Isaiah's breath caressed Janab's skin, slow and calculated; a frozen wind brushing against her neck, sensitizing every inch of her body. The air between them was static, charged with a dead electricity. She remained motionless, trapped between her unconsciousness and the vampire's will, subjugated by the intensity of his presence, bound to him by invisible threads of power and malice. Her eyelashes did not move, but her pulse quickened beneath his shadow.
Everything that was happening could have been a dream, but Isaiah knew it was not. Vampires like him do not sleep. Wakefulness was their natural state, a condemnation of perpetual consciousness. The ancient Abyater had implanted sensations in him that he could barely master, even after the connection between them had been severed. A residue of demonic energy clung to his nerves like hot ash.
The space closed in around him, suffocating him. The walls of the room felt closer, compressing the oxygen. He looked again at the unconscious woman beneath his body; memories and instincts clouded his vision. Perspective distorted; the shadows in the room seemed to move independently of the light.
It had taken him entire generations to obtain the information upon which his existence depended, for none of his envoys had dared to cross the Hand of the Forest. The cost had been his own temporary autonomy. Now he understood why it was a forbidden place, and his naivety in daring to disturb the properties of a superior demon. Now the error weighed heavily upon his shoulders.
In that position of defeat, Janab's presence became increasingly intrusive. His bodily cold found the heartbeat of a human heart pumping warm blood exquisite. The thermal contrast was a constant stimulus against his hands.
The perverse instinct that alludes to malice and cruelty against mortals awakened; his thirsty throat began to ache, caught in the enchantment of the tempter. The thirst was a dry burning that rose from his stomach.
He believed, he desired, to wake her, commanding it as he materialized in her dreams. But a vampire cannot gain control over a mind already dominated by a demon. The mental barrier was tangible, a wall of white noise in his attempt at connection.
He leaned his head over her, inhaling her aroma: the sweetness of her human blood mixed with notes of sulfur. The scent was contradictory—life and corruption intertwined. His fingers gently circled Janab's neck, measuring the resistance that no longer existed. The skin was soft, vulnerable under the minimal pressure of his nails.
—Janab... —he whispered, and the echo of his voice awakened all sensitivity in the woman's body.
The sound was low, barely a flow of air, but it vibrated in her bones. Her senses responded to every touch, to every caress of his hair against her cheeks, to the cold spreading from his palms. Her body vibrated with a desire she did not understand, while Isaiah explored with precision and control, knowing exactly how to provoke her response.
She tensed beneath the sheets. Complete, a prisoner.
—I can give you what you want... —he murmured in a low, deep voice, bringing his lips close to Janab's ear— but you cannot give me what I desire. Even so... eventually, you will.
His fingers slid with subtlety over the woman's chest, feeling the accelerated beating of her heart, the unconscious mixture of fear and curiosity. The cardiac rhythm was erratic, a disordered sensation against his palm.
Janab shuddered—a shiver of excitement—but without him needing it to be so. It was an involuntary reaction, chemical, foreign to her conscious will.
In that dream where death was invoked, Janab's sensations obeyed an instinctive irrationality. He was before her, brushing the skin of her neck, his long hair caressing her cheek as his lips drew closer and closer. The distance between their mouths was reduced to millimeters.
The word "wake," barely audible, was drowned out as his tongue caressed and moistened her skin. The taste was sweet, alive. The air was cut short; the woman's lips parted, letting out a deep sigh.
The vast majority of the Children of the Night who were not of pure blood seduced humans to devour them, but they did not succumb to fleshly desires—their bodies were void of life—though that did not mean they were incapable of performing a carnal act. The mechanics were possible, but the warmth was absent.
Isaiah might be a ruthless being, but he refused to fall into the demon's game. His will hardened, rejecting the residual influence of Abyater. In that moment, his pride desired to free Janab from that imposed frivolity. He would not be a puppet in someone else's ritual.
—Wake up and tell me of your desires. If it comes from your own voice, I will take what you want me to take from you.
The command was clear, breaking the mist of the dream. He resisted, and the tension accumulated in the air began to dissolve. The demonic pressure receded before his firmness. The moment stretched out; Isaiah's fingers tightened on the sides of those small arms just as a morning light—announcing that the solar orb was awakening—reflected on the floor near the door.
The sunbeam cut through the darkness, dusty and bright. The night gave way, and with it, the spell that had united them in that limbo between pain and desire. The opportunity vanished with the shadow.
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