(Un)Invited

The Protector

You swallow, your throat dry again as his hypnotic voice glides like silk over the word delectable. Staring into his eyes is too intense and you look away, hating how your fingers shake as you wring them in front of you. You try and fail to sound commanding as you say, "I wanna go home. Now."

He straightens again, his hand reaching out to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger, "If you were to leave now they'd most certainly take you for their own nefarious ends."

The gesture frightens you in your already disconcerted state, like a scared doe catching sight of a hunter, yet the sheer contact of skin against skin is enough to rekindle all those hidden thoughts of him returning to claim you.

"And you didn't?" you challenge, trying to not let him affect you.

He doesn't answer for a few silent moments, making you wonder if you'd somehow stumped him, or caused him to reconsider his actions.

"You're mine, little one," he finally says almost solemnly, "I claimed you."

Indignation rises up in you, overpowering your fear enough to make your gaze shoot up to meet him in a glare, "I don't belong to anyone!"

Yet, somewhere deep in your heart, you knew he was telling the truth. You could feel it in the way you reacted to him, in the yearning to have his touch. He'd marked you, both for himself and now apparently for others.

"That's where you're mistaken," he admonishes with an angry frown, "I own you. And those bastards tried to damage my property."

Property. It made you bristle.

"Take me home, now," you demanded, gaining more courage.

"I've already told you why I can't," he says, letting go of your chin, "For the foreseeable future, this is your home."

Fight or flight kicks into high gear and you rush for the door behind him, only to be grabbed by the wrist with crushing strength and jerked back, struggling with building anger as you pull your arm and slap at him to let go of you. It's as effective as a five-year-old fighting a heavyweight champion. He practically throws and pins you to the nearby wall, causing you to cry out in pain as your back slams back with bruising force.

"I haven't hurt you yet," he threatens, those blue irises pulsing with rage and dark power, "That doesn't mean I won't. I've said before, this will be much easier if you don't struggle."

Breathing heavily, you glare at him trying one more time to escape his grip before being pushed back against the wall. You can feel your blood rushing through your veins with adrenalin. Your captor's gaze traces down your panting mouth to your throat where his handiwork still lay evident. He stares at the bandages for a long time, and you wondered if he would bite you again. You scolded yourself for wishing he would. The tension grows thick as he leans in just slightly with an almost sensual focus on your currently exposed, vulnerable neck.

"You know who they were?" you ask suddenly as if to distract him.

He pauses before meeting your eyes, "Yes. My brother and his two vulgar little imps. They were coming after you to spite me."

You furrow your brows, "To spite you? So I almost died because you pissed off the wrong people?"

"Dying would not be the worst thing," he whispers gravely before the corner of his lips turn up in a smug grin, "Besides, don't pretend you didn't long to be in my presence again."

You shot him a hot glare, and lied, "I don't know what you mean."

"You can pretend all you want," he murmurs lowly, and you shiver, only proving his next point, "but your body will betray you."

He lets you go abruptly, returning to a posture of absolute poise and control, "Never fear, my brother will get bored and you will be able to return home."

The sudden absence of his body on yours gives you a small pang in your chest that you desperately try to ignore. You frown, one last question on your mind. One that you hope will perhaps shed some light on your situation and bring you some comfort.

"Why did you come to my house?"

Again, you seem to have struck him dumb as he leaves you suspended in lingering silence. Then, turning, as if to avoid looking you in the eye, answers, "I was hungry."

You're struck like a blade to the heart. It shouldn't hurt, it made perfect sense, and that's all you could ever hope or think it was...yet it still made you angry and hurt that your life had just been turned upside down because he was hungry.

"And unless you'd like to volunteer, I must go feed," he states unceremoniously, making his way to the door, "I suggest you eat as well. There's plenty of food."

"Wait," you say, and he stops just as he reaches for the doorknob, "What's your name?"

He glances back at you and with a strange sadness he says, "Michael."

Then he walks out, closing the door and leaving you in your prison.