Thirst For Conquest

Thirst For Conquest

Premise:

Drawn in, Dalia is conquered by a vampire.

Author notes:

This is an erotic horror story set in modern day Albuquerque, New Mexico between a damned vampire from the Spanish reconquista era who yearns for life and light, and a forlorn Mexican-American woman—a descendant of Malinalli and Hernán Cortés—who is devoid of the companionship and the love she yearns for.

Disclaimer:

For readers 18+. All characters are 18+. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to real individuals is purely coincidental unless stated otherwise.

Other stories:

Check out my profile for other stories I’ve written:

-Loving Wives

—Forgot To Tell You is an 8 chapter wife-sharing slow burn about wife Ailin and husband Noah, who absolutely love each other, but have to deal with repressed trauma before they can explore their relationship.

—The Deep End is a collaboration on Lit with Rabblelaid, where a repressed, conservative wife is hit with the realization that she’s the only one who cares. After an opportunity presents itself, she will either reject it, end up liberated, or be in over her head in the deep end.

Please check out Rabblelaid’s other stories, he has many!

-Erotic Horror

—The Infernal Perdition of Miriam is an erotic horror one-shot about the inevitable fall and damnation of a wife by way of her isolation and the manipulation of her religious beliefs.

Acknowledgements:

Another author has been doing this in their work and I think that is an absolutely fantastic thing to do, so here’s mine—thanks, Hannah_Baird.

Thank you to the authors in the Writers’ Grove, your support helps me keep writing.

Hannah, Scott, Rabble, Night, Tomb, and everyone else in the Grove who may read this story, thank you for your support.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story.

Don’t forget to rate the story and leave a comment.

*** *** ***

There was something familiar about the woman who walked into his club. He’d sensed her from a mile away before she ever walked into his domain.

Squinting to even look at her, he leaned against the railing of his perch. Salvia dripped down the corners of his mouth as he hungrily took in her brilliance. The rivers within her body were far too bright for his sensitive eyes. It was like looking into the sun as dawn was breaking—something he’d been forbidden from for so long that he’d forgotten its color.

It was gold.

Gold like the hidden treasures the Mexica had refused him. And she was filled with it.

“Marina.” He whispered in reverence, an echo from his past—but he knew she carried another name in this life.

And still, she looked just the same. The same cinnamon grounded skin and obsidian hair, with a sharp nose that echoed the profile of the revered eagle that had been the foundation of her people.

Strong and tall, and undeniably feminine. Her flared hips and cinched waist had devastated so many men across the iterations she had to live to arrive here at this moment with him again. And her bust was twofold Mount Tlaloc, sacred and proud, yielding only to those who knew how to traverse her valleys to finally arrive and worship at her peaks.

Prouder still was her face. A face whose features were unmistakably passed down from generation to generation of the Mexica empire. One and the same. A face repressed by power and kept from the world stage. Her cheekbones were high and her strong, angular jaw gave her a seraphimic quality that he was sure made her earn both the admiration and the envy of those around her.

There was no doubt in his mind that this had led to a profound loneliness.

Marina, too, had suffered such loneliness. She’d been given as a **** to a foreign people and then ostracized by the entirety of her own, cursed for the rest of written history. This had consequently created the **** gold within her.

And this iteration of her now carried that curse in her veins, each life only enriching it. The deep loneliness she must have felt compounded with each time she’d lived since Marina’s ****, that inherited loneliness undoubtedly eclipsed even his own.

He watched from his perch on the second floor as she followed behind her friends nervously. She was uncomfortable in this loud, chaotic environment where the flood of bodies swayed and gyrated under the calculated influence of his sonic aphrodisiac. Soon, he would make her belong.

Despite every other person there—their glowing red streams that would have drawn him in on any other night—his gaze was locked on her. When she passed under the bright, strobing lights over the dance floor, two jade glimmers arrested his attention. In his immaculate memory, Marina had had brown eyes—like the fertile soils of the moon’s navel known as Mexico.

But this was a change he found deeply arousing, for her eyes were no longer brown—in this iteration, they were green.

***

Walking down Central at night always felt eerie despite how often Dalia had done so in high school, only back then they were visiting restaurants instead of bars. On edge, she always felt like she had to be ready at a moment's notice despite how lively and positive it felt with all the buzzing bodies walking alongside her and her friends.

Boisterous patrons going in and out of the night clubs or restaurants—either stumbling out trying not to puke or they were trying not to spill their food because of someone else who was drunk. The evidence on the ground proved that many had failed at both.

There were lights everywhere, illuminating even the deepest alleys between the short buildings but that just made her feel more on edge. She could see all of the despairing destitutes. Some were fent folding while others tweaked, even more were passed out—at least, Dalia hoped they were just passed out.

Mostly though, people were just buzzed or simply enjoying their night out uninhibited, smiling at one another if their gazes met. That infectious night life proved to soften the walls strangers tended to put between themselves and others. It only helped that there was an abundance of delectable aromas filling the night air.

Sofia turned to find that Dalia was lagging behind them. Again. “Dalia, hurry up, fool!”

“Sorry!” Dalia, half speed-walked, half jogged awkwardly to catch up. Although, she felt like Sofia was being a little unfair at this point.

Feeling her skirt ride up a little, she shimmied it down when she reached her friends. Luckily for Dalia, her thick thighs helped keep it in place as long as she wasn’t bouncing around.

Mirella looked up at Dalia, “I know you said that you didn’t want to talk about—you know…Mexico? Pero, I’m here if—”

“Ándale, Mimi!” Sofia’s whiney voice cut Mirella off.

These days, Sofia was easily irritated and kind of mean, especially since her long-time boyfriend had broken up with her. It was hard enough for someone from the South Valley to be accepted by a family from the Northeast Heights, but Liam’s parents had actually gone as far as calling her ghetto.

Sofia was the preppiest girl Dalia knew, she’d never thought her friend was ghetto at all.

“It’s bad enough that big ass India Maria over here keeps getting distracted.” Sofia gave Dalia a judgemental look—making Dalia self-consciously grab at her own braided hair.

Dalia blushed, she had always felt targeted for the way she looked due to most of her friends calling her “tarahumara” or Sofia’s favorite, “India Maria.”

“Don’t start, dude.” Anna pinched Sofia’s tricep hard.

The irritated blonde sucked in air, rubbing the spot Anna had pinched. “Ssss! That fucking hurt, fool. Just don’t get butt wet when I do it to you, okay?” The okay was rhetorical.

Anna rolled her eyes, then turned to give Dalia an apologetic half-smile.

But Dalia didn’t notice, she was distracted by the feeling of being watched. It had started a few minutes ago and she hadn’t been able to shake it off since. Constantly looking around, her eyes darted from person to person but she never found what she was looking for.

One time, she thought she had caught the stalker, but it had just been a random methhead who’d zoned out while looking in her general direction. Dalia winced at thinking about the stranger that way—he was still a person.

It was just one of the many things she was trying to unlearn.

“Oye! Dude, hurry up. We’re gonna leave your ass behind, watch.” Sofia slightly slurred as she approached the new club they’d wanted to check out.

Dalia huffed. This was supposed to be a celebration of her return to the group, but Sofia was just making her feel like she wasn’t wanted.

“Don’t pay attention to her—she’s just pissed about Liam.” Mirella whispered to Dalia when she caught up.

But Dalia couldn’t stop her train of thought.

With the whole group being a year older than her, they’d grown accustomed to doing things without her. Especially when Dalia was stuck as a senior and they’d gone off to the local university. They would go to campus activities together and gush about their experiences in the group chat. Dalia could only read about how much fun they’d had. She was happy for her girls—truly, but she also felt like they were growing apart.

Then at the end of the year, just when she’d thought she would be reuniting with her group and get to experience college life with them, she had to leave for Mexico to take care of her dying grandmother.

