Chapter 92: Pain

Olive frowned, licking her blood-stained lips. Elvis soon regained some clarity. The taste of her blood sent a jolt through him, a feeling like falling into an abyss.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, quickly rising and entering the bathroom. “Go to sleep.” He locked the door.

Olive knew his inviolable pride and dignity. Every illness caused him to push her away, yet he couldn't save himself. Locking himself in only worsened the situation. She reached out and knocked.

“Elvis, open the door! I have some medical experience. I can help you. I know you’re in pain. Open the door and let me see you.”

Inside, Elvis stood by the washbasin, the cold water running. The lingering sweetness of her taste excited him. He raised his head, meeting his own reflection—eyes filled with a bloodthirsty, gloomy, terrifying aura. Only Olive’s voice cut through the silence.

He turned off the tap and approached the door. Olive was about to knock again when he opened it.

“Elvis, how are you?”

She met his reddened gaze, a beast's stare fixed upon its prey.

“Elvis…”

He said huskily, “I’ll give you one last chance. Go out.”

Olive shook her head. “I’m not leaving.”

He grabbed her wrist and threw her onto the bed. A thud echoed as he collapsed beside her. He produced a black leather belt and tied her wrists to the bed frame.

“Elvis, what are you doing? Don’t be this way! Let me go!” she cried, struggling.

He moved to her neck and bit her vein. A scream escaped her lips. Soon, his hand landed on her pajama button, tearing it open. He began to chew on the fabric, obsessed with its scent. She initially struggled, but realizing this only fueled his dominance, she bit her tongue to stifle further sounds.

His hands slid down her waist. Her eyes widened. “Elvis, no!”

He looked up at her, her beautiful hair scattered on the snow-white pillow. He lowered his head and kissed her. She didn't pull away, probing cautiously.

“Elvis, I promise to be obedient. Can you let me go? It hurts.”

Her tender coaxing softened his hostility. He untied the belt. She reached under the pillow for her needles. He was quicker, pressing her hand down. His sharp, hoarse voice muttered, “What do you want to do?”

He was alert. The slightest movement would startle him. She inserted a needle into his finger.

“Your mouth is very good at deceiving people, you little liar,” he growled, his thumb pressing against her lips.

He rolled over, collapsing onto the bed. Olive removed the needle, then sat up. Several pajama buttons were broken; her skin was wounded. She went into the bathroom.

She stood before the washbasin, her face as pale as paper. The pain and blood loss blurred her vision. She touched the tooth mark on her neck. Anyone seeing her would call the police.

She brushed her teeth until her gums burned. Returning to the bed, she lay beside Elvis, afraid to leave him alone. His condition was worse than she imagined; his keen sense of smell was frightening.

Her hair a mess, she lay still, afraid to wake him or alert Mrs. Samantha. He stirred; she held her breath, her face close to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. She drifted off to sleep.

At five in the morning, she awoke. He was still asleep. She got out of bed, wrapped herself in a coat, and left the Red Villa before the servants awoke, her injuries concealed. She avoided North's apartment, not wanting her to see her state, heading instead to the Ivory Council.