She Would Be Dead

Kane

I walk back to my room, collecting the shoes I’d left in the hallway, my shirt in my hands, thinking about what a horrible fucking person I am. There’s simply no way to ever explain or justify what has just happened, not to anyone who isn’t a vampire anyway, and I completely deserve it if Emory never, ever wants to speak to me again.

Thankfully, the hallways are mostly empty, except for the occasional servant passing through them. None of them dares to speak to me when encountering me in such a state, and I can imagine servants working this shift have a multitude of information to keep to themselves about the comings and goings in the castle.

All I want to do now is climb into my bed and hide under my blankets for a long while, until I figure out a way to go back in time and change what’s just happened—after I have a large glass of blood, anyway. I can still taste her; I can still feel her on my skin.

I can’t let myself think about how she tastes sweet like morning dew or how I’v