Chapter 67: To Kill Or To Love

Chapter 67: To Kill Or To Love Blaze POV The night welcomed me like an old friend—cold, silent, and heavy with promise. This was my kingdom. The dark was my cloak, the moon my ever-watchful accomplice. The city’s heart still pulsed faintly in the distance, but here... here in the back alleys behind the train yard, away from the glitter and buzz, it was just me, the shadows, and my next indulgence. I wasn’t just thirsty—I was unraveling. And the only way to drown out the voices—the cursed bond that clawed at me, the guilt that wore my skin like a second coat—was to become what I was born to be. A nightmare. A predator. A prince of the damned. My fangs ached as the scent of her hit the air. Jet fuel. Worn-out leather. Nerves. Ah. Fresh from the airport. The perfect catch. They’re always disoriented. Always too trusting. Always alone. She was young. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dragging a battered suitcase behind her, headphones in, too busy scrolling on her phone to realize she was walking right into hell. Into me. I shadowed her with the patience of a hunter who knew the kill was inevitable. She felt me. Oh, she felt me. It’s that bone-deep chill, that primal instinct humans have never quite evolved out of. She glanced back once. Then again. I smiled, unseen. I could hear her heartbeat change—steady to stuttering, then racing, fluttering like a caged bird in her chest. Perfect. Adrenaline was already spiking in her blood. I could taste it in the air. Rich, vibrant, like aged wine with a dash of fear. That’s the flavor I crave. Not the docile blood of donors. Not willing sips from glass vials or synthetic bags. No. I want the blood that screams. The blood that fights. She turned down the alley. Oh sweetheart, wrong turn. I stepped from the shadows like a wraith. Silent. Graceful. Terrible. She paused mid-step. I could almost see the scream building behind her eyes. She didn’t run. Not yet. Still clinging to the hope that maybe she was imagining it. Maybe the shadows didn’t move. Maybe the cold breath on her neck wasn’t real. I love this part. The hesitation. The dread thickening in their veins. It sweetens everything. Then she saw me. Not fully. Not the face. Just the outline. The glint of inhuman eyes in the dark. The whisper of something ancient brushing against her soul. She dropped her phone. Bolted. Oh, there it is. The chase. I let her run. I always let them run. The thud of her boots echoed down the alleyway. Labored breaths. The clatter of her suitcase as it toppled over. She was fast—for a human. But not fast enough. I was behind her. Then beside her. Then in front of her. She screamed. I smiled. "Wrong turn," I whispered, my voice low and velvet-soft. A lullaby from a grave. I backed her into the wall. Watched the panic eat her composure. Her hands trembled. Her knees locked. Her pulse beat like war drums under her throat. And the scent of her blood—thick with adrenaline and pure terror—was heavenly. I leaned in, letting her feel the sharpness of my breath on her skin, the chill of my presence seeping into her bones. Her fear was a song, and I was the conductor. When my fangs pierced her skin, I did it slow. Precise. No rush. Just the art. The blood? Warm, fast-flowing, electric. Adrenaline spiked to its highest, laced with pure survival instinct and the last threads of hope unraveling. And the taste? Disappointing. Warm, yes. Rushed with fear, laced with adrenaline, sure—but it was nothing. Nothing like hers. No matter how much I wanted it to be, this girl’s blood was hollow. Bitter. Shallow. Like drinking rainwater after tasting ancient wine. I knew the moment it hit my tongue—she wasn’t her. And my demons? They didn’t let it slide. "You tasted the blood of your beloved," they hissed inside my skull, "nothing else will ever compare." I snarled mid-drink, but it was too late. They were right. Again. Always right. That single drop of Clare’s blood had ruined me. Branded itself into my senses. Now, every feed was a disappointment, a pathetic imitation, a shadow of what I’d had—what I wasn’t supposed to want. I hated her for that. Hated myself more. But I didn’t stop. I drained the girl anyway. Every last drop. Not because I was thirsty anymore—but because I had to. Because I needed to drown the craving, if only for a moment. The moment her heartbeat slowed, the moment the warmth faded from her skin, I knew I still wouldn’t find peace. But I didn’t hesitate. She crumpled in my arms like a wilted flower. I let her body drop. Cold. Boneless. No reverence. No remorse. I didn’t bother to move her. Someone would clean it up. They always did. The city knew me by now—its creature of night, the prince cloaked in ash and blood. The dead never shocked them anymore. Just one more corpse in a forgotten alley. One more lost traveler no one would claim. I stood over her, empty. Still hungry, but not for blood. What I craved couldn’t be drained from just anyone. I