I hate him when he presses me against a rotten, disintegrating wall. Hate him when he opens my jeans roughly and shoves his hand down my boxers. Hate him when he starts jacking me off and I clench my jaw till my teeth ache and dig my fingers into his hips.

"Why did you fuck him?" he hisses between strokes. They've gotten painful now. He wants me to hurt, I just know it. He wants me to break.

"To piss you off," and I say this deliberately, knowing damn well he'd tell a lie anyway. He sees right through me, and that's what I hate the most. I don't know why he even bothers to ask.

"Arrogant little shit." I force down a moan when he fists the head, where he knows I'm most sensitive; a moment later I'm riding a powerful wave of pleasure and my world narrows to how he makes me feel, how everything clicks into place smoothly. The unwanted, cruel truth slams into me all anew: this is where I belong till the end of time. In his hands.

I slump against him, hating the intense pleasure, hating that it's already fading, hating how both vulnerable and safe I feel in the middle of fucking nowhere in some collapsing rotten warehouse, trapped between a wall and his body.

I hate he's the only one who can, will, ever make me feel this way.

I push him away angrily and he takes a step back, regarding me with a dark stare. Gritting my teeth, not looking at him, I close my pants with a few mechanical snaps of my fingers. I just walk off afterwards, without looking back, knowing he'll follow. He always does.

Soon he falls into step beside me. He slips on his sunglasses and burrows his hands in the pockets of his long leather coat. His dark bangs fall into his eyes with every step and he shakes them off impatiently. I hate how ridiculously sexy he is.

Just as I think that he looks at me suddenly, sharply, and I face away, pissed off at myself for allowing my guard to slip so easily. Fuck, how I hate that smirk... I clench my jaw and follow him when he turns right abruptly, and we enter the main street of the city, quickly losing ourselves in the crowd.

It's like I'm high. I hear blood pumping everywhere, wrists, necks, hearts, thighs. Shit. I lower my head and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to reign over lust. I catch him giving me a look out of the corner of my eye. We fed no more than three hours ago. But that hunger, it never fades for long. It's always there, in the back of your mind, just waiting to resurge. Then it envelopes you completely, makes you lose your fucking mind, makes you burn; and I've got him to thank for that.

His arm slips around my neck suddenly and he yanks me closer against him; I frown, then realize we've just passed a table with young women who stopped chatting simultanously and followed me with their thickly mascared eyes. I hate when he gets like that. I hate that he's so fucking paranoid about anyone who so much as looks at me; I hate how much it thrills me, every time, to know it makes him tick.

I let his arm stay around my neck as we sweep through the streets, shadowless and silent. It's getting dark; the time for picking preys is coming. He takes off his glasses, sliding them up into his hair, cold green eyes narrowing as he scans the passing unsuspecting humans. I turn my head slightly and watch him, the side of his face, watch how focused he is, how he moves, gracefully and smoothly like a wild cat; I remember how it enchanted me that night so many years ago, and how I couldn't take my eyes off of him, not for a second. I remember when he looked at me for the first time – it was like being struck by a lightening, scorching hot and deadly; I wish I had never left home that night. I wish I had never let him seduce me, never let him touch me, because right that moment I was doomed. He picked me for himself that night, and he made me into this – this monster I am now. And I condemn him for not killing me. I despise him.

Almost as much as I long for him with everything that I am.

We pick preys, we feast, we kill. Life – or a cruel illusion of it – sparks bright inside of me, and I'm feeling light-headed and reckless. In moments like this I forget what a curse it is, because I'm all senses, sensations, barely restrained power. I watch him from underneath my lashes, desire humming through me, and I never wanted to fuck that guy from earlier – I never wanna fuck anyone but him. I yank him upward from where he's leaning over another dead, nameless body, and I can't even feel guilt – just this. When I'll be brooding later, I'm gonna hate myself for this, I'm gonna try to remember the faces of all the preys, and I'll weep tearlessly. Right now – I want him, more than anything else in the universe. More than blood. More than my old human life.

I turn him to me and push him backwards, hard. He barely manages to keep his balance when I push him again, and again, till his back hits a wall of the nearest building. His all muscles tensing, he lowers his chin slowly but his green eyes stay locked on mine. My sharp inhuman vision narrows to his body as I stand there, breathing heavily, even though I don't need to; he waits, silent and intense and God help me but I need him, right the fuck now, so badly.

I grasp the lapels of his coat and kiss him, drunk on lust and blood. I suck it off his lips, off his tongue as we tug at each other's hair, clothes; moments later we're fucking, naked and warm from the fresh feast, and my each nerve ending's on fire. Much later when we slide down to the cold ground, panting and spent, I make a weak automatic attempt to get away. He doesn't let me, and I try again, familiar defiance slamming back into place now that the high has faded. I can't stand how much he loves me. I can't stand the way it physically flows through my veins, how it fills me, drugs me, blinds me.

"Stay," he says in a low voice. It's not an order, and not a plea. Just this. I grit my teeth and then find myself lowering back into his lap, slipping my arms under his and around his back, pressing our foreheads together. We just look at each other for a long, long time, much longer than I should allow myself to, long enough for me to start doubting anything – except us. This I will hate myself for, too. Later.

For now, I close my eyes and listen to him, and I'm beautiful. His prince.

I wish I knew how to hate him more than I love him. Just a little bit more.

That'd be enough.