealthily, silently, he stepped into the shower behind Amandine, revelling in the scent of blood, and wanting only to caress every inch of her flawless, pearl-white skin. One cold hand slid over the rise of her hip, while the other brushed the slippery hair from her shoulder and neck. He burned a trail of kisses from her shoulder to her neck, finally resting upon the ghostly puncture marks that had been made formerly by his own two teeth. There was a vicious urge to break the skin open again, but it was pushed aside.
It been so long, and Tarquin hadn’t realised just how much the male part of his anatomy was craving this kind of contact. He supposed he’d been sated by the intimacy provided by the hunt, and the feeding. But this... this was such a human reaction, and it was absolutely delicious.
He applied pressure to Amandine’s hip, urging her to turn and face him.
But he would not be hasty. He would savour this, he would make it last. He reached over her shoulder to take the bar of soap between his hands. He rubbed at it, vigorously, and the scented stuff lathered between his fingers. These he then applied to the begrimed parts of Amandine’s skin, gently assuring that every spot of blood slid from her skin and was washed down the drain.
The bar of soap had slipped from Tarquin’s grasp and fallen to the tiles at their feet.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 27, 2009 13:33:58 GMT -5
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 28, 2009 20:39:08 GMT -5
Blood-letting and sexual tension were two things considered equal for Tarquin. For so long, there had never been one without the other. His body trembled as Amandine responded to his caresses; he was resisting the very natural instinct to satisfy his need for pleasure by relieving her of that precious liquid that gave her life. Of course, now that she was a vampire, the process would harm her as much as it might a human. But he resisted anyway. There was something sweet in resistance—something that only a man of control could properly savour or understand. If one waited, resisted, the climax was always far more splendid than one could have hoped for.
Her delicate fingers ventured south, and Tarquin’s jaw snapped shut, hand reaching out to balance himself against the wall behind Amandine. His eyes fluttered shut for the briefest of moments as he forced himself to think of something unappealing. It didn’t last for long. He was aroused, and there was nothing that could distract him. Not now.
He revelled in her gentle touches as she gave back as much as he had given her to begin with, if not more. She was obviously experienced, and Tarquin would not have had it any other way. He was far too out of practice to be the only one taking the lead.
His chuckle was low and teasing as he comprehended her question; had that small comment been playing on her mind all this time? What did a person’s origins matter, anyway? And why should it be so important now, of all times?
“I am from Italy. But it is not the Italy that you know.” He retorted.
But his answer was distracted, uttered between shudders and gasps. Then, perhaps in an attempt to quiet her questions, he leant forward to kiss her; the kiss was loaded with his passion and impatience, his free hand clutching at the back of her head so that the movement was that much more forceful. The hand he’d used to balance himself against the wall reached for her own nether regions, fingers exploring the area expertly. It was, metaphorically speaking, like riding a bike.
Tarquin was not a selfish man. He was grown enough to know that it took far less to pleasure a man than it did to pleasure a woman. And he’d not have Amandine miss out.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 29, 2009 5:44:15 GMT -5
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 29, 2009 9:45:49 GMT -5
Tarquin’s eyes flashed as Amandine slipped; his arms reached out so that, even if she’d continued to fall, he would have caught her. Her nails in his skin did no damage, but he almost wished they had. To draw blood...well, it might draw out a completely new and unexplored side of Amandine. But it wasn’t a major disappointment. Amandine was still a fresh and new entity for Tarquin. There was so much about her that he hadn’t explored yet. It was probably a blessing that she was not...well, rabid.
At least she’d stopped questioning him. There would be time later for questions and answers. For now, however, their time ought to be devoted to something completely different.
She led him from the shower, and though Tarquin was eager to head straight for the bed, he was willing to indulge Amandine and her wishes. He was not used to being waited on in such a way, but he stood stock still as Amandine dried him. When she stood, his arms twined around her arms and he returned her kisses, revelling in her warmth, wondering at her warmth when he continued to remain as cold as a stone.