looked up at the moon. It didn’t answer. Didn’t care. And neither did I. I stepped into the shadows again, dragging the guilt behind me like a second skin I couldn’t shed. The worst part? No matter how far I ran, no matter how many throats I tore open— I still remembered the taste of her. And it was killing me. I ran. Fast, far — through the woods, across the rooftops, into the underbelly of the city. I hunted. I fed. I killed. Again and again. But none of it helped. The ache still clawed at my insides, a hunger no blood could satisfy. Not anymore. I should’ve never tasted her. That damned drop — divine, addictive, damning. It’s burned into my senses like acid through silk. Now every other feed turns to ash in my mouth. Bland. Lifeless. Wrong. And worse — he knows now. The wolf. The mutt. Knew she was a girl the moment her robe dropped and her hair spilled free like ink. I could see it in his eyes. The shift. The possessiveness. The claiming. The world is already turning against her. And I am too selfish to stay away. I should kill her. The thought comes soft, almost sweet, like mercy dressed in shadow. I could end this all — the ache, the hunger, the bond. Snap that fragile neck and be free. One twist. Clean. Final. Or drink her dry. Let the last taste of her blood flood my mouth and brand me forever. One final indulgence. She’s already ruined me — might as well go all the way. At least then, she’d be mine, in the way every vampire knows how to claim something. Dead. Devoured. Eternal. But I hesitate. Not out of mercy — no, I’m no saint. ********* I didn’t mean to come back. Hell, I ran the entire city trying to drown her scent in the stench of human filth and rotting alleyways. Tried to bury the taste of her blood beneath the screams of the dead. But somehow... my feet betrayed me. Again. So here I was — standing like a fucking lunatic outside her broken-down little excuse for a home, cloaked in shadows, watching her through the crack in the curtains like some deranged stalker. No one should’ve been able to get this close to me. No one ever had. The window to her room was still cracked from earlier — good. Didn’t need an invitation to enter. I climbed through with the silence of a shadow, boots landing on carpet now free of blood, wood, and glass. Because I had cleaned it. A whole vampire prince on his hands and knees, picking up splinters of a shattered bedside table and sharp shards of a mirror I’d thrown another man into. And why? Because she could bleed. Because her skin wouldn’t heal in seconds like mine. Because one wrong step and she’d slice herself open without even realizing it. The memory made me huff out a twisted little laugh — bitter and low. How far I’d fallen. I scanned the room now. Sheets were fresh. The air smelled faintly like detergent and iron. There was no scent trail leading to the bed since I cleaned. No imprint. No warmth left behind in the blankets. She hadn’t come back to this room since we fought. Since she screamed at us both like we were schoolboys and not monsters. She’d vanished — and for a second, panic clawed at my chest before I caught it. Reined it in. Controlled it. I left the bedroom into the living room— without a sound. And that’s when I saw her. Not in her room. Not tucked beneath the sheets where any sane, injured human would go. No, she was sprawled on the beat-up old couch in the living room like it was a fucking throne, curled around a cheap heating pad like it held her entire soul. She looked... small. Vulnerable. Utterly, heartbreakingly human. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. Brow furrowed in sleep. A sheen of sweat painted her temple, and her arm clutched the heating pad like it was the only warmth the world would offer her. And still, still, she looked more defiant than anyone I’d ever met. She didn’t wait to be rescued. Didn’t ask. Didn’t beg. She just survived — on her own terms. And fuck me... it ruined me. It’s the way she sleeps, curled on that worn-out couch like the world hasn’t been cruel enough. Pale, hurting, wrapped around a stupid heating pad like it’s a shield. She doesn’t even know what she’s done to me. And that... that’s the cruelest part. She’s not the monster. I am. I step closer, silent as the night I was born of. One breath and her scent guts me — blood and salt and heat. Her pain sings to every feral instinct inside me. I should hate it. Hate her. But instead, I ache for her. I want to run my fingers through her hair, just once, before I end it. Want to kiss that godforsaken frown off her lips before they go cold. Want to whisper her name — her real name, not the alias she gave the world. But I don’t even know it. I’ve tasted her, hunted for her, ached for her... and I don’t even know her name. Pathetic. I back away. Fists clenched. Nails digging into my palms until blood pools. Because if I touch her now, I won’t stop. And I’m not sure if I’ll kill her... or keep her. Both will ruin me. One just takes longer.