It moves at a crawl.
The only thing in the world she needs in this moment (in any moment) and it moves at a crawl. She watches the bead of crimson swell slowly, watches it grow and a soft whimper leaves her lips. She watches the blood as it makes a trail slowly down his fingers, growing millimeter by millimeter, millisecond by millisecond closer to her waiting tongue. She swears, she can already feel the first drop on her lips… but it hasn’t fallen yet.

She wants to reach up, to grab his wrist, to force it into her mouth – to taste his blood on her tongue, sweet like wine, to feel that electric zing of vitae, to feel that craving satisfied, even for a moment.

However, she doesn’t dare to move. The fingers of his other hand are tangled into her hair, holding her still, forcing her to look upwards. If he wanted to, it would be all too easy to break her neck or tear her throat out in this moment. She’s seen him do it before but she’s not afraid of him, or of that. If he decided that was how she would end well… She really couldn’t complain, could she?

So she waits, patiently. Not making a noise beyond the soft sound of her breathing, her chest rising and falling in anticipation.

It isn’t the way he holds her that stops her from moving, however. It isn’t the unspoken threat of violence, it isn’t the knowledge that if she moves, he won’t let her have the thing she so desperately craves… No, It’s that she knows he enjoys watching her like this. Enjoys watching the desperation on her face, seeing the way her entire body strains to be closer, to get what she needs. And she would never want to deny him of something he enjoys. She would never want to make him angry. She lives to see this look on his face, lips curled into a smile, golden eyes sparkling with amusement.

She almost feels like she’s doing a good job. And so she kneels, dutifully and waits for the droplets to hit her tongue.


Morgan knows the things she’s done are wrong, she knows that the things they’ve asked her to do are monstrous but… When she does, sometimes he tells her she did a good job. Sometimes he praises her, sometimes she feels the love that she’s so, so very sure is lying just beneath the surface.

She loves all of them, of course – Lucy and Camille and Jonathon but…

The center of her entire world, the only person who matters to her is her Adam. Who had plucked her from the mortal world and made her into his perfect canvas, made her into his perfect ghoul…

Any night now, he would offer it. She knows it. God, she knows it. He’s going to do it any night now.

So she waits. Patiently.

She sits by herself on the bench, fake sobs cause her chest to rise and fall. The sound of her voice echoes in the small park. Morgan saw what would happen that night, if she did as she was told, if she was a good girl. Her visions were rarely wrong and the pack relied on her for them – just like they relied on her to be bait.

A part of her, a quiet part in the back of her mind is full of guilt, is full of sympathy for the poor mortal idiot who fell for this. They did this three or four times a night – sometimes she was even more pathetic. It’s only the first game of the night.

So sobs and waits. Patiently.

Someday, he’s going to make her a vampire. Someday, she’s going to be what he is. Someday, he’s going to take her in his arms and change her world forever and she won’t just be his pet, she won’t just be his plaything – she’ll be his equal and he’ll really, truly love her.

So she hopes and she prays and she waits.


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