Damon clenched his fists and dug his nails into his palms, willing the hunger away, but it wouldn't leave. It pulsed in him like a second heartbeat, whispering that one taste wasn't enough. That it would never be enough.
His eyes drifted back to her, to the fragile line of her throat, to the bruised, half-healed puncture marks he'd left behind. She was beautiful—terrifyingly so in her vulnerability. And she had tasted like heaven. He wanted to go back there and taste more.
He staggered back, pressing his hands to his head as if he could crush the thoughts out of existence. "She's still alive. She's still alive. Don't fucking ruin this."
If he touched her again—if he gave in—it would be over. She would die. And then what? What would he become?
Everything would become a disaster. A real death, not some in-game inconvenience. Blood on his hands in the truest, most irreversible way.
And that couldn't happen.
There would be police involved. There would be investigations. He would be dragged into the mess, along with his entire family. He did not know enough to erase all the evidence. Were there cameras? He would fucking end up locked in a jail cell or worst shot dead at the sight of his fangs.
But if she was alive, then things would become even more complicated. He had seen this woman many times before and she was an extremely cold and rude woman who kept to herself and didn't talk to anyone else.
Someone with a rich background and a proud attitude. A person like that wouldn't let this go just like that. Not without consequences.
And if she reported this… if she remembered… if she talked—
Panic clawed up his throat like bile. He turned away from her slumped form, pacing in wild, jerky circles. Whether she was dead or alive, it didn't matter. He was completely screwed.
Fuck. If only he had known, he could have prepared something. Taken precautions. Fueled his hunger better. Hell, he could have gone and bought chicken blood and drank it!
This was a monumental fuck up! There were so many things he could have done and now everything was screwed up. The worst part was that he couldn't think clearly even right now when he was at the doorstep of a disaster waiting to happen.
All he could think about was burying into her warm neck and taking her everything. "Fucking hell!" He clutched his head unable to bear this anylonger. Dead or alive, she was a problem. She might as well die. He shot forward grabbing her when he suddenly stopped.
Damon noticed something odd. The marks on her neck were gradually starting to heal. The sight froze him mid-lunge.
Damon blinked, hard and looked again. The bruised puncture wounds—those ugly twin marks he'd left behind—were no longer raw and bleeding. They were closing. Fading. The purpling flesh was slowly returning to its natural tone, the skin knitting together.
Within seconds, they were nothing but faint, silvery impressions, like the ghost of a wound. He gave it a couple more minutes and they vanished entirely as if he had never bitten her like a rabid animal.
"What the…" he whispered, stunned. This did not really happen in the game world or maybe he never noticed it because of the natural healing inside the game.
He crouched beside her, his hunger momentarily forgotten. He did not need his vampire super senses to smell the alcohol on her breath. A sharp, bitter scent laced with something expensive. Wine, maybe. Or some fancy cocktail she must've downed before stumbling back to her apartment.
Damon narrowed his eyes, slowly piecing things together. So she was already tipsy when she arrived. That explained the fumbled keys, the slow reaction time and why she was standing in front of his apartment. Maybe that was why she hadn't screamed or fought back like she should have. Maybe—just maybe—he had lucked out.
A plan started quickly forming in Damon's head. He rode that moment of clarity and controlled his blood thirst. He picked up the woman from the floor and carefully placed her on his bed.
She sighed softly, like someone settling into a dream. Her face, pale but no longer deathly, had a surprising calmness to it. If he didn't know better, he might've thought she was just sleeping off a heavy night of drinking.
Damon sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at her for a long moment. The hunger still lingered—dulled, not gone. But for now, it was bearable. His thoughts were clearer. His instincts less wild. Maybe it was because he had already drank some blood. But for now he was able to think properly and rationally.
He stood and moved to the kitchen. First, he needed to cover his tracks. If she woke up and remembered… well, hopefully she wouldn't. Hopefully she'd chalk it up to a blackout, maybe even think she passed out at the wrong door.
There was the mess of broken glass from the mirror, and the faint smear of blood on the sink which he cleaned up thoroughly. There was also the few drops of blood spilled on the floor. He cleaned eveything and made sure there was nothing off about the apartment.
He returned with a bottle of water and some aspirin, placing them gently on the bedside table.
Damon lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, watching her chest rise and fall. There were still a hundred questions he had no answers to. About what was happening to him. About what he had become. What was going to happen to the world now?
But first, he needed time. Time to figure this out. Time before she opened her eyes and stared into his with questions neither of them would be ready to ask.
Maybe there was no need for him to worry about police and shit like that. He had become a vampire in real life now. Did that mean the whole world was going to change? Was he standing at the start of a motherfucking apocalypse?