%
“Fuck it,” I growl, and then quickly and callously drain all the energy out of her. Her eyes widen for a split second, however she has no time to react, and seconds later she blacks out.
She’s still breathing. Still alive. But she also still has the Mark of Evil branded on her.
Chapter 2
(Alex)
After Gemma goes unconscious, lying dazedly in the sand below me, I hop off her and scoop her up, carrying her toward the house. Her arm with the Mark of Evil hangs lifelessly to the side and her head bobbles around with my movements. I feel vaguely bad for what I’ve done to her, but at the same time, there was no other choice. Do what you have to, no matter the cost. That’s what I was taught to do, and although sometimes I hate it, it’s times like these where I’m glad I don’t think twice.
When I get inside the house, I gently put her on the sofa in the living room. Aislin’s still gone, so I sit and wait for her while thinking of any possible way to fix this along with how the hell it has happened to begin with. The Mark of Malefiscus is only supposed to appear on those that are of evil descent, and Gemma can’t be; there’s no way.
So how did it get there? Did it appear like a normal mark does? Or did Nicholas have something to do with this? That damn Faerie seems to have some sick obsession with her. Or maybe it’s my father who put it on her. Is that where she disappeared to for the last few hours? Has he had her trapped while she’s been missing?
As she lies there, out of it on the sofa, I stroke her cheek softly. We used to be so close, but now it seems like we barely know each other anymore. It’s my own damn fault for letting everything get between us. A childhood friendship, one made of promises to be friends forever. Then, just because my father had said so, I’d let it go. And now I want it back. I want to tell her what we had… What I want… What do I want?
As I’m trying to figure that out, she starts to stir. I hold onto her arms, figuring I’ll let her come out of her daze before I put her back under so she can have a few minutes to recuperate. Suddenly, though, like the snap of a lightning bolt, her eyes shoot open and she springs upward onto the sofa. Our foreheads slam together like bricks smashing together. I fall off the edge of the sofa, blinking my eyes as my head starts to buzz, however Gemma doesn’t miss a beat. She jumps up and lands on top of me, crouched over me like a cave woman.
“I have to kill you,” she says in a numb voice, her hair hanging over her face, a rabid look in her eyes.
My fingers wrap around her wrists. “No, you don’t.” I know it’s probably useless to reason with her, but I have to try. “Just back off me and as soon as Aislin gets here, we’ll get you taken care of.” I hope.
She laughs that snide laugh I’m not fond of while throwing her head back. “Take care of me. Don’t be absurd.” She lowers her head, cocking it to the side as she eyes me over. “Besides, I don’t know why you’d want to change me.” She lowers her hips so she’s straddling me, then she places a hand on each side of my head. “I figured you’d like me like this better.” She leans in, her violet eyes looking more like a shade of dark lavender veering toward black. “Think of the things I could do to you.” She grabs my shoulders and her nails pierce my skin through the fabric of my shirt, drawing blood, and for a split moment, sheer ecstasy flows through my body… Maybe she knows me better than I thought, knows how to get under my skin… maybe I should let her…
I shake the thoughts from my head. This isn’t Gemma. Just a warped, evil version of her. “Is that what you want?” I slip my hands out from her hold and grab onto her hips, pressing my fingers into her skin. “To show me the things you could do to me? Because I thought you said you had to kill me.”
She seems both amused and confused by my statement, which gives me hope that my Gemma is still in there somewhere. “I don’t know…” She leans closer, like she’s going to kiss me. “…what I want to do.” Her lips touch mine and I don’t move, even when she sucks my bottom lip into her mouth and bites on it.
Fuck. This isn’t her. This isn’t her. That’s what I keep telling myself over and over again.
But I’m about to give in, flip her over, and tear off her clothes—the feel of the sparks, pain, and scent of her too overwhelming—when her fingers wander up my chest to my throat. Grasping tightly, she starts to strangle me, her grip tight as it restricts my airway.
“Like I said,” she whispers in my ear, her teeth grazing my lobe. “I have to kill you. I was just trying to have a little fun before I did.” As she continues to choke me, her free hand slides down my chest to my stomach, her fingers wandering all over my body. She smiles, enjoying herself, as I reach up and grab her arm.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper and her smug expression briefly falters.
“For what?” she asks, confounded.
“For this.” With one swift breath, I begin to drain the energy from her body, not taking it easy on her this time. I take as much as I can until her eyes roll into the back of her head, until her body slumps to the side, until her fingers leave my neck. Before she can fall to the floor, I hurry and sit up, catching her in my arms.
“I’m sorry,” I say again because I feel bad. She’s going to be out for quite a while, and when she does wake up, it’s not going to be the most pleasant experience.
Gathering her in my arms, I pick her up, carry her into the bedroom, and lay her down on her bed. Then I get the ties that hold the curtains up and bind them around her wrists and ankles, securing them to the bedposts as I attempt to ignore the fact that I’m enjoying this way too much.
After staring at her for longer than I should, I head through the house to check and see if Aislin has transported back, hoping she knows a spell that can remove marks somehow. But, when I step into her room, I realize I have much bigger problems then a possessed Gemma because my ex-girlfriend is sitting on the bed.
My ex-girlfriend that has the touch of death.
Chapter 3
(Alex)
“What the f**k are you doing here?” I ask as I stop in the doorway, knowing that space is always best whenever Stasha is around.
She’s sitting on the bed, her legs crossed, her blonde hair curled, and her hands covered with tan leather gloves. “Now is that any way to talk to an old lover?” she asks, faking a frown as she rises to her feet, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor.