~Zaire~

A chase had never felt so satisfying. She ran much faster than Zaire had expected her to, and he was actually impressed. As he took to the air, the excitement that he felt was electrifying. He was finally  getting to have some fun, and it was long overdue. He enjoyed every second of the chase. When she fell, he almost cursed, thinking that she was about to stop, but as he swooped low to the ground, she got back up immediately and tried to run again. He told her that he wouldn't catch her if she stopped. It would ruin the fun if she surrendered. He was overjoyed that she kept going, and as pleased as he was to chase her - feeling like he could do it all night - he couldn't wait to catch her. He dropped down in front of her, and the gust of wind that propelled from his wings to soften his landing blew her tangled hair back from her delicate face. She had scrapes all over her, and her dress had been torn and smudged with dirt, but she never looked more beautiful to him as she did in that moment. Once again, his shadows instantly tried to stab toward her, desperate to have their own fun, but he wrestled them back. She's mine!

He wasted no time, clasping his lips over hers to hush her scream of terror, and his claws made quick work of shredding what was left of her clothing, baring her to him. Fuck. She tasted like cherries, and when his hands slid over her skin, he suddenly understood why some Dark Fae craved the taste of flesh. Touching her almost wasn't enough, he wanted to consume her.

It felt so fucking good to touch her like this, to feel her body responding to him, to taste her emotions directly from her own tongue as it tangled with his. He growled against her mouth, and she swallowed the sound of it. Her desire was rich now, and tastier than he could have imagined it would be at its full strength. God, she wanted him. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He shuddered as her hands explored his body, and it had been so long since he had felt someone touch him like that, and even then, none of those trysts held a candle to what this felt like. His wings responded to his unbridled bliss with wicked, erratic movements, his shadows unsure if they should coil or stretch - they didn't know what to do with themselves. He silently commanded them to shroud them like a cocoon, as he tore his clothes off, eager to remove the last barrier between their skin. Seeing him as exposed as she was, she burst into tears, and her reverence for the shape of his form flooded his senses.

He was such a fool for avoiding this like his existence had depended on it. He had wasted too many of her lifetimes, and his heart ached for those lost years. How could he have ever denied the other half of his soul? He molded his body against hers, and the feeling of it was indescribable. She fit him so perfectly that he could have wept himself, like a blubbering child. Her keening moan was a siren's song, as every inch of her softened against him, becoming so pliant, so needy for him to take what was his. He answered her need by driving into her all the way to the hilt, evoking a resounding roar of pleasure from deep inside of him. Nothing felt more right, more gratifying than the breaking of her inner sanctum. He had never experienced anything like it. He took her innocence in one fell swoop, slamming her back against a tree, and the scent of her arousal combined with that of her virgin blood dazed him as he stroked in and out of her. Her pain was delicious, but her pleasure threatened to melt him. He couldn't even be shocked by it, he knew now that all of her emotions belonged to him, and even the ones that he used to find distasteful were euphoric coming from her, because they were bound. They were finally one, finally completing each other as they should have centuries ago. His lips found hers again and again, and his hands couldn't stop roving over her skin, delighting him with the softness of it, and every whimper, moan, and shiver he coaxed out of her was met with his own yearning groans. This  was everything that he had selfishly shoved away? This  was what he was missing out on? Goddamn him! This was everything that he needed!

His hands wrapped around her pretty little throat and her rapid heartbeat was in sync with his own as he busted inside of her. His climax pushed her over the edge, and she was coming with him, her warmth squeezing around him so tightly that it knocked the breath out of his chest. Fucking hell, it was powerful enough to end worlds. She was a goddess, and he was nothing in the wake of her orgasm. His lust was quenched so thoroughly then, that all he could think of was how good her blood would taste. As she trembled and writhed against him, he snatched the arm that bore his Mark, and pierced her wrist with his fangs, ravenous for her blood. He felt like he would die if he didn't. She weakly tried to stop him, but her body soon went limp, and he held her tightly as her blood dripped down his throat.

It was ambrosia, it was the nectar of life, and it was the sweetest flavor that could possibly exist. After only a few greedy gulps, his vision hazed with an all-consuming red, and he was intoxicated. He couldn't stop, even as her skin went white and clammy, and he could feel her pulse slowing to a dangerously slow crawl. Fuck. Nothing had ever tasted so good, nothing had ever made him this drunk. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that this was wrong, that he was going to kill her. He was going to drain every last drop from his mate, and never have the pleasure of chasing her again. Still, he had no hope that he could break away. Her elixir was too strong, too devastating were the effects of it, coursing through his body. He was high, and this drug was so addictive that he just wanted more. More. More. 

But suddenly, an electric shock bolted through him, radiating from his Mark, and he was flung off of her, repelled away from the other half of his soul - he was ejected by the force of it, and without him holding her up, his mate collapsed. Everything was bathed in red. He couldn't see straight. His surroundings were doubled and swaying like a mirage.

