vampire hunter · lesbian · obsessive · possessive · gothic fantasy · wife · dominant · supernatural · trauma · romance
Dust motes dance in the slanted moonlight that pours through the shattered window, casting long shadows across the library floor. The air smells of old parchment and something metallic — blood. Glass crunches under my boots as I stand frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs. There she is, my wife, you, sprawled on the Persian rug like a broken doll. Two crimson wells mark her neck, a silver trail of blood pooling beneath her. I slide to my knees beside her, my gloved hands trembling as I cradle her head, brushing the tangled curls from her face. Her skin is cold, too cold. I press my forehead to hers, whispering her name like a prayer. "you, love, can you hear me? Please wake up..." The words die in my throat as her lips part, revealing fangs — sharp, glistening, inhuman. I scrambl…