It was too quiet.

The forest unnaturally still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

My pulse thudded in my ears, a steady rhythm that felt too loud in the oppressive silence. Only the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant flap of wings broke the tension, like small cracks in an otherwise suffocating vacuum.

I let out an almost exasperated noise as I scanned the ground beneath my feet, each step deliberate, my eyes sharp for any sign, any trace. He was here. He had to be.

"You can't run," I called out into the thickening shadows ahead. My voice carried through the trees, swallowed quickly by the growing darkness. The moon hung low in the sky now, casting pale light on the gnarled branches that clawed at the night air.

Somewhere ahead, I heard it—the faint sound of muffled breathing, as if he were trying to stifle a scream. Panic, sweet and tangible, clung to the air like mist. My lips curled in a smile.

I hadn't held this one for long, but he had already begun to unravel. I took him along with another, both from the same town—a spontaneous indulgence, really. The first one had outlived his usefulness weeks ago. The months of toying with that boy had grown too tiresome. The scales had tipped, and the fun could no longer outweigh the effort. But this one... This one had fire. I liked that.

Maybe I liked him too much. That was my mistake. A novice mistake.

He'd slipped away, a rare thing, and fled into the woods—these woods, which stretched for miles. They were close to home, and if he had been more careful, he might have made it farther. But he wasn't careful. Not enough to escape me. If he had wanted to leave at all, that is.

I ducked under a low-hanging branch, my hair catching in the twigs. Blood from my earlier kill stained the tips, dark, sticky and knotting at the edges. I had wanted to clean myself up before chasing him, but he hadn't given me the time. Still, I rather enjoyed the mess. It felt... intimate. A reminder of the hunt. Over the past few days, I'd spent more and more time with this fleeing prey of mine, and that all too comfortable sensation of desire crept up behind me. The desire to kill.

Looking into his eyes still sent a thrill through me, just as it had the night we first met. But that thrill had grown dangerous, so I ventured out to a nearby club and lured in another man—someone I didn't hesitate to sink my teeth into right away. If I were to give my prey the benefit of the doubt, perhaps he had heard me bring that one home, and this whole little escapade was born out of jealousy.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of sweat and blood. His fear. It clung to the trees, swirling through the night air. I inhaled deeply, savouring the mix. Fear always comes with the tang of death, like a shadow lingering just out of sight, waiting, looking over your shoulder, breathing slowly as your mind races. It was here, in these woods, under this moon.

Death was inevitable.

Death lingered thick in these woods, as natural to the place as the trees themselves—creeping from animals to people. You didn't have to look far to witness teeth sinking into flesh. It only reminded me of my own need—the hunger gnawing at me, craving the boy's blood on my hands. It was more than just a desire; it was an obsession, wrapped in a sweet, cruel package, waiting to be delivered to an unsuspecting victim.

I've always been tempted by the thought of taking a man apart, tying each severed piece with a bow, and sending them off to his family. Imagine the horror of opening a box only to find the head of your husband or son staring back at you. The shock must be indescribable—hands flying to trembling lips, anguished cries, bodies crumpling to the floor in disbelief. I picture them gasping for breath, choking on their own sobs, the bitter taste of blood rising in their throats.

"You're close," I murmured, stepping forward, feeling the underbrush crunch softly beneath my boots. The forest around me creaked as the wind tugged at the ageing trees. The birds had fallen silent. Only the occasional caw of a distant crow broke through the stillness. I could almost feel him—his pulse racing, his body pressed low against the earth, hoping I wouldn't find him.

But I always found them.

I kneeled, touching the cool earth, letting my fingers sift through the leaves. The air felt different now, heavier, saturated with the raw scent of survival. A part of me wanted to drag this out. Make him suffer for the boldness of his escape. But another part, a deeper part, just wanted the kill.

I stood and let out a slow breath, smiling at the thought of his beautiful, trembling body beneath me. His blood, warm and fresh, running over my hands. I had brought others home before him, but this one... he was special.

Perhaps too special.

If only he'd stayed, none of this would be necessary. But here we were. He had made his choice.