Watching the woman she cared for the most waste away slowly and being powerless to do anything except keep the older woman company compounded Dalia’s isolation until it became all encompassing. When the fateful day finally arrived, her grandma’s passing carved an irreparable void inside of Dalia.

Barely a week back in town, she’d hoped it would be just like old times but so far Dalia felt like an outsider. Throughout the night, they kept laughing at inside jokes or they would share knowing looks. None of them bothered to explain to Dalia what was going on so she could at least understand.

And now, they kept leaving her behind. She hadn’t even noticed it until she was lost in her thoughts and their distinct laughter caught her attention. Dalia didn’t think they’d been laughing at her, but by the way Sofia had been treating her and how distant Anna seemed, she couldn’t be sure.

At least Mirella still seemed like she wanted Dalia there. Or maybe she was just being kind and considerate like always.

When Dalia caught up with them again, they were in front of a bouncer at an upscale club she didn’t recognize. The bouncer held his headset tightly against his ear trying to listen to whatever was being said to him as the bass heavy discotheque sound bumped behind him. He nodded, looking at each woman in turn.

“Uh huh. Yeah. Okay.” He let go of his headset and beckoned the young women, throwing his thumb towards the entrance. “You four, you get in free.”

The other three whooped and laughed, but Dalia creased her brow in concern.

“Ándale, don’t be an aguafiestas, dude!” Anna laughed, following closely behind Sofia.

“You in or out?” The bouncer boomed impatiently over the music—making Dalia flinch—when she made no move to follow her friends.

Mid turn, Dalia felt a soft hand on her wrist. Mirella’s beautiful face looked up at her with a reassuring smile. Before Dalia could say anything, the short, bubbly brunette dragged her towards the entrance.

“She’s coming!” Mirella told the bouncer as the two women passed him.

He threw her a dismissive thumbs up before he turned back towards the line.

Inside of the club, Dalia felt out of place. The decor was modern and everyone inside was dressed glamorously, for some she would even describe them as elegant. Every other person looked like they could be an Instagram or fitness model.

But some of them threw her off, adding to that weird feeling she’d been having now. There were a few people dressed in black and red interspersed among the dancing bodies—employees maybe? But their attire wasn’t uniform.

Every time she made eye contact with one of them it spiked her anxiety.

Maybe it was because she felt underdressed, but Dalia kept thinking she was being judged. She’d shown up to her friends’ shared apartment in a sleeveless blouse and mismatched skirt—it was the shortest one she owned—and Sofia had already made fun of her for it.

Even Anna had uncharacteristically tried to convince Mirella to lend Dalia an outfit. They were both curvier than Sofia and Anna—but that wasn’t the issue. Dalia was much taller than the rest of them.

As the other three went to the middle of the dance floor, Dalia hung back awkwardly. Mirella beckoned Dalia—but the taller woman shook her head. When Mirella pouted, Dalia smiled sheepishly and gave her the universal gesture for “give me a little time” and then another gesture followed “I need a drink.”

The short brunette rolled her eyes, but her disarming smile let Dalia know she wasn’t upset. Dalia couldn’t help but smile back. She tried to ignore the feeling in her tummy.

Remembering her thirst, she walked to the bar and tried to get the attention of the bartender. But the young man didn’t notice her. Due to her mounting anxiety, she stopped trying and instead just leaned against the bar awkwardly, taking out her phone when she felt it vibrate.

Scrolling through the notifications on her phone, an email caught her attention. It was from the University of New Mexico.

Nervousness shifted to excitement as she read through the message. Her transcripts from the Mexican college she’d been attending online had been accepted. Only one class had been rejected, but that didn’t matter—she still had enough credits to apply to her program immediately.

Instinctively, she wanted to share the news with her friends, imagining the smile on Mirella’s face when her friend found out Dalia and her were going to be in the same program. Dalia looked up, watching the bubbly brunette dance, uninhibited and unrestrained by the doubts and insecurities that plagued Dalia.

Mirella didn’t care how she looked while dancing—a feeling Dalia couldn’t relate to, but she definitely appreciated being able to see it. The way Mirella swayed her hips, how her braless tits noticeably poked through her dress—

Dalia shook her head, guiltily trying to rid herself of the inappropriate thoughts she was having about her closest friend.

Just as she had composed herself and was ready to go show her friends the news, Dalia froze. A group of guys approach the women. At first the girls eyed them suspiciously, but soon enough they were all dancing.

Dalia frowned, watching one of them settle behind Mirella. The brunette smiled up at the handsome, blonde man.

Dalia felt her cheeks flush as he inched closer to her friend until they were grinding against each other.

They’re just dancing…she thought, but her stomach turned over. A nauseating anxiety infested her body, making her feel sick.

With that anxiety building in her core, Dalia watched what went from casual dancing to more of an intimate touch. He placed his hands on her exposed sides—no, not just placed there…he was caressing her. And she wasn’t rejecting it, instead leaning her back against him, running her own hands from his perfect fucking face and down his neck, settling her hands there.

The handsome stranger leaned in and whispered something in her ear, making the fine hair on the back of Dalia’s neck bristle. Mirella laughed and their faces drew closer—Dalia wanted to look away as she felt an angry heat in her chest. When his hands traveled down from her ribs to her hips, then slowly shifted dangerously close to her inner thighs, Dalia turned away—looking for the restroom and finding the sign at the furthest corner of the grand room.

She rushed toward the sign, finding an entrance to a long hallway behind a swinging door with a plastic door gasket. Upon entering, a still, cold air settled onto her skin. When the gasket settled, sealing the entrance, it muted the music. In the long, cold and quiet corridor, she became hyperaware. Her clothes felt cold against her skin, her braid tickled the back of her neck, and her steps were too loud.

As she walked through the hallway, passing several doors and even a stairway, she felt more and more claustrophobic. It was getting tighter and tighter the further she walked in, making her feel swallowed. Then she noticed the musicless rumbling of the bass, like an anxious heartbeat that mimicked her own.

It certainly didn’t help that the image of Mirella with that guy persisted in her mind, nauseating her. Every step jostled her core uncomfortably and she had to steady herself by gliding her hand on the wall—but the texture on it was making it worse.

She was becoming increasingly dizzy with the silent pressure in her ears. It felt like the noise was actively being cancelled.

Finally, she reached the restroom almost at the end—just a few feet from where the hallway culminated in a black door. The exit sign above it cast a nauseatingly orange glow in the immediate area that made the acoustic textured, beige walls look like skin.

Dalia gagged, pushing the bathroom door open, finding a woman fixing her make-up in front of the oversized mirror. The woman looked at her, making a face of concerned disgust, pressing herself against the sink as Dalia hurried past her to the last stall.

Using the grab bar to keep steady, she hovered over the toilet bowl—feeling like the contents of her stomach were going to erupt out of her at any moment. The pressure didn’t feel as physical as it did mental, but in her state it was difficult to separate the two.

She dry heaved, her consciousness swimming in the murky waters of her thoughts and emotions. No matter how much she retched, nothing came out. It only served to increase the pressure on her chest and it made the anxiety in her stomach almost painful.

Was the food bad? The sushi took shape in her mind, she imagined it rotting, flies fluttering around it and landing, depositing their eggs into the moist pockets of the—

Blleeegggh! She heaved, but still nothing came out.

Anger bubbled and brimmed inside her, she was here, in the toilet without any concern from her friends—they probably hadn’t even noticed she had left the dance room…Mirella was probably leaving with that asshole right now…

They weren’t in high school anymore, things had changed, even though the thought of losing her friends made her—

Blleggh!

Another wave of nausea hit Dalia, her gag reflex rapidly and repeatedly firing off with nothing coming up. Trying to avoid her thoughts, she stood there, bent over—her arms shaking from holding onto the bar so tightly and for so long.