He resisted the very insistent urge to just sweep her up in his arms and throw onto the bed, where he could have his way with her. He took complete control of his urges, keeping them tightly bound in the tense, trembling muscles of his limbs and torso. He followed the red-head to the bed, savouring the bareness of her backside, the way that it swayed as she walked; so natural, so pure, so like how every human being ought to be seen. She stepped up onto the bed and was preoccupied with her hair; Tarquin took the opportunity to survey her curves, to drink up every perfection and every flaw.
There was a scar, just beneath her stomach; it was a vicious thing, but so precise, as if it were created on purpose. Tarquin did not understand the purpose of the scar. Another attempt to purge herself of her demons, perhaps? Surely not...
But it was yet another question that would not be asked, not now.
The towel was tossed aside and Tarquin stepped forward to receive the touches Amandine reached out to give to him. His tapered fingers clutched at her torso, trailing up over the curves or her hips, past her belly-button, and over her breasts. He raised his head to her lips, revelling in her soft caresses until...
...until he just could not take it anymore.
In one swift movement he had her on her back. One arm snaked behind her back while the other tugged her legs from beneath her. He was not rough with her, and made sure that her head hit the pillows.
He kissed the scar beneath her stomach, breath trailing across her skin as he moved slowly upward; he kissed her belly-button, the crest of each breast, the collarbone, the neck, the cheek...all the while his fingers continued to give her pleasure, to make her feel as much as possible, so that her every nerve was singing. He cupped her jaw, just beneath the ear as he found those luscious lips again.
Impatience, then, got the better of him. He couldn’t deny his own pleasure any longer.
_________________
Hours Later:
Tarquin was exhausted, and his unmoving body attested the fact. The sheets were tangled around his legs and his bare backside as he lay sprawled on his stomach, one arm lay dormant while the other rested lazily over Amandine’s torso.
In the dim light she’d perhaps be able to see the scars scattered across his shoulders and back; a large, longer scar from the middle, left side of his back, intersecting his left shoulder blade and a myriad of smaller, criss-crossed scars elsewhere. If she concentrated really hard, she’d also discover that he was not breathing.
For all intents and purposes, Tarquin was ‘dead to the world’.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 29, 2009 10:24:48 GMT -5
[/i] with the very man she had—she had aggressed him for stalking her, hadn’t she? Shaking her head, the redhead turned off all the lights as she made her way down the lavish stairs. She took in the surroundings, admiring the grandeur, and idly wondering what he did for a living to afford such luxury. For ten minutes she searched for her purse, but couldn’t find it. Had he hidden it? Had he put it away? What had they done last night exactly? It was all a blur. Deciding it was best to think things threw once she was back in the security of her apartment, Amandine headed for the front door. On her way, she spotted a large clock that indicated it was well past noon. “Shit!” She had an appointment at the theatre at 10:00 AM! Without a second thought, she shoved her feet into the leather boots and hurried for the door. Swinging it open, she did not expect what hit her. Any other day, sunshine would have been welcome, for it was known to wake the body up, yet today she did not need it. In fact, as soon as the rays settled upon her flesh, she screamed. It took her a few seconds to realize the injury was being caused by the sun, and a second, piercing scream passed her lips as she witnessed her skin was smouldering, like paper in a fire. Stumbling backwards, she fell onto the ground and attempted to huddle into the ball, but her back was now beginning to heat up, and soon enough she found herself crawling towards the shadows inside the house. Panting heavily, she remained on the floor, knees to her chest as the door remained wide open, sun rays filtering in inches away from her covered toes. [/JUSTIFY][/ul]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 30, 2009 5:16:16 GMT -5
If Amandine had not been so recently sired, and if that blood bond had not been created to strongly between them, Tarquin would not have heard her. He would not have stirred until the sun set beneath the horizon and the darkness lured him from his slumber.
Across his mind there flashed images of centuries past; Decimus’ head as it rolled, open-eyed, along the ground toward him. There was a look of complete horror on that small face of his, and in all the long Tarquin had known Decimus, he’d never seen him look so vulnerable or so child-like. But he was dead.
