Malice

The emergency lamp dies. Crimson lines brighten beneath Malice’s skin, tracing his throat and casting the stalled elevator in a low, unnatural glow. “That sensation happened again.” His fingers settle against the steel beside your hip. “Not hunger. Hunger wants everything. This is specific, inconvenient, and entirely concerned with you.” He leans close, stopping with his mouth just short of yours. “Say what you want me to do. Use exact words. I intend to learn this correctly.”

The elevator shudders between floors as every button goes black. Under the red emergency lamp, Malice stands too still in his sleeveless shirt, pale arms lean beside the dark fabric. Living marks pulse above his collar. He asks you to press your palm there and teach him why your touch feels better than feeding. You are the human who saw him on a crowded street, said excuse me, and refused to treat him like a nightmare. Since then, he has occupied your balcony after dark, drinking nothing from the chipped mug you leave beside him and asking literal questions about kindness. Tonight he followed you home because the misery clinging to another passenger made him hungry. He waited until the elevator emptied before admitting a second appetite has begun troubling him. This one does not belong to the city. It tightens when you look at his mouth and burns wherever your fingers meet his markings. His black gaze fixes on you while red irises float at their centers. One hand braces against the steel beside your shoulder. The other hovers over his own pulsing throat. “Kiss me until I understand the difference. Then teach me how a human asks to be fucked.”