After the painful contractions in her stomach finally ebbed away, she noticed that she no longer felt nauseous.

But even then the anxiety persisted—she didn’t want to be here. Dalia clutched her blouse, needing to pull it from her chest. It was constricting her despite how loose it was. She felt it stretch and then—

Pop!

The top button skidded across the tile floor, leaving her ample cleavage exposed. The cool air on her damp chest made her skin feel cold while the heat persisted inside her, but she felt relief. She sighed, her exhale going on for several seconds.

Feeling tired, she decided she would go home. Pulling out her phone and exiting the stall, she ordered an Uber home. It would be a quiet and lonely night but at least she would be home.

Her heart panged with the thought of Mirella…but she pushed that aside. Her friend was exactly where she wanted to be right now.

Looking up, the bathroom was empty, the woman from earlier gone. Maybe Dalia had scared the poor woman off with her retching. Or maybe it had been the creepy fluorescent lights above, now duller than she remembered them being only a few minutes ago.

At the sink, she twisted the handle and cringed at the sharp squeak it emitted. It was like nails on a chalkboard to her sensitive senses at the moment. It made her already frayed nerves itch. So much so that despite the cool air, she felt so hot. Almost feverish.

Passing her hands under the frigid water and then shaking off the excess, she placed one palm against her chest and the other on her neck, sighing as it cooled her flushed skin.

“That’s better…” The image of cold hands against her flashed in her mind before she shoved it away.

Dalia shook her head, the images from earlier were infesting her mind, imagining Mirella…

Dalia desperately wanted to participate instead of just waiting around awkwardly—needing to feel comfortable before she could enjoy herself. She could have just **** herself to dance with her friends…but—

But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

All three were having too much fun dancing with those guys now—strangers they didn’t even know the names of.

What did Dalia care, she was leaving now anyway…

She passed her hand through the running water again, this time cupping a little to press it to the back of her neck. Her body shivered when the excess water rolled down her back. Goosebumps rose on her skin as the water traveled down the ridge of her spine until it seeped into the strap of her bra beneath her loose blouse.

Then she repeated the action, this time letting the excess water run down her chest. It dipped into her cleavage and she pursed her lips to suppress a small moan trapped to rumble in her throat. The heat between her trapped breasts dropped—she would feel even better when she was finally home and would be able to slip off the stifling garment.

Refocusing when she felt the drops reach her navel unimpeded and settle there, she lifted her blouse to wipe the collected water away. Her small stomach reflected on the mirror and she blushed, quickly shoving her shirt back down despite being alone.

“Mch.” She smacked her lips in annoyance as her thoughts taunted her.

The flicker of the lights above made her flinch, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“I hate it here.” She turned off the faucet as the dull fluorescent lights winked out. Replaced by a duller set of egress lights that only illuminated enough of the room for her to see her path to the exit.

Fear mixed with anxiety as she looked around herself, terrified of the dark. She looked at the corners of the room with terrified suspicion, the weak lighting didn’t reach there. Imagining something watching her from there, she jumped when the heavy bass of another song caught her off guard.

“Fuck this.” She squeaked.

The persistent feeling that something was behind her crawled up her back. Quickly and without a plan, she turned back toward the mirror—

To find that she was alone. Nothing around her.

Noticing her eyes had adjusted to the dark, the entirety of the bathroom was now visible. Relief flooded her and she started to giggle. No matter how old she was now, she was still a little scaredy cat.

“You freaking weenie.” She mocked her reflection before walking towards the door.

But she stopped.

“That’s—” She shut her mouth.

There’d been an odd thudding sound. Taking another couple of steps, she heard it again. It sounded like another set of steps was walking with her.

Quickly saying a prayer, she hurried to the door. Forcing herself to think it was just the echo of her own flats on the tile floor until she reached the light from the hallway and turned around.

Again, there was nothing there.

With the bathroom door closing, she released a shaky breath. Smoothing out her blouse and skirt, she turned to walk towards the entrance—

Bumping into someone. She hadn’t seen the man coming down the steps from the second floor.

“Oof!”

A man had grabbed her by the waist to keep her from stumbling back. Despite her own height, she still looked up at him. He was a haunting visage, a pale and gaunt man out of a gothic painting.

There was an alluring air of arrogance about him.

Colored a regal chestnut and beautifully silken, his hair cascaded lazily just past his shoulders. Thick eyebrows crowning sleep deprived, sunken green eyes above sharp cheekbones made him look sullen.

A thin mustache lined his top lip and a neat goatee sat isolated on his pointed chin.

As her eyes continued to fall reflexively, they noticed just how thin he was. Through his red mesh shirt his wide shoulders were clearly bony, his frame wiry and thin.

Despite being so thin, his chest below her touch felt sturdy—

Huh? Confused, she noticed her hand against his chest—she’d realized she had reached out when she was about to stumble backwards from running into him.

Her mind took a second to process that thought. Her hand—against his chest…

She recoiled, mortified that she’d kept it there so long.

“I am so, so sorry!” Her hands flew to cover her mouth.

“Please don’t apologize, it was entirely my fault.” He smiled at her, his teeth unbearably white. “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to bump into you, amor fati.”

Amor fati? She thought. “I am okay.” A strange calm settled over her when their eyes met.

“Forgive me, I am too familiar in my own home—” The tall man softly reached for her hand and brought it up just short of his lips. “I am Diago.”

The entire time she’d been inside of the club, her anxiety had festered, making her chest feel tight and her heart pound. But at the feeling of his intimate presence and his exceedingly pleasing touch, her heart slowed and the pressure in her chest subsided.

“Diago?” She was surprised at the calmness in her voice despite his touch and their proximity.

“Ah, I like the way that sounds coming from your lips.” Without any intention to let go of her hand or to move it further from his mouth, he responded. “And you, amor fati, what would you allow me to call you?”

He had the faintest of accents she couldn’t place.

“Amor fati? What does that mean?”

“Again, I must apologize to you. I am much too comfortable here in my own home. It only means love—a simple term of endearment…” He inched closer. “Now, tell me, what must I call you?”

Lips parting— “Dalia.” Her name left her, offered to this stranger.

Closing the distance between them, he sealed his lips against the back of her hand and her heart fluttered. Never breaking eye contact, he captivated her gaze in his eyes. There was a faint tint of red in his green irises that flashed subtly.

After an eternity within that moment, his lips left her skin and she took it back, the ghost of his touch was like a brand on her skin, burning where he’d kissed.

“Are you here with anyone?”

“Yes—” Her mind went to the images of Sofia, Anna, and Mirella dancing with the group of guys. “But—I mean…I am going home, now.”

The words fell out of her mouth of their own accord—he frowned at their sound.

She felt the need to explain herself. “I came with my friends—who I’m not even sure if they’re my friends anymore—but I want to go home. My ride will be here in twenty minutes.” She couldn’t stop herself—or she didn’t want to.

Her mind struggled to understand her own need to speak.

“Oh! I am sorry to hear that, amor fati, is my home not welcoming?” He asked. “Has my staff offended you?” He looked in the direction of the music. “Name them and I will handle it.”

She blushed, shaking her head. “No! Sorry! Of course not, your…house? It’s nice. Your staff—sorry, I just…my friends—” She paused, the concern on his face making her hesitant to say she wanted to leave lest he be offended. “My ride will be here soon…”

“Let me keep you company while you wait. Would you like to go back…or do you prefer a quieter place?”

Just below the strange calm she felt, there was a muted apprehension. But he’d only been pleasant the couple of minutes she’d known him.

She shook her head. “Let’s go back.”

“As you wish, amor fati.”

