Chapter 92: Pain

Olive frowned, licking her blood-stained lips. Elvis soon regained some clarity, the taste of her blood triggering a dizzying, abyssal feeling.

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

Olive knew his inviolable pride; every illness spurred him to push her away. Yet, he couldn’t save himself. His self-imposed isolation only worsened the situation.

She knocked. “Elvis, open the door. I have medical experience; I can help. I know you’re in pain.”

Inside, Elvis stood by the washbasin, the cold water running. The lingering sweetness of her taste fueled a disturbing arousal. He looked at his reflection—his eyes radiating a bloodthirsty, terrifying aura.

Only Olive’s pleading voice broke 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?”

His reddened eyes met hers, a beast’s gaze fixed on its prey.

“Elvis…”

He rasped, “I’ll give you one last chance. Go.”

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

He grabbed her wrist, flinging her onto the bed. A thud followed as he collapsed beside her. He produced a black leather belt, binding her wrists to the bed frame.

“Elvis, what are you doing? Stop! Let me go!” she cried, struggling.

He moved to her neck, biting her vein. A scream escaped her lips. His hand landed on her pajama button, tearing it open. He began chewing on the fabric, obsessed with its scent.

Initially, she fought back, but realizing her struggles only intensified his dominance, she bit her tongue, stifling her cries. His hands slid down her waist.

“Elvis, no!” she whispered.

He looked up, her beautiful hair scattered on the pillow. He lowered his head and kissed her. She didn’t resist, probing cautiously.

“Elvis, I promise to be obedient. Please let me go; it hurts.”

Her tender coaxing eased his hostility slightly. He untied the belt. She reached under the pillow for her needles.

He was faster, pressing her hand down. “What do you want to do?” he growled, alert to any movement.

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

He rolled over, collapsing. Olive removed the needle, sitting up. Her pajamas were torn, her skin wounded. She went to the bathroom, her pale face reflecting the pain and blood loss. She touched the bite mark on her neck—evidence that would surely attract the police.

After brushing her teeth, the burning gums forcing her to stop, she returned to the bed, lying beside him. She stayed, fearing his condition might worsen overnight. His acute sense of smell was particularly frightening.

Her hair a mess, she lay still, afraid of waking him and alerting Mrs. Samantha. Elvis stirred; she held her breath, his heartbeat close to her ear. She drifted to sleep.

At five, she awoke. He was still sleeping. She dressed quickly, wrapping herself in a coat and leaving the Red Villa before the servants awoke, to conceal her injuries. She avoided North's apartment, unable to bring herself to reveal Elvis's state, instead heading to the Ivory Council.