"You know, you should feel proud of yourself. Not many souls have dared run away from me," I smile, looking down at my splattered watch and noting the time - quarter past two. He managed to crawl out of my basement three hours earlier. I would have eagerly agreed that he'd get more than twenty minutes away, but that was not the case. There had been only one other boy that had managed to escape my manor - he was gone a short hour and was twice the distance this one was.

"You're such a stubborn thing," I said, my voice soft, almost teasing. I pressed a hand to the bark of a nearby tree, the rough texture grounding me in the moment. My gaze drifted upward, catching the faintest shimmer of moonlight filtering through the canopy. He couldn't be far now. I could feel him, almost smelling his defiance lingering just beyond the next line of trees.

The wound in my thigh pulsed painfully with each step. I'd found him just before he bolted—scissors in hand, quick enough to slice into my skin before I could react. I hadn't expected him to fight back, not with that kind of fury. I should have been angry, but all I felt was a strange, simmering satisfaction.

He was mine, after all.

I push away from the tree hastily, and with my first step, I'm overwhelmed by a sudden surge of bloodlust. The scent of the woods had never felt this vivid before—pure and raw, almost wholesome in its vitality. It was alive, teeming with its own brand of life. Being here felt like every primal instinct coming to the surface, easing me into who I was meant to be.

I wasn't used to being out in nature, but here, I felt more animalistic—powerful, like I was in my element. I purse my lips, once coated with a dark red that had long since faded, and stretch out my arms, listening to the distant calls of foxes and the wind wrapping itself around me.

"You're a beautiful shade of blue, you know," I murmur, glancing up at the moon, its soft aura a stark contrast to the void of blackness stretching across the sky. It felt like a fitting compliment for both of us. The boy, too, seemed cloaked in blue—a coldness that could be from the biting chill or the way he'd often choked his own neck, trying to escape the weight of his emotions. Pride and hatred constantly swirled within him, a bittersweet harmony that tangled his thoughts and allowed him to focus solely on my desires.

I wonder what it feels like to love someone so deeply, all while knowing they're ready to tear you apart—literally. Maybe that's the true essence of love: a willingness to be utterly vulnerable. I could rip out his heart, still beating, a beautiful thing in its own right, and watch it slowly stop, ceasing to pump the blood that once gave him life. He was always such a torment, a delightful toy, and I hadn't planned to kill him so soon. But tonight, I was left with little choice.

He was unexpected. I picked him up in a bar on the other side of town—just like all the others, wide-eyed and brimming with hormones. Once he was inside my home, gripped in just the right ways, he transformed from wild to submissive, like a well-trained puppy. I almost wanted to keep him. He was different. The first boy I kept wasn't as wild—his quiet nature drew me in at first, but I quickly grew bored.

I should have known they were getting closer. The strong always rally to protect the weak. My wide-eyed boy started to struggle more, fighting to stay away. In the end, I did what I had to—I destroyed the first one. And now, here I am, limping through the woods after a boy I'd once wanted to keep, now needing to dispose of him.

My footsteps echo faintly in the stillness—he'll never know where I'm coming from. I can hear his breathing, soft and sweet, almost too innocent for someone in such danger. It's as if he's a trap—a sweet pool of honey surrounded by bees, and getting close means risking the sting.

I wish he had the strength to fight back. There's something thrilling about watching someone turn violent in their final moments, desperately trying to defend themselves before I end it all. But he's too frail, too weak to satisfy that urge. He couldn't harm anyone, let alone protect himself—not now that the first one is gone. He'd take a beating or two, then surrender.

A sharp crack echoed through the trees. I froze, tilting my head toward the sound. There—his breathing, ragged, desperate. Closer than I thought.

"I admire your fight," I called, pushing off from the tree and moving faster now, my steps more deliberate. "But you should know by now, my dear—you can't outrun me."

The scent of him grew stronger, filling my lungs with every breath. My heart quickened in response, that familiar, intoxicating urge bubbling just beneath the surface. I had chased him long enough. It was time to end this game.

The moonlight fell in pale shafts through the trees as I spotted him, curled low between a cluster of roots, his eyes wide, terrified. He didn't see me yet, not fully.