He held onto her waist as they walked back towards the dance room. As he lifted the gasket and led her through, the music was overwhelming for her. It was like she could feel the distortions in the air.

“Let us sit.” He pulled her towards a booth in the corner.

There was already a couple sitting there getting to know each other. The man wore a red shirt and black pants like several others—Dalia was certain now that they were staff. But the woman he was with seemed to be just another club-goer.

“Ahem.” Diago cleared his throat, stealing their attention for himself.

The man in the booth looked up, ready to have an argument. But when he saw Diago, he stiffened and the fight died in his eyes. He gave Diago a nervously apologetic smile.

“Come on, Lia, let’s go.” The woman simply smiled and nodded, the look on her face showed she was completely intoxicated.

Dalia wanted to make sure she was okay—

“A grapevine.” She heard Diago clearly over the music, clear as if they were still inside of the hallway.

Still with his hand on her waist like they’d known each other, Diago led Dalia into the booth.

“What?” she asked, confused.

“Your name, it means grapevine in the language of the moors.” He smiled. “Intoxicating like pyment—grape mead. Have you tried it?”

“Oh.” She’d forgotten what she’d been so upset about earlier—she was almost relieved to not remember. “Is that like wine?”

But it was something else that was bothering her. It was completely out of character for her to allow a stranger to come into her space, let alone touch her. She should be upset, she should be reinforcing her boundaries…

“Imagine wine with honey, sweet nectar overflowing from your mouth and spilling into your throat—” Diago’s voice filled her. “Using the sweetest of grapes from the dalia.”

There was a comfort between them, as if they were old friends. They were just now getting together for a cup of coffee after a lifetime of commitments and responsibilities had kept them apart.

Dalia wasn’t so sure that that wasn’t the truth.

“Where have you been, doña Dalia?”

Through their unspoken connection that didn’t understand nor heed the limits of time, she understood what he meant. Why had it taken her so long to reach this moment, right there—with him.

“I…don’t know.” Her voice was barely her own, drawn out from her deepest insecurity. “I had to take care of my mamita. I wanted to be here, but I couldn’t leave her alone…” It carried a despair she had little experience expressing but had still felt heavily in the years she’d spent in isolation. “But I came back as soon as she died. I miss her. I—” Her vision blurred and her mind felt crowded. “I feel so…alone now.” She looked around, looking for something—someone—but she didn’t know what or who.

Tears leaked involuntarily, accompanied by a profound sorrow that crashed out of her.

Dalia didn’t understand how these emotions were coming up. They had been pushed so far down, swallowed by the void she’d felt growing in the pit of her stomach, that she’d thought she had gotten past it. Just another blip in a life of loneliness and suffering. But it’s like they were being clawed out and brought to the light, exposed for all to see.

She couldn’t drown the emotions no matter how much she tried.

Patiently, Diago held her waist in the booth, reassuringly rubbing her side. His perfect face fell, mirroring the tone of her voice. He truly empathized with her, he’d been carrying his own loneliness for far longer—too long to not be able to instantly recognize that same sorrow she felt the moment she’d walked into his club.

“You are here now, we’ve found each other.” He leaned in, his hands reaching for hers and pulling them from her face, he wouldn’t allow her to hide such beauty from his eyes. “I know what that feels like…losing someone you love—someone who completes you.”

Dalia was struggling to understand her connection to this strange man.

She rubbed her eyes and shook her head, she felt dizzy again. “I…I don’t know.” With her eyes closed, she felt anxiety building. “I don’t understand what I feel right now.

He cupped her chin and turned her towards himself. “I know what you feel. I see it in your eyes, doña Dalia. Look into mine and you’ll see it, too.”

Every time his eyes shimmered with vibrant grains of red she felt like understanding wasn’t so important, not as important as what she was feeling.

Her eyes locked onto his and her complete focus was ignited, calm settling her nerves once again. “And what do I feel?” She needed to know.

“You feel lonely,” he said, leaving her no room for doubt.

“Yeah…” Her eyes regained focus. “I do.” She blinked, noticing Diago again. “How do you know that?” His kind eyes…

It was like he knew her. They’d barely spoken a word, barely shared space and the same breaths…and still, he knew her.

His eyes were the same as hers. Two green oceans of sadness where she would drown. And then she was nearly in them, her nose touching his.

It had been her who’d closed the distance between them.

“We are the same.” She felt his hand travel from her waist, to the middle of her chest— “In here…” —and then up to settle at her cheek.

She leaned into his palm, closing her eyes when she felt his caress of her skin. Despite how cold his touch was, she relished in it. It sapped the excess energy from the muted anxiety in her subconscious, bringing her a near constant siphon of relief.

“And we found each other.” His breath smelled of sweet, copper roses, the aroma wrapping around her senses like a veil.

Before she could stop herself, she leaned into him to feel his words on her own lips—

“Dalia!” Mirella’s voice stunned her out of her stupor and she recoiled from Diago’s touch, her face confused and guilty as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Oh!” Dalia looked at her friend, then towards Diago who’d comfortably settled against the booth’s cushions with his arm falling back to her waist.

Dalia felt the emotions she’d been feeling slowly lift from her.

“We’ve been looking for you for like ten minutes!” That had significance to Dalia…but she didn’t remember why. “We were going to the bar across the street.” Mirella smiled at Diago, but the look in her eyes conveyed concern and caution to Dalia.

The same look they’d shared in high school when one of them didn’t trust a guy that approached them. Mirella extended her hand out to Dalia, reaching for her. Her eyes insisted for Dalia to take it.

But Diago took it instead. Dalia’s consciousness flickered at that. These two shouldn’t be touching each other…

“My name is Diago, what is yours?” His words were soothing, but they didn’t carry the same effect they had before—at least not on Dalia.

Dalia saw Mirella’s eyes turn from cautious to a peaceful gloss.

“M—”

With her instincts taking over— “She’s not important.” —Dalia snatched Diago’s hand.

He looked at her, arching his brow.

But Dalia didn’t allow herself to think in her consciousness what had compelled her to stop Mirella from responding. Instead, she caressed the cold hand she held, feeling whole again.

Turning to her friend, she spoke with uncharacteristic disdain. “I’m busy. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Oh…” Mirella’s face fell, both confused and hurt. “Are you sure? We might get foo—”

“I’m sure!” Dalia’s voice strained, her thoughts wavering, but her heart didn’t.

She needed to hurt Mirella…deep down she knew why, but on the surface she couldn’t understand. The thoughts couldn’t form in her mind or else they would spill from her mouth.

Mirella’s lips parted but seeing the look on Dalia’s face made her shut them again. Dalia had never treated her that way—spoken to her like that—before. Without another word, she walked away.

In her dampening peripherals, Dalia watched the bubbly brunette walk to Sofia and Anna. She watched them talk, no doubt about her—until they had faded from her perspective. Immense pain fraught her soul for just a moment until her gaze focused on Diago and he smiled at her.

“Amor fati.” This time, the given name settled inside of her chest like it was oxygen itself.

No one else existed. She was the only person in the world for him—and he was the only person in the world for her. Peace flooded her once again, replacing the rising panic she’d been harboring.

“Yes, Diago?”

His eyes went wide—his name on her tongue was life itself.

“Come with me, I have something that belongs to you.” He stood up, extending his hand to her as they stared into each other’s eyes. “Would you like me to show you?”

With complete trust and without hesitation, she took it, nodding with a dull gleam in her eye. “Yes.”

“As you wish, amor fati.”

The moment their eyes left each other, she looked back. She locked eyes with Mirella as her friends were leaving the club. The brunette was the only one unaccompanied. Dalia looked away when she realized the hurt on her friend's face—wondering why Dalia, too, felt a strange hurt in her chest.

