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Searing, terrible pain made her cry out as her fingers blackened and cracked. Falling back, she grabbed her wounded hand close to her and shoved herself backward with her feet. The pain was nearly unbearable as she pushed herself back to the vanity.

“Dammit,” she hissed through gritted teeth. She tried to fight off the waves of agony flowing up her hand. “Heal, dammit,” she muttered, and willed it to happen. She could almost feel her chilled blood churning through her veins sluggishly, trying to heal her. She had noticed as she was falling asleep in the early hours of the morning that her heart was barely beating, and now she felt as if it was completely stilled.

“Heal,” she muttered in an agonized voice. Slowly, the blackened skin began to peel and ooze. Biting her bottom lip, she grimaced as the crisped flesh fell off and fresh new skin knitted itself into existence. It was not until the skin was pink and smooth once more that the pain at last subsided.

The hunger hit her in a wave of desperate need. It knocked her back and left her gasping as it churned to life inside of her. In a split second, she was on the bed and crouched over Pete. She could feel her veins contracting as they yearned for blood to flow through them again. Her gut clenched and her mouth ached as her long teeth descended. She needed to eat now and Pete's heartbeat sang in her ears.

“Sorry,” she whispered and, without hesitation, she fed.

***

The second time Amaliya woke, the room was dark with only an edging of light around the window. Pete still lay on the bed, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. His pale skin and waxy looks frightened her. She knew she had taken far too much of his blood. To her disgust, she wanted to take more. She was growing hungry; the need was beginning to claw at her. How she had managed to tear away from his throat, she wasn't too sure. Through the red haze of her feeding, she had managed to grasp hold of her desire not to destroy Pete. She had pulled herself away from the killing droughts she had desperately wanted to take.

Climbing to her feet, she stood next to the bed, pale in the darkness in her tank top and panties. Her black hair fell over one shoulder in a tumble of waves. She rubbed her brow with one hand. He looked so quiet and so sweet lying there. His words from the night before still whispered through her, stirring the false hopes of a normal life.

“Shit,” she muttered, and turned away. She needed to get the hell out of here.

Grabbing her bag, she headed into the small, white bathroom. She was anxious to get away now that the sun was setting. Pete needed medical attention. She would have to call 911 and get the hell out of the motel as fast as she could. Besides, she needed to feed again. The great need gnawed at her insides and she knew instinctively that it would only grow more demanding.

The shower was quick and to the point. Fifteen minutes later, she sat on the toilet, combing out her wet hair. She noticed the lack of split ends with a dull wonder and examined her much longer nails. They were sharp and strong. Her hands almost did not look like hers, except for the badly chipped nail polish. As she drew the comb through her hair over and over again, she wondered what she looked like now. Pete had looked at her as if she was gorgeous, while her family had regarded her with fear. Did she look radically different? Maybe a better version of herself? There was no way to know.

“Fucking mirror,” she growled under her breath.

With a heavy sigh, she shoved the comb in the bag along with the rest of her clothes. Not caring to arrange it neatly, she shoved stuff around until the bag closed right. Pete's phone began to ring.

She had a feeling her time was nearly up.

Walking to where he lay, she stared at him, feeling the throb of her hunger deep inside. Her heart was beating slowly in her chest, her veins felt hollow, but she could hold off her hunger a bit longer. Sweeping her hair back from her face, she leaned over him, trying not to look at the two pale wounds on his neck. They looked like bug bites. She wondered if there was something inside of her saliva that had stopped the bleeding and promoted healing.

“Pete,” she whispered.

To her surprise, his eyelids quivered.

Steadying herself with one hand, she moved a little closer. “Pete. ”

His thick eyelashes fluttered as he slowly opened his eyes.

It hurt her to see the fear there.

“I'm leaving. Your phone is right here,” she said, and shoved the small device into one of his hands. “Call 911. ”

“What did you. . . do to me?” he managed to whisper through pale lips.

The dark powering churning in her gut began to flow into her limbs and she could feel her eyes beginning to burn. This was the force she had felt last night when she had commanded him to sleep. Looking at him intently, she willed that power into him.

“You got sick. You never saw me. You came here to rest. You never saw me,” she ordered him in a voice that was raw and thick with her new ability.

“I. . . got. . . sick,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she answered with a sad smile. “You did. Call 911 when I leave. The second that door shuts forget about me. Understand?”

She could literally feel her power overwhelming him, her desire pushing into his mind, reshaping his memory.

He nodded mutely, gazing at her through his eyelashes as if she were a goddess.

Tears threatening, she leaned over and kissed his lips. “Bye, Pete. ”

Standing up, she heaved her bag over her shoulder and headed to the door. She could feel his gaze on her and turned to look at him. Despite his fear, she could see a sliver of yearning in his eyes as he strained to watch her go. In his gaze, she could see her great beauty and presence. She self-consciously ran a hand over the peach and white vintage skirt that swung around the tops of her knees. A white tank top with the word “Bitch” in gold studs and cowboy boots topped off the outfit. Snatching her cowboy hat off the dresser, she sighed sadly.


Tags: Rhiannon Frater Pretty When She Dies Vampires