Olivers (POV)
A heat boiled up in my stomach as I glared at her. I could feel myself partially transforming, my teeth hurting from enlarging themselves. "THEN LET ME SHOW YOU WHAT IT'S LIKE IF YOU'RE SO EAGER TO LET HIM DO IT!" I yelled, yanking Thorne up by the hair. She came up easily, like a ragdoll. Her tiny frame fought me violently but she was nothing compared to my supernatural strength. I pinned her against me with one arm, her back on my chest, as I yanked her head to the side with my other arm. Thorne screamed and kicked at me but if her foot connected, I didn't feel it. With years of practiced precision, I sank my teeth into her snowy skin. Instantly, the familiar red liquid hit my lips and with all the decency of a dog, I lapped it up. She kept yelling until I felt her heartbeat slowing. Eventually, Thorne stopped fighting me and just let out soft whimpers of pain until I let her go.
I shoved Thorne away from me, feeling an overwhelming wave of disgust hit me. I was disgusted with her for wanting to see Andy but now I was even more disgusted with myself. Thorne was my first friend in about four decades and I just treated her like a common piece of meat. She grabbed at her neck, clamping a hand over it tightly as she glared at me. "Andy isn't as practiced as I am", I whispered, not letting my guard down. I couldn't apologize to her. She had to learn. "He plays rough."
Thorne glowered as she woozily straightened herself up. "You're sick", she gasped. Before I could say anything, she ran back upstairs. I heard her door slam shut before I glanced at myself in the mirror above my mantle.
Sick was probably an understatement. My hair was a mess and my ears were starting to point. My eyes were completely black and my face had started to contort. Even my nails had elongated and turned that gross yellow colour they do on dead people. But the worst part was my mouth. The oversized yellow fangs that had yet to shrink themselves to "normal" size, the blood smeared around my lips. "Fucking Hell, Oliver", I muttered to myself, trying to straighten my disheveled hair. There was nothing human about a mouth of pointy teeth or a brow permanently carved into an expression of anger. There was nothing medical to explain a solid black eyeball or a back pain that was probably the result of ready-to-form wings. There was nothing attractive about needing a manicure or not wiping the blood from one's mouth. I marched upstairs to my room, hoping to calm down and return to a normal state.
