To be fixed to marry someone you do not love is a curse far more worse than death itself.
As I run away from the fateful moment, I stumble into the irritatingly handsome boy I met at high school. His fast beating heart showed that he was running to meet me, his usual sexy pefume was faint but had lingered still as he enveloped me in a warm muscular embrace that somehow in the dangers that I'm in have made me feel undeniably safe. His soft full lips greeted mine and in that littleness of absolute bliss I was reminded of a familiar thirst that I have dreaded and suppressed for more than decades.
The insicion I made had his sweet delectable blood generously oozing from it as my expert tounge fondled and stoked it desperately lusting for more. It seemed like all my life has been narrowed down into one perfect point of blood-colored madness. His was the deffinition of ambrosia. His tasted different; different from Peter's. His tasted far more sweeter and addictive leaving me unable to stop.
But then, I did as a horrid thought of my aunt's words came to me; the blood of your mate will be the sweetest one you'll ever taste.
I looked at him, praying that I have not deeply harmed him, praying that somehow, my venom have not contaminated his perfectness. I never wanted him to become the monster that I have long been unfortunate to become.
Now all I'm living for is him, saving his soul as I give him all my heart.