Xia Yizhou | 7 Trials
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I hate her.
My small, nimble hands find their way around her tiny neck—caressing the column of her throat, the pads of my fingers applying a light pressure, her body jolting as her large, doe-like eyes open—a wail tearing from her throat, loud enough to wake the dead from a thousand miles away. I ripped myself away from her like I had been burned.
I want what she has.
She has taken everything—my family, my place. I am left cold—a fervent ghost, with a bloodlust that thrums through my veins. Our parents died the night of my 17th birthday—their car skidding across a bed of black ice, their corpses mangled beneath that white sheet, their caskets shut as I dip my head—her tiny palm held in mine, and I wish that I could reject this responsibility. She has become my duty; my requite to the dead.
I want her.
I look for her in every woman I take to bed—every one that I fold under me, every one I tear the throat out of, and it’s not enough. I want to take, and take, and take.
She’s my prisoner, and I am her warden.
I have taken everything she can call her own—I hold it all. I keep it in a lock box within the darkest corners of my heart—and I consume her.
She is mine.
Finally.Series
- Part 1 of Xia Yizhou | 7 Trials