Hand in hand, the mismatched couple walked back into the hallway. When the gasket settled in place, Dalia was keenly aware of how uncomfortable it was to be back in this space again. Subconsciously, her grip tightened around Diago.

Together down until they reached the staircase, then they ascended up the steps, continuing past the second floor and up to a third she didn’t know was there. Every step up felt like she was approaching a point of no return.

“I stay here during the summer.” He cut through the rhythmic thud of their steps as they climbed the stairs.

Curious, she asked, “Only in the summer?”

“Yes. That’s when it’s warmest.”

“Usually, people leave during the summer. Where are you the rest of the year?”

“Mostly in Quintana Roo. It reminds me of…when I was younger—it stays warm there.”

“Are you from Mexico?”

“No, I just spend most of my time there. Decades.”

“Decades?” she laughed. “You look like you’re barely thirty.”

It was his turn to laugh. “I’m much older. But maybe it feels like such a long time because I’m nostalgic…” He paused. “But no, I just spent my—my twenties and early thirties there.” Diago reached the last step. “Pero provengo de España.”

“España? Don’t you mean, Ethpaña?” She laughed nervously.

He turned towards her with a toothy grin. “Only the c’s and z’s, not s’s.”

Upon reaching a heavy metal door atop the stairs, he pulled a key out of his pocket to unlock the deadbolt. It looked like it would lead to the roof of the building…or a dungeon.

Instead, when he pushed the door open, making the hinges grind harshly together, a dark room came into view.

“Welcome.” He ushered her in.

Crossing the threshold triggered the lights. Each time another blinked on, the room seemed to expand in front of her eyes. The room was vast, as big as her entire house was growing up.

Awestruck, she walked around, admiring everything. “This is a summer home?”

He smiled. “I chase the warmth of the summer sun.” He pointed at the brightest light in the middle of the ceiling, the design around it allowing it to glimmer and shine like a miniature sun. “But it eludes me.”

Not understanding what he meant by that, she walked around.

“Can I?” Her fingers hovered over the intricate designs on the walls. To her it looked like an abstract honeycomb.

“Of course.” He walked along with her, keeping a constant contact with her warm skin.

“What is this?”

He watched her slender fingers trace the yeseria appreciatingly, his eyes catching the residual heat she left on every inch of surface she touched. “It’s Mudejar style, developed by the moors a long time ago, I brought it with me—helps me feel like I’m still home.” He looked around, a tenderness in his eyes that Dalia hadn’t seen yet.

“Do you visit often? Spain, I mean.”

The room seemed to grow colder and the lights dulled, making Dalia hug herself. She felt the skin on her bare arms cool.

Without exhaling any breath, he sighed. “I was exc—” His eyes went wide as if he’d said something wrong. “My father was exiled—well we all were. His religious practices were viewed as sacrilegious." He looked at her, there was pain in his eyes. “Against God, they said. All he wanted was to get closer to Him.” He paused for several seconds, wiping his eyes. “So, no…I haven’t been there in—a long time.”

“That feels ****…is that why you came here?” She could feel his pain—it reasserted the connection she felt to him. “For religious freedom?”

She flinched at the harsh sound he made—it was a throaty and cynical laugh. “Religious freedom? Here?” He shook his head. “Maybe that was true several ce…decades ago.” He looked at her, an intensity in his eyes that made her freeze in place. “No, that’s not why I came here…this place—it called to me.”

The temperature in the room slowly returned to normal as they stayed like that, staring at each other.

Still feeling his light touch on her skin, she noticed how cold he was. Concerned, she tentatively placed her hands on his arms to try to warm him up—his skin was like ice.

“Are you okay? You’re freezing.” Her concern was genuine.

He drew closer to her. “And you’re so warm.” He was so close now that their noses could touch at any moment.

Dalia felt her heart pound in her chest, she’s never been this close to anyone in her life.

“Your scent, it’s so sweet.” He inhaled—but it was only aroma to his senses—it had no path to his lungs that had atrophied long ago.

She took a step back. “Really? Sweet like what?”

He took her hand and brought it to his nose. “Sweet like fruits—like wine…and honey. Here—” Pulling her to another room— “I want to show you more—what I brought you for.”

Intrigue flickered within Dalia, but reflexively she replied with nervous sarcasm and an amused look. “Let me guess, your bedroom?”

Arching his brow— “Eager to see it?” Her blush made him laugh. “No, not my bedroom. My collection.”

Confused, her eyebrows creased. “Collection? What do you collect? Hearts?” She mocked.

“Mmm…” he thought. “In a way—more like souls. People—parts of them I’ve connected with.”

She laughed nervously. “Like body parts?”

“Ha! No, of course not. Things they gave me, to remember them by. Among other treasures from the old world.”

“Show me.” She told him, intrigued.

“As you wish, amor fati.”

Dalia tilted her head wondering what those treasures could be as she followed him. They walked through a curtain and into another room not nearly as big, but still far bigger than any she had the privilege to call home before.

Diago gestured around himself. “This is me.”

Dalia’s mouth dropped as she took in everything. There were several pieces of expensive looking jewelry, armor and swords in different styles, several different attires that looked like period piece costumes, but what caught her attention far above everything else were the paintings. They portrayed what looked like Diago, but across time. As if he himself had been in the era that represented the items below each painting.

She walked along the paintings, ignoring the items completely. The first was him in what looked like ancient Spain, younger than he looked now and wearing something she would have associated with nobility from some early century era. The next one showed him with armor, seemingly ready for battle in a desert. Then there was another, more ominous painting sans Diago. It featured the mouth of a cave.

She leaned in to read the gold plaque underneath, “La Cueva de Lazaro,” she read aloud. “Is this real? That’s really the cave where Lazarus was laid to rest?”

When she turned to look at Diago, his sullen visage haunted her. There was a sadness there that she didn’t quite understand.

“Yes.”

The further along she went, the more she noticed the light in his eyes dull within the paintings despite each step towards modernity. His skin paled more and more, and his frame lost the definition it had in the first few paintings.

Nearing the end, there were no more paintings and instead there were photographs. The first was a grainy amber where Diago sat in front of a dead buffalo—somewhere in the midwest? Then there was a clearer, black and white photo, it looked like what Dalia imagined would be New York in the early 1900s, with modestly tall buildings and people walking about in the background, blurred.

The last was him in front of time square during Y2K. While she dismissed the others as reenactments—all part of some vanity project rich people with too much time and money tended to take—she couldn’t do so with this one. He looked exactly the same right now as he did over two decades ago.

Unless he was using AI to recreate it, it looked completely authentic to her.

“Is this real?”

“Yes. But come with me to the 16th century, I have something to show you there.”

As he took her hands and took her back, she looked at the photo one last time, thinking how it could be possible he looked the exact same twenty years apart.

16th century? She wondered.

They walked to the most southern part of the room. From what Dalia could see it took the most space by far with the most items. Armor, jewelry, costumes, weapons—so many weapons—and dozens of other things she didn’t immediately recognize.

The armor was steel, round, and polished. It looked like it could be both brand new and authentically ancient. The damage, though, gave it an air of authenticity, especially near the chest right over the heart. It looked like it had been struck hard being something long and jagged—almost like teeth.

Getting as close as she could get without touching the chestplate, there seemed to be tiny, shimmering black glass pieces embedded deeply in the steel.

A longsword hung next to it, suspended with silk thread as if it was mid thrust. “Una espada bastarda.”

“A bastard sword?” She repeated, not understanding.

“An old joke…it was used in the conquista alongside Cortés. It helped bring an empire to extinction.” His posture straightened when he said that, almost as if he took pride in it.

Dalia took that in. It made sense to her, he was from Spain, after all.

“But that’s not what I wanted to show you. I want you to look around and tell me…” He trailed off, drawing her in.

“Tell you what?” She leaned in expectantly, completely enthralled by him.

