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I looked at her, her body a canvas of blood and soft, yielding flesh that seemed to surrender to my most primal desires—desires steeped in violence, in the need to dominate, to destroy.

At that moment, I was far beyond exhaustion, having spent my essence more than twice in rapid succession, yet somehow I clung to survival.

Rational thought had abandoned me; my actions were driven by instinct, by a feral hunger that I could no longer suppress.

I didn’t care about consequences, about morality, about anything at all.

My hand moved of its own accord, striking her across the face with a force that sent her head snapping to the side.

My nails, sharp and unyielding, raked across her cheek, leaving behind trails of white blood that clung to her skin like liquid moonlight.

The marks mirrored the lashings already etched into her soft features, a grotesque tapestry of pain.

Her silver eyes burned into me, filled with defiance and something else—something that made my pulse quicken.

She opened her mouth, or at least tried to, but her attempt was cut short as my fist crashed into her throat.

The impact was brutal, sending her into a violent coughing fit, her body convulsing against the chains that bound her.

The sound of her struggle was music to my ears, a symphony of suffering that only fueled my rage. I wasn’t satisfied. Not even close.

Anger coiled within me, a serpent ready to strike, and I didn’t hold back.

My foot lashed out, driving into the space between her legs with savage precision.

The contact was sickeningly intimate, my foot connecting with her softness, tearing through her delicate flesh with a force that made her scream—a raw, guttural sound that echoed in the chamber.

Her knees buckled, or tried to, but the chains held her upright, forcing her to endure every second of the agony I inflicted.

Blood poured from between her legs, pooling on the floor beneath her trembling body.

I tore at what remained of her clothes, the fabric shredding like paper under my hands.

Her stomach, soft and vulnerable, was exposed, and her remaining breasts spilled free from the tattered remnants of her garments.

I gripped the soft breast, my fingers digging into the tender flesh with unrelenting brutality.

The sensation was intoxicating—the way her skin yielded under my touch, the way her white blood welled up around my claws, turning her into a mess of gashes and ruin.

She wasn’t healing. Not fast enough. Her essence was depleted, and she was focusing what little remained on reforming her heart.

Without it, she would die, and that would complicate things.

But I didn’t care. I was beyond reason, beyond restraint.

My hand closed around her throat, squeezing with a force that made her gasp, her mouth opening in a silent plea.

I kissed her then, not out of affection but out of a need to dominate, to consume.

My fangs sank into the soft flesh of her lips and tongue, the taste of her blood flooding my mouth—sweet, metallic, intoxicating.

Her cries were muffled against my mouth, but they only spurred me on, filling me with a perverse satisfaction that her blood alone could not provide.

Still, it wasn’t enough. I needed more. I tore open my own tattered robe, freeing my erection, which stood rigid and unyielding, a testament to the depravity that consumed me.

I positioned myself at her entrance, her battered and bloodied folds glistening in the dim light.

With a single, brutal thrust, I sheathed myself inside her.

The sensation was smooth, almost obscenely so, aided by the blood that coated her.

Or perhaps it was because, beneath the pain and the violence, she was still her—a pain-loving slut, a mother who reveled in the torment inflicted by her own son.

I could see it in her eyes. As I plunged into her, a flicker of familiarity flashed in those silver orbs, a momentary recognition that was quickly swallowed by the haze of pain and pleasure.

Her walls clenched around me, a final act of defiance, but even that faded as the silver in her eyes receded, replaced by the white of her pupils.

She was breaking, returning and I reveled in it.

I thrust into her like an animal, my movements wild and unrestrained.

Every ounce of my violent, depraved passion was poured into her, turning her into a ruin of white blood and torn flesh.

My hands clawed at her body, leaving deep gashes in her skin, while my fangs ravaged her mouth and neck.

Slowly Her screams turned to moans, visceral and unrelenting, as her resistance crumbled.

Her kicks and struggles became feeble attempts to encourage me, her body betraying her mind as she slowly became herself.

With each new wound, each fresh mark, her moans grew louder, more desperate. She was loving this.

My mother was back. Even in her broken state, she loved this—loved the pain, the violation, because it was me who inflicted it.

The room was bathed in a thick haze of silver moonlight, the air heavy with the scent of blood and sweat.

The light poured into me, fueling my essence, but as it began to retreat, the ruins of the room came into view.

The chains that bound her disintegrated into specks of silver light, and she collapsed to the ground, her body landing on shards of crystal that pierced her back and buttocks.

The pain only seemed to excite her more, her moans growing louder as I continued to thrust into her as I fell on her softness, my movements growing more frantic as my own essence waned.

When I finally came, it was with a roar, my release spilling into her in thick, unrelenting waves.

She came undone with me, her juices mixing with her blood, staining the marble floor beneath us.

I collapsed onto her battered body, my breath ragged, my mind empty.

Her arms encircled me, pulling me into a warm, bloody embrace.

As the last remnants of the silver moonlight faded, I felt myself slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep, cradled in the ruin of the woman who had given me life.