There's no such thing near the euphoria of feeding.
I leap onto Hugh's back like a rabid dog. He shrieks, but I'm already at his neck, tearing in, biting through muscle, snapping tendons with hungry, vicious intent. His blood sprays across the floor like it's being squeezed from a busted pipe.
The motherfucker still isn't dead.
Perfect.
I pull back, licking the blood from my lips and savoring every drop of it.
"God, you taste awful. Too much testosterone. Not enough brains."
His eyes roll back in his head, and I slap him awake.
"Don't die yet. I'm not done."
I nibble down his arm next, stopping just before the elbow. His hand twitches in response.
"You tried to touch me," I remind him.
I bite again.
Crunch.
Yup, that's me munching on his finger.
Robbie, who's still twitching and sobbing like a dying insect, drags himself along the floor.
I pick up the umbrella.
Stab.
Right through his calf. The scream he lets out is beautiful.
I let out a light and carefree giggle.
