You Can't Run From The Dark

{Part 28}

~Zaire~

Who the fuck gets sad over a piece of bread?  Zaire wanted to grumble as he left to get her a glass of water. He had been enjoying the taste of her hunger being sated. He was surprised that her hunger was more bittersweet rather than just bitter, now that they were bound, but he was still glad when it receded slightly as she began to eat. When she tried the cherry, her thirst was palpable and he felt the urge to respond to it immediately, as if she had rung a service bell, and he was an eager bell-hopper, much to his chagrin. He didn't move away though, until she held the bread in her hands, and that ridiculous sorrow slid over his tongue.

As he filled a glass for her, he rolled his eyes at himself for it. He could have sent a shadow to retrieve it for her, but here he was, doing it by hand, because he needed an excuse to get away from her sadness. The more time that he spent around this girl, the more that she confused him. Her damn emotions were as frustrating as they were enthralling. Dare he even attempt to vault himself? Would it even work, now that they shared the Mark? Surely, vaulting himself from the girl wouldn't be possible anymore. It would be like trying to erect a wall to shield himself from the other half of him, and wasn't that unheard of? A Dark Fae shutting out his own  emotions? That idea must be something similar to what the royal guard had trained themselves to do. He was even more frustrated by the thought that the sentries were capable of something that he didn't feel was an option for him, no matter his newfound power.

Holding the glass in his hand, he stared at the scar on his wrist, left from the blood rite. Fae could heal nearly every type of wound inflicted on them without scarring, except for those that were created by that infernal alloy. The ceremonial blade was made from wraithbane - a rare metal that could kill even the hardiest of immortals. Very few blades forged from wraithbane  still existed today. The blacksmiths who had created them thousands of years ago swore an oath of secrecy, to never reveal where they had acquired the ore. And soon after the last blade was created, the blacksmiths withered from prolonged exposure to the alloy, even without ever touching it with their bare hands. Zaire read once that they had inhaled the debris in the air, and slowly scarred their innards over time. A horrible way to go, but one couldn't feel pity for them. They gave the Dark Realm, as well as the Light, destructive weapons to use against their own kind, and they got what they deserved. Justice was not swift, and they suffered greatly for it. Now, Zaire had two scars from wraithbane  that could not be disguised by the strongest glamour, and he clenched his teeth as he scrutinized the newest one. At least this  scar had been formed by his own decision to welcome the laceration, even if he had effectively been blackmailed into the ritual that had bestowed it upon him. He would bear it with honor, regardless. It was something that had to be done.

When he returned to the bedroom, the little doll had finished the slice of bread, and her thirst was even stronger for having done so. He offered her the glass of water, and her surprise and gratitude helped to dispel the awful mood he had begun to develop in the short time he was away from her. She gladly took it from him, and drank it all while he lowered himself to sit on the floor, on the opposite side of the trunk that now served as a coffee table.

"Thank you."

Zaire flinched as if she had slapped him. Although he tasted her gratitude, he hadn't expected her to vocalize it. He didn't know how to respond to it, so he gave a silent nod, and turned his gaze to the fire that would soon need to be rekindled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his half-crumpled pack of cigarettes, selected one of the least bent-up ones and leaned over to light it on one of the embers. He felt her eyes on the side of his face as he took his first drag, but he utilized a great deal of effort to not meet her gaze. She was confused, and he could taste it even through the dulling burn of the smoke.

"Won't you have some, too?"

He couldn't help the smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth at her question. He was quite full from feeding off of her every wayward feeling, and aside from the fact that he didn't require the same sustenance that she did, or the fact that he couldn't stomach mortal food like other Dark Fae, he wanted her to eat until she was full, too. But it was almost charming that she wanted him to share the banquet, when she was clearly still famished enough to eat every last bite. He shook his head as he exhaled a stream of smoke, and flicked the ash into the fireplace.

"I . . . I can't eat all of this by myself."

Zaire glanced down at the food as he replied, "You can, and you will, darling."

His smirk vanished, and he frowned when the affectionate pet name slipped from his lips. He couldn't remember the last time that he had deigned to use the endearment on a female. Had he ever? What a nuisance she was, evoking that sentiment from him. He could almost feel her pulse picking up, and he was quick to shove down the urge to make her blood pump faster in her delicate veins. She liked the sound of it, even laced with the threat of his demanding words.

"I'm not hungry," Zaire grunted huskily.

What a lie! He was hungry to claim his mate in every way imaginable. He was starving  for her touch. His hunger was rivaled only by his desperate thirst for a taste of her fresh, warm blood. How satisfying it would be to have both of the things that he had abstained from partaking in for so long! How was he sitting there, still denying himself those pleasures just so she could attend to her  needs? No matter how much time had passed without giving into a chase, Zaire never felt particularly skilled in exercising his self-control. He always felt like he was on the edge of breaking, and now, he was barely hanging on by a thread. Sobriety, celibacy? What a mockery he had made of himself over the past few years. None of that time spent wanting, and pushing away his desires, had prepared him for what he would feel with his mate so near. She was close enough that he could reach out and touch her, and yet, he wasn't. He was being patient, and it wasn't a quality that he was well-practiced in. He was seconds away from begging  her to eat the rest, so that she would be well-fed - so that she would regain her full strength, and he could finally indulge himself.

Fortunately, the little doll spared him his pride, and started to eat more, before Zaire had been reduced to a groveling fool. He stubbed out his cigarette on the stone framework of the fireplace, and stifled a sigh of relief. He would make her pay for every damn second of this torture, in blood and pleasure. She would not receive an ounce  of mercy from him when she finally incited the chase that he craved more than life itself.