"Damnit!" Zaire cursed, struggling to get to his feet. What the fuck did he just do? How could he have let himself go that far? As he staggered toward his little doll, the guilt that he felt was immeasurable. If it hadn't been for the Mark, he would have murdered her. Just like he had imagined that he would, when she was a fragile, insignificant mortal in his eyes. How could he have been so blind? She was everything to him, and he had told himself that she was less than nothing. He was so beyond inebriated that he could barely walk, his equilibrium was shot. But he made it over to her, and his heart bled for her as he gathered her in his arms. 

"I'm so sorry," Zaire murmured with a slur in his voice, and brushed a tender kiss on her forehead. He had never once said those words to anyone, but his apology was painfully sincere. She was unconscious, but he swore to himself that he would repeat those foreign words when she came to. He would say them to her when he was sober, and he would make sure that she understood that he truly meant those words. She would know that he didn't want to drink her dry, that he wouldn't betray her trust like that again. She had been willing to give herself to him, and he had taken more than he should have. He was so fucking sorry for it.

When he stood, he listed to one side for a moment, but caught himself before he sent them both tumbling back to the ground. He would not drop her, no matter the state that he was in. He couldn't fly with her, not as high as he was right now. And aside from his own lack of capability, his shadows lolled limply behind him, oozing along the ground, not immune to the effects in the slightest. So, he carried her back to his home on foot, narrowly avoiding stumbling over every rock and exposed root. Their home, Zaire amended silently. It was their home, now, not just his. He intended to share everything with her, and shed every last remnant of selfishness that he had harbored since birth. She was more than deserving of everything he could offer her, and he felt that in his bones. He was hers, as much as she was his. She could bring him to his knees, and he would gladly stay there. 

.   .   .

When Zaire finally got her inside, he laid her on the vintage méridienne, and sank down to the floor, his head spinning. Her wrist had healed, as well as all her scrapes and scratches, but with his gaze still casting everything in red, he found no comfort in that. What could he do? How could he help her recover? All of his senses were muddled, but he knew that the first thing that he needed to do was wash the blood off of her, so his eyes would stop rolling back in his head every time the scent begged for his attention again. The warm bath would help to banish that chill from her skin, too. He dragged himself away from her, and his shadows slithered along lazily behind him. He drew the bath by hand and came back for her, and this time, he got in the water with her, and held her. With her back to his chest, he allowed himself a moment just to rest his chin on the top of her head and sigh heavily. He needed to do more for her. Her pulse was still so weak. 

An idea blasted through the haze in his besotted mind, and it was a ludicrous thought, but he had to try it. She wasn't just any mortal now, she was his mate, and perhaps his blood could help replenish her somehow. Maybe he was just fucked up beyond all reason, but it sounded like it could work. He slashed his own wrist with one claw, and as he used his other hand to gently part her lips, he let his blood drip into her mouth. Her lashes fluttered as she swallowed, and her eyebrows furrowed as she moaned, and her back arched slightly. He let his hand fall from her face, waiting to see her reaction as he let more blood fall onto her parted lips. She licked her lips slowly, and he felt her pulse growing stronger with every drop. She had come to, but she wasn't opening her eyes. He could taste her confusion, her fear, her pleasure. She was afraid of what she might be waking up to. She didn't know what she was drinking, or where she was, but he could tell that she felt good, she just didn't trust that. When her eyes finally did open, and she saw that he was bleeding into her mouth, there was momentary revulsion. If he wasn't high out of his mind, he would feel hurt by the fact that his blood disgusted her, or maybe he would laugh at himself for thinking that she would see it as anything but  disgusting. 

But to his complete and utter shock, her delicate little hands wrapped around his arm, and she brought his wrist to her lips and started softly sucking and licking, as if she wasn't fully understanding why she wanted to, but she was doing it anyway. Only a minute or two passed before he felt his head clearing, and his vision was starting to go back to normal. When it did, he breathed a deep sigh of relief, and carefully pulled his wrist away from her. She let it go immediately, and responded with her own soft sigh. She had regained at least half of her strength, and she was content with that. He wrapped his arms around her petite body and squeezed her affectionately. He had to tell her, now. He swore to himself that he would when he was sober, when she was conscious.

"I'm so sorry, little doll," Zaire whispered in her ear, stroking her hair and worrying with a tangle. 

She gasped sharply, tensed, and wriggled away from him. He could practically hear her heart pounding as she turned to face him. Her eyes were wide as they searched his gaze, and her emotions were an explosion of flavors that flooded his mouth. He hoped that she could hear the sincerity in his words, see it in his eyes, as the last of the pinkish-red hue leftover from his drunken state evaporated.