구원서사 Novels & Stories

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT “Love is a reciprocal torture” MICHEAL PROUST GUINEVERE "Before you guys begin torturing me, I think I need to state that I am not a vampire, I am human like you and if you killed me right now I'm actually going to die for real." "Then you found your way to make yourself human or you lying like you always do. We have been trained not to ever believe a word Katherine says so if this is your ploy to push us off our mark, you are desperately failing." The girl smirked

Zahara smiles and my Goddess, that smile. “It probably helped that I gave you some of my blood. Us being mates and all, the blood took care of a lot. Take into consideration that I’m an Alpha, and that is probably what helped you heal faster.” I nod, but don’t say anything in response. “Do you…..do you remember what happened to you?” I take a few minutes and close my eyes. I try to recreate the last moments that I had before I woke up here. I open my eyes when I feel sparks on my hand. I look down and see that Zahara is rubbing circles on my hand. I look up at Zahara and give her a small smile.

The last thing I heard was the chilling laugh of my murderer. ** "Alessandra, goddammit! Wake up, baby!" Draken's voice broke through the haze of terror and I gripped onto it for dear life, letting it lead me back to the present with a loud gasp. I never thought I would feel so much relief at the sight of the emerald orbs staring down at me, full of so much emotion that I could not comprehend it all. My body was violently trembling and the sound of my sobs were loud and clear once my hearing returned. My body was crashing, shattering before putting itself back together now that I was in the real world and away from the terrors of my sub conscious.

“Still biting the hand that fed you, I see.” Corvin’s jaw clenched. He said nothing. Then the Lord’s gaze found me. It stopped there. Locked. The whirling code in his eyes shifted, lines reordering, scenes rearranging. I saw flashes in them that weren’t from this world: a car’s headlights; a girl at a laptop, blood script on a Word document that looked uncomfortably like my own. “Willa Roane,” he said, tasting my name like a dessert. “Your stories are delicious.”