Newborn

PART TWENTY-SIX

Three bottles of rum and seven blood baggies later, Darien's company finally left.

When they came back downstairs, they were alone. Both their hair was tangled in—what looked like—a beehive, their clothes were ripped, and the brunette walked with a limp—whatever that meant.

Noah paid no attention as he read his novel, but I glared at them with gritted teeth. The blonde smiled and waved in response. Her reaction made me want to grab her scalpel and jam it into her pretty little throat.

Once they were gone, however, I finished off the bottle I was drinking and decided to make my way upstairs. Or at least, I tried to. Sometime between drinking excessively, and the chocolate discussion, Noah told me that we'd start training when I sobered up. He explained how their alcohol was much stronger than the human alcohol I was used to. Each bottle was filled with one hundred per cent alcohol. This explained why the floor seemed like jelly under my feet, and also why the walls appeared to be dancing despite there being no music. Nevertheless, I was determined to give that Darien Valentine a piece of my mind. Or at the very least, I was going to force him to spend some quality time with me.

I beat my fists furiously into the hard wood of his door.

Instantly, his door flung open, and I stumbled forward as the world spun a little faster than I had anticipated. Somehow, I managed to steady myself, and then my Maker materialised before me.

At first, he was just a fleshy blur, but as I focused I was greeted by a whole lot of pale skin, toned biceps that sported a black ink tattoo, solid pecks, and a lean, muscular body with the strong indent of a V-line that lead to his . . . three legs?

My eyebrows came together as things slowly became clearer. Oh! I glanced away. That's most certainly not another limb.

I refused to give him the satisfaction of staring as I made my way into his bedroom. "So that's why girls like you so much."

When I made it to his bed, I picked up his black pants and tossed them at him. Ever so reluctantly, he put them on, and I glanced around his room as I waited to hear the sound of a zipper.

I was still heavily intoxicated, but I did notice how the red, lit candles on his desk and bedside table let off a rose and vanilla scent into the air. It was an odd combination, and though it was laced with the thick scent of sweat, it did manage to cover most of the evidence that he obviously just had sex in here just a little while ago. His room, however, looked the same. It was dim, with only the candles to provide light, and though his red, silk bedsheets were crumpled and there were a few scraps of his shirt strewn around the polished floorboards, his bedroom was mostly tidy.

A few dusty books sat on a dark wooden desk, but they seemed to be there mostly for display because they were placed next to an equally dusty, antique telescope. It was on a wooden stand and looked like the kind pirates used in movies because it was made of brass. Next to that was a compass and I wondered if Darien planned on sailing the seven seas any time soon.

When I turned toward him, he was already staring at me. At least he was wearing pants now.

As I gazed at him, I realised that I may have been wrong in my earlier statement about his size being the reason behind why women liked him. Darien was very attractive. His dark hair was messy and fell over his masculine face, his pale body—though currently covered with slow-healing lacerations—was toned and lean, and well, he just seemed to have this glow about him. Not that I would ever dare to say that out loud. Besides, it was probably just the booze talking.