by Sara King
What happens when a vampire isn't given a choice? Second Place Resurrected Stake & Garlic
By Sara King
She hated him.
No. Loathed was a better word. As in, she despised every molecule that made up his despicable existence. She wanted him to burn in Hell, but, since she knew for a fact Hell didn't exist, she just wanted to see him burn.
Yet, apparently, Miles Dodd hadn't shared this sentiment.
So now there he was, laid out on her couch, dying from blood-loss while Megan tried to figure out just what the hell she was going to do with the body.
She would've thrown him overboard, but cruise ships had cameras, and her apartment balcony was not directly overhanging the sea. Rather, Miles would have a pretty bumpy fall, then come to a halt on some little old lady's retirement suite before his slide to the ocean was complete.
Damn it. She couldn't believe the ballsy sonofabitch had followed her. As if making her flee the country wasn't bad enough. Now he was stalking her, trans-atlantic-style.
Or had been stalking her. Like he was now, he wasn't going to do much stalking for a long, long time.
From the couch, Miles made a pathetic sound.
"Well you should've thought about that before you followed someone you knew was a vampire, you stupid bastard."
Miles made something that sounded like tiny grunts. Megan realized he was laughing at her. Oh, how she hated him. She kicked the ringbox he'd dropped. It clattered across the room, hit a fake plant, and spilled its glittering contents onto the desk. The ring had been finely-crafted, two dragons facing each other, the mouths cradling a blood-red ruby the size of her thumbnail. Miles had been a jeweler...when he hadn't been sneaking around inside her apartment. He knew she had a thing for dragons.
And red was her favorite color.
Damn him. Oh, God damn him.
She should never have spared him in Scotland. But she'd been sex-starved and horny and he was a six-foot hunk with a hot Highlands brogue. And he'd called her 'lass.'
On the sofa, Miles continued to die.
The sonofabitch. The stupid sonofabitch.
"You didn't give me a choice," Megan said. "You thought you could just come in here, say something like that, and expect me to let you go? You're a mortal. I couldn't do it!"
Another grunting sound.
She wanted to hit him, but at this point, she was pretty sure it would kill him. She groaned and tore her eyes away from him. He was only wearing half his shirt. The other half had been ripped off in the struggle. His chest had contours, like a goddamn picture out of Playgirl. Even with the blood-loss, his skin was still tan. How could a man with green eyes and red hair tan so easily? Wasn't that against the laws of Nature?
"You're a fuckhead."
He grunted at her.
"I'm letting you die, you know."
"There's no way I'm turning you. No way."
Megan lurched to her feet and began to pace. This just wasn't fair. Maybe if she called a doctor... She immediately thought better of it. They'd want to know how he got those marks on his neck. And then, when he died because the arrogant bastard had kept on talking about all their future babies together when she'd been sucking him dry, some dental forensics guy would take a look at the bite marks, say something to the effect of, "We're looking for incisors of approximately an inch long, quarter inch wide," get her to smile for the cameras, and she'd go to jail for a very, very long time.
"I hate you."
"Yes, I do.
The infuriating bastard grunted again.
"Why is it taking you so long to die?" she screeched. "Just do it already! Stop wasting my time."
Megan froze. Looking at him, she realized he was no longer breathing. Suddenly panicked, she rushed to him and put her ear to his big chest. Under her head, she heard another weak, croaking sound.
The bastard was laughing at her again.
Megan straightened and glowered down at him. "You're gonna rot in Hell."
"I don't care what I said. That's not the point. The point is, karma is going to catch up with you. Maybe if you're really lucky, you'll reincarnate as a squid."
Seeing his twinkling green eyes stare up at her from under a handsome, sweaty brow, Megan realized he'd like that very much. He loved the ocean. Hell, he'd probably love it if she dragged him outside and finished him off by tying a sack of quarters to his feet and throwing him overboard.
"I hate you."
She sat down again and dropped her head into her hands, refusing to look at him. She heard his heartbeat slowing with every passing minute. When she finally looked back at him, Miles's eyes were closed.
Eventually, she would find a way to take this out of his hide.
Megan stood up and went over to him. His breathing was barely perceptable now. She touched his wrist. Clammy. His eyelids were fluttering. He knew she was there, but he wasn't able to keep his eyes open. All she had to do was wait a few more minutes and he would be gone from her life forever.
Taking a deep breath, Megan leaned down and kissed him.
It was the kiss that did it. Not just a peck on the cheek or a brush of the lips, but a deep, passionate kiss. Like something out of Snow White and the Seven Fucking Dwarves. Megan knew, because it had been done to her, a hundred years earlier. The bastard had given her no choice.
Just like she wasn't giving Miles a choice. Just like Miles hadn't given her a choice.
Megan kissed him, allowing their souls to mingle upon their lips. Fire moved between them, transferred with every breath. It was pain and pleasure and everything in between. Toward the end of it, once she felt the connection sealed, Miles began to kiss back. He raised one arm--still draped with shreds of his shirt--and tried to hold her.
Megan jerked away.
Or tried to.
She'd forgotten what she'd just created. He held her, and immediately a mischievous grin began playing upon his blood-moistened lips. His green eyes danced. Megan felt a pang of lust...and terror. She hated the bastard. She hated him. She absolutely, categorically, one-hundred-percent--
He brushed his lips against the hollow of her throat and she melted into his embrace. It was all she could do not to rip the rest of his clothes off. She made a little groan.
"Well, lass," Miles said, his thick Scottish brogue hot against the skin under her ear, his voice husky with pleasure, "I'll take that for a 'yes.'"
Oh yes. Definitely a yes.
"But I still hate you," she murmurred.
"I know." He kissed her again.
This time, she did rip his clothes off.