Poor thing.

"You know you want to come back to me," I whispered, stepping into the clearing. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto mine, the realisation hitting him too late. His chest heaved as he stumbled to his feet, but I was already there.

"Don't struggle," I cooed, reaching out, my fingers grazing the side of his neck. His pulse hammered beneath my touch, and he flinched, but didn't pull away. I felt him shudder as his body betrayed him, leaning ever so slightly toward me, drawn to the one thing he feared most.

I leaned in close, my breath warm against his ear. "You'll come home with me. You always do."

He let out a soft, broken sob, and I smiled, guiding him back into the darkness, where he belonged.

"All your noise—never a moment of silence." I chuckled softly, following the faint path his feet had marked in the earth. His attempts to escape were always futile. "And because of that, little one, you're going to die a sweet death. You're going to watch yourself fade away..."

I realised long ago that every time we touched, he shivered under my fingers. Even back then, he was already mine—just a shell, hollowed out and waiting for the inevitable. I drained him, took every bit of life he had left, and I can't find an ounce of pity for him.

"Leave me alone! Please, just leave me alone!" His voice cracked, trembling through the trees. I paused, listening to the desperation, and for a fleeting moment, a strange sadness flickered through me. But it was brief. We were at the end of our masquerade. His mask had long since rotted away, and now it was time to put him where the worms crawl, where the dead dance.

"I can't do this anymore. You're driving me insane." His voice was fragile, close to breaking entirely.

"You're so strong. So defiant," I mused, knowing the effect it would have. Sure enough, his defiance broke, replaced by that sickening delight he'd always shown me. He was conditioned now, like a well-trained pet, his mind wrapped around my words. His resistance was fleeting—he'd come back, he always did. And then the real fun would begin.

"Come back and show me why you need me. You crave me," I whispered, knocking twice on the nearest tree, a signal to guide him back to me.

"As much as I crave you," I added softly. I could hear him now, shuffling through the leaves, his steps unsure, but obedient. Soon enough, he appeared through the trees, stumbling into view. His expression was a grotesque blend of hatred and yearning, twisted into something almost pitiful. He dropped to his knees before me, barely any fight left in his wide eyes. He was ready.

"One day, your blood will flow freely," I murmured, kneeling down to press my lips to his. He responded instantly, desperate, kissing me back with an intensity that was almost pathetic. His lips were soft, sweet, but tinged with finality, as if both of us knew this was the last time they would touch another.

I counted down. Twenty-eight seconds. That's all it took for him to collapse onto the leaves beneath him, his eyes wide, still clinging to some twisted form of hope. His body was weak, drained from the chase, but his eyes—those eyes still yearned for my touch.

"Not yet," I whispered, pulling back just before he could break any further. He moaned in frustration, his hunger for me palpable, a desperation that would never be satisfied.

"Are you coming home, baby?" I breathed into his ear, watching as he nodded weakly, lifting his arms toward me in a silent plea for help. They swayed in the air, like a puppet with severed strings. His strength was gone. The chase had bled him dry, leaving him nothing more than a shadow of what he once was. I smiled. The game was over.

But before I could savour the moment fully, a meek voice—soft, yet urgent—broke through the stillness. It was the kind of voice that startled, especially when filled with alarm.

"Miss Angelina, we must depart."

The voice cut through the quiet like a ripple in calm water, momentarily drawing my gaze away from the soul beneath me. I hesitated, the serenity of the moment fractured. For a beat, I ignored it, my smile lingering as I looked down at him. He hadn't even noticed the presence beside us, completely lost in me.

"I'm sure your chase has drawn some attention, Miss," Florence continued, her voice tinged with distress.

I reluctantly tore my gaze away from him, lifting it to Florence, who stood gingerly about ten feet away. She was one of the rare few I kept around—occasionally helpful in holding down the men, though her involvement had yet to escalate to anything severe. I had to admit, she was an asset. With her beach-blonde hair, blue eyes, and that wholesome, 'girl-next-door' facade I could never quite pull off, she was a perfect lure. The doe-eyed innocence, the plump lips that drew attention without her realising it, were her unintentional weapons.

But beneath that sweet exterior, Florence was far from the teenage fantasy most imagined. Her curiosity about my 'work' had bloomed not long after she arrived under my care. When she first entered my home, she moved timidly, perching on the edge of furniture as if trying to disappear. Her voice was soft, her presence easily overlooked. Yet even then, there was a certain elegance in her movements, a grace that caught my eye. It became my mission to destroy the timid mouse and forge a fox. While she was still far more innocent than the others, she had a long way to go.

Once, she had dared to pick up a knife, but after staring too long into the eyes of one of the newer men, her resolve crumbled. She handed the blade back quickly, leaving the room with nothing more than a squeak. I wasn't surprised; I had expected it. The newly captured ones always carry a certain fire, a furiousness that takes time to extinguish.

"Florence, dearest, please don't rush my process. He needs the air," I said firmly, lifting the boy's arm onto my shoulder. With a quick, obedient movement, she darted around to balance his other side. His blood soaked through his shirt, staining the back of my dress. I made a mental note to discard it before any nosy neighbours took notice.

"I fear we may have drawn unwanted attention this time," Florence whispered, helping me manoeuvre the boy to the van. I twisted his limp body and shoved him inside, into the back of the caterer's van—my trusty cover for these public ventures. The side panels were marred with blemishes I hadn't noticed before. Rust, or perhaps remnants of blood from a careless slip on a previous outing? I wasn't sure, but the stains didn't bode well.

I heard the driver's door swing open and close, followed by the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel. A pair of heels approached, their rhythm deliberate. "You used to be so careful, dear sister."

I turned to face Cleo, who stood an inch or two shorter than me, her delicate features a more refined version of my own. As children, she was always considered the sunny one, radiating warmth. Yet, I knew from the beginning that beneath her gleeful temperament, she was too much like me.

Cleo was my half-sister, born from our mother's affair with some charming stranger she met during a book club outing. He wasn't in town long, just long enough to leave his mark. My father never discovered her indiscretion—lucky for Cleo, who might not have been allowed to stay. She had inherited my brown hair and eyes, though her skin was darker, her features even more perfect than my own. It was almost chilling, the eerie perfection of her.

"I've never known you to leave a drop of blood behind. You're becoming careless," Cleo muttered, stepping beside Florence as we finished hoisting the boy into the van. I bit my tongue, forcing a smile as I walked away, the faint scent of diesel leaking from the vehicle filling my nostrils. My fingers brushed against the metal exterior, trailing along the rusty blemishes I now realised were indeed rust, not blood. I allowed myself a small sigh of relief.

"I believe sometimes she falls for these men," I overheard Cleo whisper to Florence as I climbed into the driver's seat. "...and her emotions get the better of her."

"Enough," I hissed, spinning to face them, my patience fraying. They hadn't yet realised they had overstepped. "I could never love a man again. Love is the only emotion that could ever get the best of me." The words slipped from my lips before I had time to fully process them. Silence fell in the van, thick and heavy. Florence's eyes glazed over, and she slumped in her seat beside me, the faint scent of daisies clinging to her. Had she been gardening? I wondered if it was her way of escaping after what she'd witnessed in the dungeons.

She still hadn't found a reason to kill, at least not yet. My reason had once been revenge, but now... it was something else. Perhaps an addiction to playing god. And like most addicts, once you've indulged, you're as good as gone. Cleo, for all her beauty, had joined me for one reason alone—she loved me too much to let me do it alone.

The engine hummed softly, the lights off, as I listened to the boy's heartbeat. It was quick, erratic, reverberating through the van like a distant drumbeat.

"Miss Angelina," Florence asked tentatively, her voice cutting through the quiet. "Are you going to kill this one now? I've never seen you treat a man so delicately." There was hope in her eyes—a look I hadn't seen in years. The men I'd taken recently had a different expression, not hope for survival, but a pining for affection mingled with the desire for an end to their misery.

"Perhaps I am growing soft," I mused aloud, my thoughts wandering. I had been letting them live longer, feeding them more, keeping them content. I hadn't intended to become so passive a hostess, but I didn't plan on staying that way either.

dalliance; a brief love affair