Page 64 of Nightshades

“Hello?”

Her fear smells…impeccable. I inhale, the nightmare strengthening in a way I’ve never felt before. Her fear not only feeds me but empowers me.

Looking down, I grin when I see a loose stone. Grabbing it, I throw it over the car, and it lands behind Lula.

She spins around so fast, she loses her footing, catching herself at the last second.

“H-Hello?” Her voice sounds so small, so fragile, and there’s that fear again, quaking her voice. “Is someone there? Anyone? Please! Call out. I’ll come to you. You don’t have to fear me.” She waits for anyone to reply, but all that meets her is the light patter of snow falling.

“No.” She shakes her head, whispering in denial.

Lula dashes into the store, shouting at the top of her lungs. “Is anyone here!”

Crashes sound from inside, the chaos making me grin. Her fear is unlike anything I have ever tasted. It’s as if I’ve pressed myself onto a live wire, allowing the buzz and electricity to flow through my veins.

The window of the business shatters, and when I peek around the truck, I see Lula standing there, heaving, and a chair lying in broken glass on the sidewalk.

Her fear slides down my throat like a burning shot of vodka, warming my stomach, invigorating my veins. I’ve never felt such power.

“Where is everyone!” She falls to her knees, the aroma of her blood stinging my nose.

My enhanced vision focuses on where she fell, the glass digging into her skin.

She’s harmed herself.

I don’t like that.

Even though her sadness tastes better than a pig being roasted for long hours, dripping in juices and tender, the meat falling off the bone—the thought alone makes my mouth water.

Yet.

I find that I do not wish for her to be sad. I don’t like it. It’s an odd realization. I hate that my need for her fear requires her to be in pain. What kind of mate does that make me?

And why do I still hide behind a truck, soaking in her sadness as if I am the desert waiting for a wild rain?

“Lula-lala-la-la-laaa.” The nightmare sings for her, her name echoing in the emptiness of this abandoned city.

She jerks her head up, hissing from the pain in her knees as she stands. “What are you? What do you want!” She yells until her voice breaks, stumbling out of the open window, the glass crunching under her shoes. “What do you want from me!”

Bending down, she picks up a shard of glass, her gaze darting left and right to see where I am.

She runs, sprinting down the road, zigzagging between cars while yelling, “Please, call out to me! Is someone there? Anyone?”

I follow her, keeping a safe distance, allowing her to feel my presence without seeing me.

This nightmare could end now. I’m full. Her fear has sated me, but I’m addicted. I want to soak all of it up until there’s nothing left for me to eat.

I bump against a car hard enough for the alarm to go off, the loud siren causing Lula to jump, weaponizing the shard of glass in her hand by holding it in front of her.

“Who is there! Stop being such a fucking coward and come get me!” she roars, her bravery masking the scent of the terror I love so much.

I would come out, but that would end all the fun.

And there’s a quiet part of me that I’m wrestling with that is whispering that it isn’t fun anymore because she is our mate. We shouldn’t want her to be afraid.

“I’m alone,” she begins to sob. “I hate being alone.”

My eyes widen in realization that her worst fear is dying alone. I’m torturing her for my own enjoyment.