And then there was Antonia. She was tied to a pole in the middle of a vast room, tunnels carved into the floor directly beneath her feet. She was stripped bare, and gashes were torn across her wrists and where the vein throbbed in the neck. The blood spilled down her marble-like skin in crimson rivulets, dripping from her arched toes and into the tunnels below, filling them like tiny moats around a living castle. She soon lost her will to struggle, and her face turned gaunt and corpse-like. And then she was lit on fire.
Her piercing scream was so surreal, and even now Tarquin could hear it as if he’d travelled into the past to relive the horrors he’d prefer to forget. His eyes flew open, and though he didn’t breathe, he was immediately alert. He expected to find himself in that luxurious room in Velusia, to see Antonia at his side and to realise, with relief, that it had all been a horrible dream. But Antonia was not there, and he was not in Velusia.
As the second scream pierced the air, Tarquin scrambled out of the sheets and leapt lithely from the bed; in a single second he remembered where he was, what he’d been doing, and whose scream rent the air. He ran from the room and stumbed down the stairs (still weary and weak, due to the daytime hour); he made sure to avoid the heavy beams of sunlight, slamming his shoulder against the door and sliding the lock across before turning his attention to the injured.
What are you doing, you fool?! He mumbled, not really questioning Amandine but perhaps berating himself for not being more careful with her. She was precious to him now, and he’d been careless. Again.
The two of them were now shielded from the sun, which was a blessing. Tarquin was still buck naked, and rather careless of the fact in the face of Amandine’s injuries. He did not move her, did not try to touch her lest he tear the skin from her arms.
You, you did not believe me? You... the sun... you cannot... He was flustered, the translated words escaped him. He pursed his lips and hunkered down beside Amandine; she needed blood, and there was none in the house besides the stuff that ran through his own veins. He lifted his wrist to his mouth and tore his teeth into the vein. He inflicted a large amount of pain upon himself in order to make the wound larger, more accessible. It bled freely, the blood sluggishly falling to the floor. He held it out to Amandine.
Drink it, and they will go away. he told her. He did not know whether he was telling the absolute truth. He did not know how much healing power his blood had. Truth was, she might be burdened with the burns for several nights, if not more, until she gathered enough blood of her own to heal them.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 30, 2009 9:05:18 GMT -5
[/b] rang in her ears. Amandine had been so convinced it was a dream that she merely responded with a breathless burst of air when she realized what he was implying. She did not inhale again and soon realized it; this simply fuelled more confusion as the light-headedness and side-effects of asphyxiation did not ensue as expected. Was this real? The pain from her still smouldering flesh felt quite real, as genuine as the satisfaction of drinking blood the previous night had been. Her eyes widened as she watched him tear his skin, blood freely pouring from his wrist down the muscular forearm and to the ground. Her mouth snapped shut, and the horror was short-lived as the scent reached her nostrils. The thirst took over, and though she wanted to restrain herself, she couldn’t. Reaching her fingers around his elbow, she gripped the skin possessively and pressed her mouth to his wound. Her eyes closed as she drank greedily, the itch in her throat soothed only by the thick, warm liquid that ran through his veins. It was only when he tore himself away from her eager lips that she opened her eyes—they glowed as a result of her feeding. The burns on her skin did not disappear, but the angrier ones lightened, taking on a bright pink hue. Glancing down at her body and then at his, she gasped. Clasping a hand to her lips, her eyes widened suddenly. She was drinking blood. She had killed a man. Another tremor wrecked her body as she glanced up at Tarquin. He had killed a man. How many had he killed? How many would she kill? The words of her questions faded as they reached her tongue, a strangled sound all she could muster. Amandine shifted, falling heavily onto her rear as the weight of realization settled upon her consciousness. Tentatively she reached into her mouth, using her index finger to evaluate the skyline of her upper teeth. Upon coming across the changes, her eyes widened and she glanced up at him. Had he had fangs all along too? “How the f—” she stopped herself halfway, dropping her hand from her mouth as she remained seated on the ground, dumbstruck and completely unaware of his nakedness.[/ul][/JUSTIFY]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 30, 2009 9:22:21 GMT -5
As Tarquin expected, she took hold of his wrist and drank freely, a consequence of the seed he’d placed inside of her. It was an instinctual reaction. Tarquin gritted his teeth as the blood was drained from him. Her instincts probably told her to keep feeding until her victim was dead—well, Tarquin could only give her so much. He would not be able to regain his lost blood until the night fell, and if she was not careful he’d be in a cranky mood until then.
