Fangless: The Alpha's Vampire Mate
Chapter 234: The Demon’s Hunger

Chapter 234: The Demon’s Hunger

"Again?" sneered a cynical voice, bolder now than it had been the day before.

Florian curled himself into the corner, shrinking as though he could vanish into the walls. His knees drew up tightly against his chest, arms wrapped around them in a desperate embrace.

Hot tears spilled down his face, blurring his vision as his trembling hands clung to the blood-soaked breeches.

The blood reeked. It was thick, dark, and unforgiving—vampire blood. Kin blood. A grotesque truth that burrowed into his mind and refused to let go.

His wails echoed off the walls, raw and primal, but the agony only deepened. As he grew desperate, he began slamming his knuckles into his own temple, again and again, trying to pound the torment into silence.

A cruel laugh twisted through the room, low and guttural. "Do you think that will stop it?" the voice growled, dripping with venom. "Do you think beating your pathetic little skull will change anything?"

The shadows seemed to pulse with the voice, creeping closer, writhing like serpents. "Weakness," it spat, a demonic undertone searing through its words, "isn’t just useless—it’s a curse. And you’re drowning in it."

The air turned cold, suffocating, as Florian’s sobs choked in his throat. The voice lingered, circling him like a predator savoring its prey.

"Stop!" Florian roared, his voice trembling as he buried his face in his knees.

His teeth ground together, the pressure threatening to crack them. He squeezed his eyes shut as if the darkness behind his lids could shield him from the voice.

But the voice was relentless. It circled him like a vulture, whispering just outside his ears, then clawing into the corners of his mind. It spoke from without and within, invading every space he tried to protect.

No matter how hard he tried to claw free, it was always there.

"I gave you power," it hissed, venomous and accusing. The words dripped with loathing, as though it despised the frailty of its own vessel. "And you waste it. You squander what others would kill to possess."

The voice slithered deeper, its resentment sharp enough to cut. Florian could feel it writhing beneath his skin, searching for a way to leave him, to replace him with someone stronger. Someone worthy.

"I don’t want it!" Florian shot back, but his voice cracked, betraying his fear.

His body convulsed as memories flooded his mind. They came unbidden, like waves dragging him under, forcing him to relive every second of horror.

When Ol’gaz took over his body, it was like being chained to the front row of a grotesque play—forced to watch as his own hands executed unspeakable horrors.

He could see the killing. He could feel it. The resistance of flesh against his claws, the wet sound of skin ripping apart, the heat of blood pouring over his hands. He hadn’t just watched. He had done it.

Florian’s hands trembled. The sticky, sickly sensation of blood—his kin’s blood—still clung to them. He scratched at his palms, frantic, trying to strip the memory from his flesh. It wouldn’t leave.

He had learned too well that tearing through someone’s skin and sinking claws into muscle, required unimaginable strength. Strength that wasn’t his. Strength that belonged to it.

"I don’t want to do this!" Florian wailed, his voice raw, breaking under the weight of guilt.

He wiped at his lips, but it was useless. The metallic tang of vampire blood still coated his tongue, heavy and cloying. Two days’ worth of slaughter, and he’d drunk it all, unwilling yet powerless to resist.

The taste lingered, a sickening reminder of what he had become—or, perhaps, what he had always been. He didn’t know if it would ever leave him.

"You lie to yourself," Ol’gaz purred, its tone low and mocking, vibrating with demonic glee. "You drink because you hunger. You kill because you can’t help it. I’m not forcing you—I’m just showing you who you really are."

Florian’s chest tightened. His breaths came shallow and quick, panic threading through his veins like fire. He wanted to scream, to drown out the voice, but he couldn’t. A part of him feared that Ol’gaz was right.

"You made me do it!" Florian choked out through his sobs, his voice breaking. Tears streamed down his face, each one burning with shame and fury.

The first time he had drunk vampire blood, the experience had been pure torment. He had retched for hours after stumbling back to the palace, his stomach heaving violently, his body rejecting the vile taste.

It was the foulest thing he had ever consumed, worse even than the raw animal blood he had tasted during his time in Wintertooth. The taste alone had nearly broken him.

The memory burned fresh in his mind: how he had locked himself away, trembling, unwilling to answer Ol’gaz’s relentless, mocking whispers. The demon had pushed him to hunt again, hissing its demands, but Florian refused.

But resistance was a temporary illusion. The voice never stopped. It wore him down, slipping into his mind like oil, and when his defenses finally cracked, Ol’gaz had taken control once more.

The second time, the blood wasn’t quite so repulsive. Florian hadn’t retched as violently. His body—his mind—had started to adapt.

The third time, it didn’t make him sick at all. By the fifth, he drank with steady hands, the taste no longer shocking but familiar.

And by the sixth, he had begun to crave it. The warmth of the blood. The rush of power that followed. The intoxicating pleasure that left him both alive and hollow all at once.

"No!" Florian shook his head violently, his hands gripping his temples as if he could crush the thought out of existence. "No, it’s you! You did this to me!"

His voice rose in a trembling wail, but there was a weakness in his tone, a desperate edge. He wasn’t just screaming at Ol’gaz—he was pleading with himself. Begging to believe his own words.

"Florian," Ol’gaz murmured, his voice smooth, almost amused. "You are me."

There was satisfaction in the demon’s tone, a dark triumph that seeped into Florian’s veins like a sickness.

"Do you know why? Because you enjoy it. You don’t have to admit it to me—I can feel it. Florian, you like it."

"No!" Florian screamed. He clawed at his scalp, his nails digging into his skin as he rocked back and forth. "You’re lying! You’re a liar! You’re trying to trick me!"

His cries rang out, desperate and unhinged, but they didn’t silence the whispers worming their way through his mind.

Ol’gaz chuckled, the sound reverberating through Florian’s skull. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. Its power was in its presence, in the way it filled every empty corner of his mind, making escape impossible.

"Lying?" Ol’gaz’s voice dripped with mockery. "Maybe. Maybe not. But does it matter? You know the truth, don’t you? Your body craves it. Your soul wants it."

Florian shook his head harder, his breath coming in short gasps. He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it.

A cold, unyielding hand gripped Florian’s chin, tilting his face upward. His tear-filled grey eyes, shimmering with anguish, met an identical pair.

Before him stood... himself.

Every detail was the same—his pale complexion, the soft curve of his jaw, even the way his disheveled silver hair framed his face. The figure was a perfect mirror, but where Florian’s face was etched with despair, the other wore a wicked, predatory grin.

It was him. Yet it wasn’t.

This other Florian leaned closer, and the weight of his menace felt suffocating, like a shadow pressing against Florian’s chest.

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