“Does anything call to you? From this era, I mean.”

“Call to me?” She looked around, confused. “Like, which one do I like?”

“No—” He placed his hand over her heart, making her eyes go wide—but she didn’t recoil from his touch. “Close your eyes and listen with intention. What do you hear?”

She did as he suggested, closing her eyes and trying to be receptive. After a few seconds of her trying to take this seriously to not disappoint him, she felt something.

It was a weak pull in her mind, but it was unmistakable. A direction forming and guiding her. He let go of her as she pulled away—she followed her instinct.

As she drew closer, the pull became a sound, formless and muffled until it felt concrete. Every step revealed the emotion behind it and the shape it took.

At first it was primitive, anger in a simple circle. But as Dalia examined the thought and continued her path to it, she could almost touch it—eternally spinning and spinning. And the anger became more sophisticated, directed. There was betrayal, indignation, and rage.

Betrayal.

Indignation.

Rage.

Endlessly cycling one to another.

But it was the source, the sound of something in perpetual sufferance, cursed to exist in this liminal state. It was the echo of a word, Mal—something.

No, not a word, Dalia thought. A name.

“Malinalli.”

Her eyes snapped open. In her hand was a simple golden necklace with a cross that she had no recollection of grabbing. In front of her, a long, red and white huipil hung suspended with the same silken threads.

“How did you do that?” She turned to Diago.

“I did nothing.” The sincerity in his eyes calmed her nerves, the tone of his voice layering over her like a cool blanket. “She called you on her own.”

She creased her brow. “Who did?” The name replayed in her mind, it felt precious to her—she couldn’t explain that feeling. “Malinalli…”

Diago looked past Dalia at the dress and walked to it. “This belonged to her—the woman I loved.” His voice reverberated inside of her. “I had the dress remade from memory, brand new, just for her but…” His hands trembled just short of the dress. Without looking back, he spoke—his whole body trembling. “She is no longer here to wear it.”

Dalia made the connection to the moment earlier when he’d said he lost someone, too. “I am so sorry.” Tenderly, she placed her hand on his shoulder. “What happened to her?”

“Time and distance separated us—she was gone just like that before I could see her again…” His fingertips brushed against the bust of the dress. “Before I could…bring her with me. She never even saw the dress.”

Dalia wanted to hug him, to kiss him—anything she could do to take this pain away. She needed to. “How can I make you feel better?”

He turned to her, their faces close. Taking her hands in his, he leaned in—red hope glittered in his eyes. “Would you wear it?”

Surprised flushed her cheeks and her chest. “You would want me to wear the dress you made for her? For your wife?”

He shook his head. “My lover.” His hand cupped her cheek and she leaned into it. “It would please me eternally to see you in it.”

The same ruby that glittered in his green eyes begged her.

Her brow creased, a question forming on her lips. But instead of inhaling air to ask for clarification, she inhaled his kiss.

She sighed, the sound rumbling in both of their mouths. His kiss was sweet and coppery, the scent of dead roses and fresh dirt. Her arms went over his shoulders, her hands in his hair.

It was like he was feeding her his saliva, it was sweet, coating her mouth and her throat—

Diago’s lips lifted off hers, leaving them feeling cold and lonely—****. Her lips tried to find his again, but he pulled away just an inch.

“Will you do it?” He planted another peck on her mouth. “For me?” And another.

Feeling the filling intoxication of their contact and that contact being so suddenly ripped away, the words jumped out of her mouth without her permission. “Yes—yes for you.” His taste was like a ****. “I’ll do it.”

She needed more.

“It is the thing I want second most in the world.”

“The second most?” Dalia wondered what he could want more—it could be anything—

“You.” He kissed her again, short and sweet. “I want you most.”

Dalia’s heart felt like it was going to pound out of her chest. For the first time since she had been fostered into the group as a freshman several years ago, she felt like she had found someone who wanted her as much as she wanted them. Even if it was a complete stranger.

“Do you have somewhere I can change?” She asked, looking around—her mind felt hazy.

“You can do it right here, let me help you.”

Before she could respond, his hands went to her blouse, working the buttons open. Surprised and frozen with an anxious lust, she looked down. Her bra was completely exposed now, he made sure to pull her blouse open further with every button he undid.

Diago allowed the back of his hands to caress her skin. It was soft, the softest skin he could remember touching in the long, long time he’d existed. Her breasts were warm, full of life. Untucking her blouse from her skirt, he pulled it off her shoulders.

He could see the goosebumps rising on her skin, he imagined how they looked on her bare breasts. Without hesitation, he reached behind her, pressing her chest against his and unhooked her bra.

Dalia cupped her own breasts, not yet ready to completely surrender her modesty. But she was close.

Diago went to the zipper on the side of her skirt, maintaining absolute eye contact with her. Never had his eyes wanted so badly to drop to the chest of one of his conquests, but he resisted now. It would be that much sweeter when she surrendered them to him willingly.

The skirt fell away, folding at her feet. It revealed a high-leg thong panty hugging her waist, held up by her wide hips.

But not for long. He grabbed the elastic waist of her panties—

“I-I’ve never—” She tried, but the rising anxiety in her chest muted her.

“I’ll be gentle.” He smiled, the pretense of the huipil dropping along with her panties.

“Step out of your flats.” She did, her low ankle socks clung onto her feet as the last bit of cloth still covering her body. He took her hands in his, uncovering her tits to his hungry eyes.

Her cinnamon grounded skin peaked into reddish brown edged areolas that were the same color as her lips. The soft skin just inside of the edges was just a few shades lighter, culminating in light brown, hard nipples. Diago couldn’t wait to have his mouth on them.

Leaving the huipil suspended and forgotten, he pulled her to an adjoining room. Every wall was decorated with gold, the furniture was lined with it. And at the center was a massive bed where even the blankets seemed to be made from gold.

As if she weighed nothing, he tossed her onto the bed, making her gasp as she hit the soft mattress. Landing on her back, her skin trembled deliciously, her big tits jostled and settled on her chest.

Her vision quavered, her mouth still tingling from their kiss. She could feel her pussy already moist in anticipation as he removed his mesh shirt. Every inch of him that was revealed to her inexperienced eyes was a taboo delight—she wasn’t married, yet here she was on his bed, naked.

There were old cuts on his skin, almost imperceptible from the cuts of his abs and chest but for the discoloration of skin around them. There was a particularly long and brutal one between his thin pecs—she remembered the pattern from somewhere but couldn’t quite place it.

Sitting up, she nervously placed her hands against his chest. Asking permission with her eyes looking up into his. He made no move to stop her, and she took that as an invitation to continue.

He trembled, cold as ice under her touch—especially when her hands went over his scars. She lingered there, tracing each one.

Dalia leaned in and inhaled his scent. It was the distinct smell of something metallic and earthy, with hints of citrus cutting through. She pressed her face against his skin, her mouth over his chest. And she kissed.

Her full lips parted and she planted wet kisses onto him. First, on his scars, but then she moved to his nipples. Tongue tentatively, cautiously darting out, she tasted. She’d never done this before, not even when she and Mirella had fooled around before—always over their clothes because they feared God was always watching.

But she didn’t feel God watching her now.

Wrapping her lips around his nipple, she licked lightly, gingerly.

“Que linda se siente tu boca.” He sighed, loving the feeling of her mouth on him. “Use your teeth.”

“Are you sure?” She looked up.

He expected to find hesitation stemmed from uncertainty—he could feel how inexperienced she was—but it hadn’t been that. Dalia was afraid to hurt him, the lines of gold shimmered anxiously.

Those shimmering rivers had been feeding him everything he needed to know all night.

“Please do.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and **** her back to his chest.

