Bound To The Vampire Lord

It was his eyes that did it. It was his eyes that enraptured her. Shehad heard of eyes like these, but she could not remember where. Eyes like two gleaming silver coins, like the half arch of a crescentmoon in the sky just before she had to start the Moon dance.

It was his eyes.

The man in question had shoulder length hair. Dark, very, very dark. Hair that shone with oil. Even from across the room, Khloe could smell it on him, the sweetness of scent that no man had the right to be wearing.

But this man was. And it made Khloe want to bury her face in the side of his neck and inhale, even when it would have be more prudent if she sunk her teeth into his neck instead. Prudent, because she was tied in a chair before him, silver manacles attached to her legs and hands, holding her to the chair. The cuff were tight. Almost too tight, such that if she squirmed or moved even the slightest bit, they cut into her wrists and ankles. Prudent, because there two men standing guards at both sides of the chair, watching her like hounds, watching her like she was a hound. Prudent, because the man with the sliver eyes was looking at her like she was something to be studied, to be picked apart and examined, his gaze two moons burning into her skin with an intensity that the moon did not have.

Khloe knew that look, she had seen it a time too many at home, in the West, amongst her own people. Some looked at her and spat, disgust ill concealed by their features. Others on the other handlooked at her like the man was doing. People who showed their hate and anger were often like barking hounds, the sage had once told her: it did not matter how loud they howled, they never bit. But people like this man, with the beautifully gaunt face and the thin fingers, they were often more lethal. Khloe had learnt earlier not to trifle with the latter. She had long since learned to evade them. Except when they refused to be evade.

The moon-eyed man had refused, by all indications.

He was standing over her seated and bound figure, running his thin pale fingers over a blade. The black was black, oily black just like his hair and clothes.

'What is your name?' He asked. His tone was just as black and dead as his garbs.

She stayed silent, watching him warily.

'If you do not tell me, my friends here may have to beat it out of you.' He said, gesturing at the two enormous men standing stoic at her sides. 'We do not want that now, do we?'

The man made the threat without so much as a glimmer of anger,or a trace of menace. In fact, he could have been talking about sweettea how he suggested violence with ease.

Her throat was dry and parched. She could have asked for a drink of water, but the man and his 'friends' did not seem like the type to honour such a request. At least, not until she had given them what they wanted.