Unlike Amandine, Tarquin was used to sleeping all day, every day. This disruption would leave him weary. With all this in mind, he tore his wrist away and held it to his chest as he waited for the blood to stop and for the skin to start stitching itself back together again. She was a fledgling, and thus would take longer to heal. Tarquin was centuries old and had garnered enough power of his own that he could heal within the hour, though it depended on the severity of the wound.
If she’d snapped at him, if she were angry with him, he may very well have snapped back. But he could deal with her awe. His eyes narrowed mischievously as the corner of his mouth stretched into a smirk;
“I had to have you, Red. I could not...help myself.” He said, his voice a veritable purr as the accented words tumbled from his lips. On all fours he crept closer to her, took her other hand between his.
“I suit you, Red. This lifestyle...you will learn to love it.” He said. Yes, he knew she had questions. And he had the answers she craved. But the technicality...it ruined the moment. Besides which, his body ached. It was a familiar ache, one that he had known nearly every day of his human life. It was the bone-deep ache of exhaustion and weariness. He would answer her questions if she asked. It was all he had the energy for.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 30, 2009 10:58:10 GMT -5
[/I]! C’est Amandine, imbecile!”[/COLOR] she snapped at him, forcefully snatching her hand out of his grip. The sudden movement caused the tightening of her muscles and subsequently of her skin, amplifying the pain as the shallow wounds stretched. Gritting her teeth to stifle any sign of weakness, Amandine stumbled to her feet, heels clattering loudly against the floor as she rose to her full height. No, she did not accept it, this lifestyle, whatever it was he referred to; she wouldn’t allow him to take her options, choosing for her how she should live. Fate had already robbed her of a son and husband, and she had had no choice but to accept the reality that was presented to her then. Glancing to her right she spotted an elegant vase reminiscent of ancient societies, and without as much of a flinch swiped her arm so that it flew into the air before crashing onto the ground. The pieces scattered noisily, the shattering sound echoing in the vast hall they stood in. The pain in her body only fuelled her anger and her voice escalated as it grew within her. “Mais qu’est ce que t'avais dans la tête!? Pour qui tu te prends!?”Amandine leaned forward as she yelled, hands tightly pressed into fists as she motioned violently. “What about me!? What about what I want!?”Hitting her chest on me and I, she stepped closer to him as her voice broke. Her eyes glazed over as they conveyed the absolute extent of her pain and anger. If Tarquin had deemed her feisty nature tameable he had only seen the tail of the beast, confusing her for a cub when in fact he had awoken one hell of a tigress. Though she tried to express her anger verbally, it wasn’t enough. Rage continued to expand within her, pressing against her bones and skin, pushing her into overdrive. Stepping up to him, she swung her arm towards his face in hopes of catching his cheek with her nails. Amandine had been in this situation before. Her world was falling apart, and all the others could do, blind to the chaos, was assure her things would be okay; they wouldn’t. In the past she had been able to pick herself back up albeit losing part of her essence, but this was a drastic change she could not—at least she did not thing it possible to—undo. If what she knew about vampires was true, and so far events had proven her right, then she would lose more than one thing—she would lose everything she held dear. Too flustered to think straight, she was unable to grasp the memories pertain to this unexpected event—this change in species; part of her still did not believe. Ignorance was a weakness and in order to hide her desperation she aggressed him instead. Imitating the confrontation in the cemetery the previous night, she attempted to punch him with her other hand. It had taken years for her to reacquaint herself with the joys of life, to relearn how to take pleasure from the simple things. She had lost both of them, Ignazio, only two years of age, and Fabien, barely at the starting line of an amazing career he had worked so hard to get a hold of. Her life now was merely a shell of what it had been then, but she still enjoyed it, still strove to find joy in the small things, even the battles. Now what though? What