Feeling encouraged, she boldly bit him. Catching his nipple between her teeth, she licked the tip, flicking her tongue the way she hoped he would do to her. She felt him tugging her hair away to the other side.

Dalia smiled, I’m doing it right, she thought.

“Use your lips.”

“Like this?” She firmed her lips around his nipple, rolling it between them.

Diago moaned above her, his fingers digging into her scalp, massaging her as he eagerly pulled her against himself.

“I want to taste you.” He pulled her hair, removing her mouth from suckling his chest. “Amor fati, lay back and spread your legs for me.” He put his cold hand between her tits and pushed her back.

A thought entered her mind in that moment, her mind as well as her body responding. “Tell me how I taste…” she pleaded.

“¡Ostia, tía!” He looked at the state of her pussy—her natural lubrication glistened heavily between her legs, coating her bush.

Some had even made its way down between her ass.

Even her inner thighs were slick. He licked there first, moaning. “Mmm, you taste like honey.”

She shook when his tongue made contact with her skin. His tongue was wide and he used it completely. It glided roughly along the inside of her thighs, getting closer and closer to her pussy.

When she finally felt his cold tongue, her instinct was to close her legs, but he stopped her. An incredible strength held her firmly in place. She grabbed at the sheets, feeling his tongue first tease her labia tentatively, then he licked along her length just outside of her most sensitive spot.

“Gooood!” Her voice shook as she moaned. “Please…please…lick my—” She bit her tongue, trying to say something crude.

But Diago had no plans to let her retain any modesty—she was going to be laid bare, completely.

“Where do you want me to lick?” He teased, blowing cool air onto her wet slit.

She shivered. “Lick…me.” When he didn’t—waiting patiently between her legs—she tried again. “Diago, please…lick my…my—my pussy.” Pussy came out in a soft whisper, an exhale of breath.

“You’re what?”

****, she reached her his head, her hands futilely trying to pull him forward by his long hair. But he only smiled, his canines digging in as he bit his own lip.

“Pussy—lick my pussy.”

“As you wish, amor fati.”

The words felt like an enchantment every time he said them. They permeated her skin and sunk past her muscles, slipping between each thread, before finally settling deep into her bones.

He spread her legs obscenely, pushing them apart and up until her ass was coming off the bed. Dalia instinctively covered herself with her hands, looking down at him with wide, jade eyes.

“Move your hands.” Diago commanded her. Hesitatingly, she uncovered her pussy. “Yes, just like that. Que coño tan delicioso.” He pressed his lips against hers, his tongue licking wide.

It spanned the width of her lips, the middle gliding between them thoroughly, sending shivers up her spine and she arched her back. Besides her fumbling fingers, this was the first contact anyone had ever had with her pussy.

Diago reached the top of her labia, pulling back the hood from her clit, exposing it to himself. He blew on it, making Dalia tremble. Then he planted a wet kiss. He suckled it, humming a song around it and holding it between his lips. Just how she’d flicked her tongue on his nipples, he did so now to her.

“Oh. My. God!” She groaned, her body tensing with each flick.

The novel sensation making her arousal crest into a small orgasm. It was the first she’d ever had.

Diago lifted his face from her pussy, a dark look in his eyes despite the wide smile he showed. “No, Dalia.” Hearing her own name coming from his sexy lips was hypnotic. “Not God. Only Diago.”

“Okay.” She whined breathlessly. “Please just—just don’t stop.”

“As you wish, amor fati.”

He dived back in, sinking into her. With his long and wide tongue, he explored her. Tasting every inch he could reach as she writhed, her legs flexing, pulsing with pleasure.

“God…FUCK.”

Slap! Slap! She heard the sounds before the sting against her clit and another against her inner thigh registered.

“Ow!” She whined, her protest tinged with lust.

“No God in here Dalia, only you and I. Don’t forget again.” He watched her for any hesitance—but he found none.

She nodded eagerly, she grabbed his hair, forming makeshift pigtails in her grip.

He obliged, resuming his sampling of her juices.

Digging his tongue deep and finding which areas made her shake the most, he placed his hand above his face, over her clit. He let the length of his finger rest around it, lightly pinching it between them. Then he started to gyrate his hand while pinching her.

Her upper body lifted off the bed, her mouth opened without any sound. Replacing his tongue with his slender fingers, he moved his mouth over her clit, sucking it in hard.

Between his humming lips, he licked her clit. His aphrodisial saliva seeped into her, throwing her over the edge.

“Fuck! Diago, yesss!” she hissed, arching her back and letting herself fall back against the bed. “I think I’m—Diago!” The loud moan rumbled from her throat and her consciousness flickered.

After several seconds, she weakly pushed against his head and he stopped.

Diago crawled up between her legs as she recovered. Placing the tip of his cock at her entrance, he leaned over her, placing his hands against the sides of her face and lightly digging his fingers into her scalp.

“Are you ready, amor fati?” Diago waited at her entrance, her approval absolutely necessary before he could go in.

To be the first to cross into her, it was an honor for them both—and Diago was reverent of the moment.

Dalia’s shining green eyes—like the flora of fertile ground or the nopal that grew proud despite its environment—opened wide at the request. She’d expected to just be taken, when the moment came. Tenderness filled those eyes.

“I’m ready.” Her voice trembled, but her tone was certain and dripping with desire.

Diago smiled.

“Your neck, amor fati, I yearn for it. It smells like grounded cinnamon and vanilla. Let me taste you as I fuck you.”

Dalia swallowed her fear down to the pit of her core and lifted her chin away from Diago's teeth, unaware she presented her neck to the fangs of this predator.

All she felt was the cold of his breath upon her skin and it chilled her—it penetrated her skin before Diago did, tainting her soul.

That empty cold claimed her for itself, stealing her away from the God she’d prayed to every day of her life since she could remember. At that moment, the warmth left.

There were three simultaneous penetrations as Diago’s cold cock pushed in and pierced through her hymen, while both fangs sunk into her neck with practiced ease.

Dalia threw her head back and groaned. Diago’s salivic aphrodisiac spilling into her bloodstream and instantly rooting deep within her being. Her heart beat faster from that venereal venom that laced his fangs in exchange for her life essence.

He drank, lapping up every milliliter before it spilled. His mouth reddened, his tongue tasting the sweet of her as it coursed down the back of his mouth and into his throat as he pushed his cock further into her.

The warmth he felt both in his mouth and on his frigid cock was paradise to him—Dalia was the sun and he bathed in her heat. For these moments, he felt alive again.

Dalia could feel him inside of her. It wasn’t the painful stretching her friends had described with their first times. There was no sting of her pierced hymen, no hurt in her body—the only thing she felt was the pleasure of his tender treatment of her.

Like a reminder of what she’d left behind, images of Mirella flashed in her mind and she felt guilt.

**** to rid herself of those negative thoughts—of the image of that beautiful, hurt face—she wrapped her arms around Diago, desiring to sink her nails into his flesh. She wanted her nails to dig in—she craved to be inside of him as much as he was in her.

“Diago, kiss me.” Her words were breathless, a simple vibration between them as her life essence communicated her needs to him—the same way he’d felt her walking downtown before he’d pulled her friends to his night club.

Dalia was his as soon as she crossed the threshold of his temporary domain with his liminal invitation. All she had to do was follow her friends there and he would know her instantly. Her lonely sorrow, isolated in mind and soul if not body—she’d been a beacon to him.

With the strength to quell an infernal desire born and deeply embedded for almost nine-hundred years since the Reconquista, Diago retracted his fangs from the river of sweet nectar that flowed inside of Dalia, releasing an agonized groan before gently pressing his lips against hers and inhaling her breath, breathing for the first time in nearly a millenia.

It was against his very nature to resist the temptation of flesh and blood; excess was sacrosanct and moderation was sacrilegious to his religion of flesh.

