Grayson is silent while Amelia speaks. He forces the woman's hands down with Thaumaturgical control so she can't hide her face. He wants the man to see everything, every shift of fear, the moment when despair hits her, and she realizes there's no escape, no mercy or pity, the same realization he, Amelia, and Carver felt during the realignment. He remembers Amelia desperately begging Carver to come back to her, to be all right, watching her fear and being unable to help her any more than he could help Carver while he was depowered.
He slides his good hand up her throat and squeezes enough to cut her air by more than half. She pulls at him uselessly, clawing at skin she can't harm and breaking a few nails trying. One rips down to the quick and begins to bleed. He releases her throat to grasp her wrist and suck the digit past his lips. A preternaturally strong pull at the tiny wound takes enough blood to leave her dizzy. He feels her starting to sag against him. He could drain her dry like this. It's too quick.
The man is saying something to her. He's not listening. He hears her heart beating too hard, the sing of her vessels. He smells her fear, devours her trembling as his due. This time when he closes his hand over her throat he squeezes hard enough to fully restrict her air. Her wheezing cuts off as she claws at him and starts to kick. The man's voice rises in panicked begging, promises of anything. Anything.
He releases her again but only to prolong it. At some point, he lifts his gaze to meet Amelia's. The calmness in the pale depths speaks his satisfaction in this game of theirs together. He squeezes again, tighter, tighter. It's several more cycles of it, over an hour of it, until the man is sobbing, tears and snot making a wreck of his face and shirt. Each time she loses consciousness, he brings her back to it telepathically. Even on the final squeeze he doesn't snap her neck. He forces her to suffocate. He holds it beyond any hope of revival.
Only then does he bite her viciously, rend flesh with fangs to drink his fill and then toss her to the floor like discarding trash. "Bring him to me," he says, sanguine mouth a dripping horror.
no subject
He slides his good hand up her throat and squeezes enough to cut her air by more than half. She pulls at him uselessly, clawing at skin she can't harm and breaking a few nails trying. One rips down to the quick and begins to bleed. He releases her throat to grasp her wrist and suck the digit past his lips. A preternaturally strong pull at the tiny wound takes enough blood to leave her dizzy. He feels her starting to sag against him. He could drain her dry like this. It's too quick.
The man is saying something to her. He's not listening. He hears her heart beating too hard, the sing of her vessels. He smells her fear, devours her trembling as his due. This time when he closes his hand over her throat he squeezes hard enough to fully restrict her air. Her wheezing cuts off as she claws at him and starts to kick. The man's voice rises in panicked begging, promises of anything. Anything.
He releases her again but only to prolong it. At some point, he lifts his gaze to meet Amelia's. The calmness in the pale depths speaks his satisfaction in this game of theirs together. He squeezes again, tighter, tighter. It's several more cycles of it, over an hour of it, until the man is sobbing, tears and snot making a wreck of his face and shirt. Each time she loses consciousness, he brings her back to it telepathically. Even on the final squeeze he doesn't snap her neck. He forces her to suffocate. He holds it beyond any hope of revival.
Only then does he bite her viciously, rend flesh with fangs to drink his fill and then toss her to the floor like discarding trash. "Bring him to me," he says, sanguine mouth a dripping horror.