La Mujer Del Flujo De Sangre Novels & Stories

She groans in pain. Lucia ran for it her hand dripping from a faint rosy red, and the pale-skinned woman leapt at her, hands raised backwards above her head as she tried to stab her, fighting for her life she grabbed the flower vase by her right, it just happened in a flash and the woman lied lifeless on the floor streaming from her head was a red taint, Lucia stood there her hands fall to her sides and her mouth agape.

Clarifying facts: When Sheila gets nervous she simply sticks to her native language, Spanish, and with Augusto it will be no different. -Pero la señora dije (but the lady said...). -I know what you said," Sheila interrupted him as she wiped her son's wet face with her thumb for that little girl, "but Soraia has lost a lot of blood, and even though she's a vampire, it can kill her slowly and painfully. -So let's give her some blood. Sheila smiled meekly and proudly at the son she had raised. Although her soul still cried for the absence of her other child.

The lady crawled desperately, not wanting to give up. ‘Don’t give up!’ her subconscious screamed. She didn’t want to, but she was tired and hurt. Latina looked at her hand, there’s a lot of blood. She wiped the blood away but the bleeding won’t stop. Her world started to spin. She went dizzy. ‘Why don’t you drink your own blood? You still have to escape!’ her subconscious suggested.

Just void. Aria took a step closer, breath locking in her chest. The woman's gaze landed on her. Didn't move. That stare was suffocating. Like being seen and swallowed at the same time. Someone behind Aria gasped. "Is she… having a seizure?" "She's possessed," someone else muttered, backing away. "I'm telling you. That's not normal." The woman opened her mouth. Blood spilled out. Not a spray — a stream. Thick and slow, running down her chin, pooling on her shirt.

asks the nurse in a concerned tone. Maria takes a look at the girl's rosy cheeks that are now turned pale due to lack of blood. As her eyes trail to Elora sitting in the corner, she feels pity for the poor soul. "Do It," she grunts. Blood transfer doesn't go easy for her. As the second bottle gets filled with her blood. Maria's eyes get heavy and in a few moments, she loses consciousness. The young woman wakes up with a migraine. "Ah, here wakes up the shame," Elora jumps on her feet and walks up to her.

The blade enters her flesh. A sound, a wet sound, barely audible. The skin opens, the flesh separates, and the blood appears. Bright red, shiny, first beading, then flowing in a thin stream down her thigh. She grits her teeth, her jaws clench, but she doesn't scream. Tears rise to her eyes, roll down her cheeks, but she doesn't cry. She watches her blood flow, fascinated, horrified, exhilarated. "Into the bowl," I say.

Not even organs as they are all, well, devoured by this wretched creature. The woman’s autumn-colored hair was shining amidst the pitch black darkness. Shadows have indeed become her blanket, her cloak. As she tread towards outside her shack, with the essence of darkness still covering her, her shimmering russet eyes beamed, as if a predator just spotted her long-awaited prey. Without further ado, she then took the bowl of blood—derived from the heartless corpse—that she had prepared minutes ago into the wholly black-colored flower, its petals accentuated with silver linings.

I already know that she's peppered with them all over her body. "So everyone will obviously know before lunch." I say my hands brushing up her arms. She flinches slightly at the contact. "Give me a good reason not to kill that son of a bitch." It's a growl and she shifts uncomfortably and I sit up so my eyes are level with hers. They're completely green now her wolf retreated for now. "I've got it handled." She says quietly no longer looking in my eyes. "It only happens when he drinks too much but doesn't pass out. I was also late getting home yesterday so-"

One of her feet slipped, and she lost her balance. Mariz let go of her hair, and she fell down the six steps. The woman was lying on the cement floor of the driveway like a frog. "Ma'am!" the two maids shouted in unison. They ran to Mariz to help her. She quickly approached Summer and hugged her still crying child. "Oh my God!" Mariz's voice was crying, so she and Carollete looked at the woman. Her eyes also widened when she saw the blood on the woman's hand, and because she was wearing a tank top and shorts, she could clearly see the blood flowing down her thigh.

The water was a freezing, suffocating weight, a dark void that tried to claim Elena’s lungs as her own. But the fire in her heart—the memory of four tiny lives snuffed out by the man she called husband—was hotter than the icy current of the river. When her hand finally broke the surface, miles downstream from the jagged cliffs where her car had plummeted, she wasn't a wife anymore. She was a ghost. A tall, silhouette-like figure stood on the muddy bank, a long charcoal overcoat snapping in the wind. He didn't move to help her. He simply watched as she dragged her bruised, shivering body onto the silt.