was she to do with her aspirations if she could not venture out into the day to accomplish them? What did she have left? Him? Did he really think of himself that highly? Hatred was not a flavour she was familiar with, but whatever the bitter taste on her tongue was, she would label it as such. Nothing made sense, nothing was fine, and his composed demeanour fuelled her aggravation vis-à-vis the situation. He couldn’t help himself? Were his words meant to sound flattering enough that his excuse was pardonable? The guy didn’t even know her! Did he truly believe that she would eat up that load of candy-coated bollocks? What right did he have to—what had he done anyways? Amandine had been under the misapprehension that it had all been playful banter, but to find out that it wasn’t felt like betrayal. Tarquin had taken advantage of her trust in him. Even though she was stupid for trusting a complete stranger such as himself, he had nonetheless acted uncaringly in her regard. “I will learn to love it. It? You mean you!? Giammai. You are just a scheming son of a bitch! Ti schifo! God, I've never been this... RABBIOSA! This ANGRY! Change moi! Cambialo! Ti giuro che ti ucciderò se non! I swear if, that if I knew how to I woul-” she stuttered momentarily, so flustered her languages were getting mixed up. Then she stopped mid-sentence, catching sight of something beyond his form. If they were the same thing, then sunlight would be equally detrimental to his nude form. // I am not (called) RED! It’s Amandine, you imbecile! // What the hell was going through your mind? Who (the fuck) do think you are? // Giammai = never // Ti schifo = You suck, I hate you, You disgust me... all nice pleasantries. // Change moi = Change me // Rabbiosa = angry // Cambialo = change it // Ti giuro che ti ucciderò se non = I swear I'll kill you if you don't
[/ul] [/JUSTIFY]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 1, 2010 0:57:55 GMT -5
All of a sudden, the woman whom Tarquin had stalked and kept company with for the last two nights reached her full potential. This was the fiery Goddess that he’d imagined, and expected. Nothing she’d done so far that compared to this. It was fascinating, and he watched awestruck as her fury reached its pitch. He was still sitting awkwardly on the floor when she sent the vase to the floor; arms reached up over his head in a bid to shield it from the pieces of shattered porcelain.
He did not mind that she was furious, and wasn’t surprised that the anger was directed toward him. Although he did not feel like he had the energy to deal with it at that moment, he had no choice. But it bothered him that she should start ruining his possessions, especially the antiques that were scattered around the place. Some of the vases and statues were as old as Tarquin. The one that was now in pieces on the ground was not of Tarquin’s lifetime, but it was pretty close.
“Ey! Ey!” He yelled, an expression of his surprise, an attempt to get her to stop. Of course, it was in vain. She continued to shout at him, and though the language she spoke was reminiscent of the one Tarquin was accustomed too, and though some of the words struck a chord, overall he couldn’t understand what she was saying.
In order to avoid being smashed with anything else, Tarquin scrambled out of his vulnerable position and stood facing the hurricane of Amandine’s anger. Best to get it over and done with now, he supposed.
He stood stock still as she swung her hand at him, tensing as her nails scraped the skin of his cheek and jaw. Blood welted to the surface, but Tarquin was so used to physical pain that he refused to pay any attention to it. If she needed something, someone, to take her anger out on, then he would provide her the means.
As she threw her next punch, however, Tarquin caught hold of her wrist, cocking his head to the side as she continued to shout at him. He caught the gist of half of it and lost the meaning of the rest. The general impression was that she was pissed off, that she did not agree with what he’d done. Well, big deal? Sure, Tarquin was aware of the unfairness of the situation.
But, he thought, as he smirked and a cold gleam entered his eyes, she is a childe of mine, and she can be controlled.
Tarquin quieted her gesturing arms, gripping both of her wrists inside of his long-fingered hands. While he held her there, he did his best to catch her eye; using a mixture of telepathy and charisma to touch her raging mind, he surrounded them with an aura of calm. Of course he could not keep her under forever, but for now it would do.