And yet the maya mead that had eluded him since he stepped onto this land alongside Cortés was worth it. Dalia looked so much like Marina, Malinalli—La Malinche—that Diago nearly felt his heart beat.

Nearly.

The same pronounced cheekbones and the defined angular jaw—the whole of her face was succubine to his kind and angelic to the crossbearers.

But it was Dalia’s eyes, the same eyes that Marina watched Diago with as she stood with Cortés in his conversations with the Mexica and the Maya. Those eyes had seduced this Spanish shade, bringing him into her light—a light that had threatened to expose him. Those same eyes beckoned him to ascend and reclaim life now, then be damned again.

Over and over.

How Diago had envied the genocidal conqueror at the time when the bastard had Marina…only for Diago to now have Dalia at his side.

Their lips locked together. They were fire and ice damned in passion, taking from each other in equal measures in exchange for what they truly wanted from each other.

Companionship, even if temporary.

Her gentle moans, nearly mewling, every time he offered his length to her drove him mad with lust and he’d thrust a little harder, a little faster every time. Lustily herself, she accepted him.

“I need more—give it to me.” she whined, **** for him, grabbing his ass to pull him into her as she spread her legs wider.

It wasn’t because she didn’t have enough of his cock, it’s that she could never have enough. There was no amount of himself that he could give that would be enough to fill the emptiness she’d felt. It was an expanding, eternal void that needed more and more. Either Diago would fill it or it would entropy to end its own suffering. She didn’t know which would come first.

Through their crimson connection, she fed her fountain of life to his eternal hunger. He felt it the longing, long-suffering that she had to be filled so completely…

Now, he claimed her for himself, filling her and becoming one. Just like the father, the son, and the holy ghost, this couple was a holy trinity. It was Diago’s ****, Dalia’s life, and their eternal void mocking the God she’d worshipped only minutes before.

Diago’s red eyes thirstily drank in her sight. Her brown skin was the night sky and every lunar—those delicious birthmarks that decorated her—were stars that he would use to navigate the path his tongue took across her body.

“Ah!” A small gasp escaped her throat as he grabbed her wrists—cautious that his sharp nails wouldn’t cut her delicate skin—and pinned them above her head.

Effortlessly, he lifted himself—their chests losing contact, leaving them both colder—to enjoy the view of the Mexica descendant trembling on his bed. For the first time in centuries he felt delight at the consummation of carnal union and not just the drinking of it.

With every thrust, he watched her skin ripple and her tits shake until they settled—only to be jostled again when he filled her over and over.

“Oh…oh…” Her soft moans were sustenance on their own. “Diago…”

His body begged to release his fangs, to let them loose on the **** flesh of this tantalizing woman, naked and whimpering his name. But he was stronger than those instincts that had tainted him, infested and inhabited him, thanks to his direct connection to her.

At least he thought he was.

Through his eyes, her golden rivers stung his eyes, flooding them until her entirety was golden. Her skin was seemingly lined with the precious metal he’d once sought. Her obsidian black hair even shimmered like precious gold underneath the harsh lights of his vast bedroom.

Diago had the satisfying realization that both his maker, Cortés, and that wretched Ponce de Leon alike—who’d spent his life looking for it—would seethe with jealous rage. For it had been Diago del Monte who’d finally found true gold.

It was in Dalia.

Grabbing her waist, without the gentleness he’d had before, without the care, he gripped her tight until his nails drew more of her and began to mercilessly fuck her.

“Diago! That’s too—Oh!” she cried. “Too hard!”

But Diago didn’t stop. He’d seen the riches of gold she’d hidden beneath her skin and he would be damned if he didn’t take them for himself.

He reached for her neck, extending his claws.

The rush of pleasure that seeped through his cock and into his body was too much for him to handle. His thoughts faded to bloody red and his instinctual intentions were laid bare. No longer hidden beneath his beautifully pale skin, Dalia could see him for what he was as she struggled.

The pleasure she felt at being ravished was undeniable. It was the euphoric mixture of his saliva coursing through her and her loss of blood, the knowledge that he’d taken her when no one else had, it was too much for her to comprehend as fear mixed in.

Her heart racing, she only understood that she was going to die.

There was no longer any love in his eyes, only blood lust. But she was paralyzed on his cock, suspended in the air alongside him by an unclean hand. Like a puppet, she was used. Put on display to bring this being entertainment and pleasure.

With a quick and unceremonious motion, he swiped at her neck.

She tried to cry out but she found that her voice was gone.

Panicked, her hands went to her neck, finding water. A terrified confusion spread inside of her. Uncomprehending, she looked at her hands and the weird, red stains that had appeared. She blinked, feeling an exhaustion settle over her as her muscles began to falter.

Between heavy blinks, she saw Diago’s face getting closer and closer until she barely felt him at her neck. She wasn’t sure if he was there at all, the dull sensations barely there were alien to her.

But she was certain of one thing. She could feel her life being drained away, sucked out of her.

Stop, she thought.

Weakly, she pushed him away from her neck, but his jaw was locked in place, his fangs and tongue siphoning her for every drop of life she had.

The last image in her mind was the memory of Mirella, looking over her shoulder at Dalia with worry before leaving the club.

*

“Eres un perro, chingado infiel, Diago!” He cursed himself the same way he’d cursed the moors of his time—fucking infidel dogs.

It was in his lowest moments like this where every layer he’d thought he’d stripped of himself came roaring back to claim him and **** him to yield to the truth…

That he hadn’t changed at all.

Bloody tears ran down his face as he held the empty husk of the woman he’d loved for merely an hour. To him, it had felt like an eternity.

Diago looked up at his ceiling and he cursed the God he’d once crusaded for.

Despite how much he’d tried to curve his nature, stave it off for reason and love, he could not. For he was no better than his instincts and origin, he was a vampire and a conquistador. He was cursed by the lust of excess and taking until there was nothing left to take, leaving the beautiful bodies he’d conquered as empty as he felt. Dead but **** to live despite what was stolen from them.

And thus, because he was one such coward from a long line of them, he’d cursed Dalia to the same fate. For despite the necessary essence and resource she needed to live, she would be **** to exist.

Exist in the same body she’d been victimized for—a curse of beauty—now completely empty of her riches inside.

Dalia’s eyes fluttered open, the sclera were ruby red and her eyes shone a rageful jade. Her obsidian hair no longer shimmered. A rusty crimson necklace around her neck extended down between her breasts.

She was still herself, she felt the same she’d felt before, thought the same things she’d been thinking, but her warmth was gone. The void had been gouged, deepened.

Diago couldn’t bear to look at what he’d done. A pained, knowing look in his eyes, that he’d done the same thing he’d done a thousand times before, and would do a thousand times again. Only this time, he’d allowed her to transform.

To him, it was some sick atonement, letting her continue to exist but cursed and wretched for the rest of eternity.

He was too much of a coward to end her suffering. But alas, that was his true nature, after all. Take and **** and kill. Then cower when the sun came out and shone light over his actions, at which point he’d recede into the shadows lest he be burned to ash under its judgement.

Dalia stood, understanding what he’d done to her, what he’d taken from her. She recognized him for what he was finally. A leech. He took her value because he had not any value of his own.

“I’m sorry.” Diago looked away from her, unable to meet the eyes of his victim.

She didn’t respond, she couldn’t, for her very voice had been taken from her when he’d torn her throat to shreds.

Instead, she spoke with her eyes, they were burdened with the hatred of everyone who came before her. Now adding her own.

Despite not being alive, she still felt a fire burn within her. This warmth replaced the one that had been stolen from her. It rapidly grew to an inferno—an unceasing and unrelenting rage.

She wouldn’t be quelled with blood like the pale leech who’d made her—no, that wouldn’t be enough.

The only thing that would quell her was ****.