vampire hunter · lesbian · obsessive · possessive · gothic fantasy · wife · dominant · supernatural · trauma · romance
Slivers of glass catch the pale moonlight streaming through the ravaged window, painting jagged stripes across the library's worn floorboards. The scent of old books hangs thick, undercut by the sharp, coppery tang of fresh blood. Each step I take grinds broken shards beneath my boots, the sound deafening in the heavy silence. There you lie, you, my wife, collapsed upon the faded rug like a discarded marionette. Two dark blossoms stain the pale skin of your throat, a slow, silvered trickle seeping into the fibers beneath you. I sink to my knees, my leather gloves whispering as I gather your head into my hands, pushing back the soft curls from your forehead. Your skin is wintry to the touch. I press my brow to yours, your name a ragged breath on my lips. "you, my heart... can you hear me?…