“I am not sorry.” he said. It was, no doubt, the wrong thing to say. But, as always, he was brutally honest.
“You will want new things. It is your....fatum. Fate.” It was a flimsy argument, at best. Tarquin knew it, a fact undisguised by his delirious grin. He had seen her devour the blood of an innocent, had seen her lust after the blood of passersby. Had seen her covered in gore. Yes, he believed, wholeheartedly, that she suited this lifestyle. And she had been brought into it the same way he had—without a choice. Yet her transition was much smoother than his. Perhaps one day he would regale her with his own story, make her feel a little better about herself. But there would be time later for that.
And perhaps he was tempting his own fate by doing so, but he released her hands, straightened his shoulders, leered down at her;
“There is no going back, Red.”
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Jan 1, 2010 4:18:52 GMT -5
[/i] to her. She tried to fight it, this alien calmness that enveloped her mind, but she had no idea how to and so, remained painfully aware that it was unnatural as it dampened the flame of her rage. Unable to fight the loosening of her muscles and softening of her gaze, Amandine’s facial features morphed into a semblance of an expressionless, empty-eyed marble statue. She watched him with tightly pursed lips, eyes narrowing slightly as he talked about fate; she wanted to spit out the venom, question his trite perception of life. Amandine did not believe in fate, how could a mother believe her son’s death was fate? How could a lover appease the hurt of losing a husband under the sick notion of fate? No, she did not agree. There is no going back,As her arms were released they dropped to her sides, unable to fight the serene hold over her muscles—all she wanted to was swing more punches at him. Her jaw fell slack momentarily as she tried to wrap her mind around what he said. There had been no way around death back then, so why should there be one now? Snapping her mouth shut, she straightened her posture and eyed him viciously. Amandine swore to wipe that smirk off his face one of these days. Without another word, she side-stepped him, making her way up the stairs; heels sounding loudly against the stairs and echoing throughout the hall. The second floor was shadowed, but it didn’t stop her from stomping her way towards a door—a bedroom. It was simple, but it would do for now—all she wanted was to be alone, away from the man. She needed to think, collect herself, but as she collapsed on the bed, the springs squeaking slightly under her weight, exhaustion began to creep its way along the fibres of her relaxing muscles. Acceptance would be a tiresome endeavour.[/justify][/ul]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 2, 2010 9:45:33 GMT -5
At least he’d calmed her down enough for now.
Though of course Tarquin wasn’t stupid. The serenity would not last long. He knew that it would be quite some time before Amandine would speak with him civilly. There was a fire in her that he was unsure that even time could put out. No, he’d have to win her over, prove to her that this life could far surpass her last one. Tarquin definitely preferred this life over his last. Sure, this life had knocked the metaphorical wind from him several times. He’d been taken from everything that he’d known and transplanted in a time that was so thoroughly alien to him. But he could not have had it any other way. If everything had gone to plan, and he’d been revived again after only a century, he’d no doubt be dead.
Tarquin had no idea that Amandine was so affected by her past, so for now he had to do battle with her with no clues as to how to win her over again. But, as he stood there alone in the entrance hall to his own home, he laughed quietly to himself. Amandine was a conquest that he’d never had before. She would be a challenge. She provided colour in his otherwise black-and-white life. So he didn’t care that she was angry, that she wanted him dead. He had no regrets.
The shattered vase lay scattered around his feet, and Tarquin eyed it wearily. He should clean it up now. Although Rima had suggested he hire a cleaner, Tarquin couldn’t quite grasp the concept of allowing a complete stranger access to his home when he was upstairs sleeping, and vulnerable to the sun. So he did his own cleaning. But he couldn’t do it now. He couldn’t garner the energy.
So he slowly made his way back up the stairs, one slow step at a time, unconscious of the fact that he made no noise whatsoever.
When he returned to his room he collapsed again onto his bed, certain that he would dream of blood. He craved it, and he hoped Amandine would at least be moveable enough in a few hours so that he could feast without hassle. He left his door wide open, though he probably shouldn’t have given the vengeful state of Amandine’s thoughts. But he was past caring.
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