Chapter 1

You think dying is bad? Try un-dying!

If he didn’t want me to come back, he shouldn’t have raped me—repeatedly. Ironically, the constant sexual torture—with his immortal stamina and inhuman appetite—was like soft, gentle fore-play compared to what he put me through. Sebastian was one evil twisted fuck. A sadistic monster. And I would make him pay—somehow. There wasn’t much a tiny framed 19-year-old mortal female could do against the likes of him. He was as invincible as he was feral, savage, and evil.

But even monsters make mistakes. Enter little ole me.

I was stumbling barefoot down the unlit road from Shasta Heights—drunk off my ass and high on Ecstasy—when he took me. I wouldn’t have had to walk if my (ex)boyfriend Brian “Dickhead” Donovan hadn’t bounced early, with some other fucking skank (did I just call myself a skank?). But here I was; 4” Prada Safiano heels in one hand and LV Clutch in the other, staggering down “Rich Mother Fucker” Heights on a road barely lit by a quarter moon. My fake tail swung about as it peeked suggestively from under my favorite Gaby Hearst skirt.

When I first saw him, my drunk ass couldn’t comprehend the horror. He stood in the center of the road, about half a football field away. His clothes were blacker than black but his face was deadly fucking pale, you know? And shit! His eyes were red AF. I staggered to a halt and blinked several times in disbelief. Then—there he was ... standing right before me! Just. Like. That. His eyes weren’t just red, they fucking glowed. And he had fangs! Fucking fangs! That’s when the horror hit me.

It didn’t just hit me; it consumed me and my soul. Ya ‘know when the EMTs put Narcan up a junkie’s nose and they’re, like, instantly not-high and freaking out? Bitches, that ain’t nothin’ compared to this. I was sober AF from the booze and X—I was scared shitless and I pissed myself. My heart was beating 200 times a minute, and I felt suffocated under his awful gaze. It was one of his tricks—paralyzing his victims with terror.

I probably tried to scream, but his ice-cold fingers wrapped around my throat, crushing any sound. In less than a second, he shredded my $5000 dress and tore it from my body. I don’t remember dropping my clutch and shoes, but the next sensation was lifting off the ground and soaring into the cold night. He still held me in his icy grip, and his awful eyes burned through my soul as we flew higher.

All they found of me were my shoes, purse, shredded dress, and tail. Who wears panties to a billionaire’s rave?

I don’t know where he took me, but it seemed like an old, abandoned church. I remember being at his mercy as he began feeding, raping, and butchering me.

Getting bitten by a vampire has been compared to a lover’s kiss—where the victim finds herself turned on and under an intense erotic spell. Yeah, that’s a bunch of bull-shit! There is nothing erotic or titillating about having your throat ripped open by a monster with poisonous fangs (and not just two). The pain is unimaginable, and the terror of knowing you are being killed is off the charts. And it doesn’t just fade away as he drains you dry. It gets worse. And worse. And. Worse.

Nor did he just drain me dry. Not this sadistic, merciless fuck. He fed on more than my blood. He savored my pain and terror, mastering their prolongation and intensification. My vocal cords were shattered, preventing me from expressing so much as a squeak. When he penetrated me with his undead cock, it felt like being stabbed with a white-hot/colder-than-ice poker. That he was bigger than I could handle was trivial. He tore me apart as he raped me. My insides felt seared. He fucked me with wild, inhuman strength. I felt my pelvis crack and shatter under his assault, but that pain was trivial.

I felt unbearable shame and helplessness at being taken and used, burning flames incinerating me from inside out, from my neck to my uterus. I felt the certainty of death just beyond my reach. But the worst part was the soul-shredding terror of being victimized by this evil, evil creature. When he came in me, the burning, tearing pain got worse. It was incomprehensible to suffer this much torment—but suddenly I felt like he was shooting acid into me with every spastic jerk of his pelvis.

I tried to pass out, willing myself (praying) to die to stop the agony. But his control over my mind was an iron fist. There would be no mercy from insensibility or death. He fed on me again, shredding the other side of my neck while his claws tore gaping rents in my flesh. I didn’t bleed because there was hardly any blood left.

I remember noticing that as he ravaged me and fed, his skin became less cold, and his eyes became a lighter pink.

It felt like an eternity of terror and agony. With every slash of his claws, he opened a new source of pain. He bit and chewed on my breasts, shredding them and exposing my ribs. Just when I thought he couldn’t cause more harm to my dying body, he flipped me over and raped my ass.

Having my pussy shredded by a red-hot baseball bat was one thing, but this hurt rose to a new level. Burying himself deep inside me, I felt my shattered pelvis crunching under his weight and thrusts. His fangs bit into my shoulder while his claws tore the flesh of my back and hips. And it went on for eternity. Why couldn’t I die?

But I didn’t die. Well, I guess I did ... sort of. They pronounced me dead when I was found and taken to an Emergency Room. The damage was beyond anything seen outside a war zone. I was practically in pieces.

I woke in a body bag.

My thrashing and banging weren’t from claustrophobia; that terror was gone. What remained was the horrible burning, ripping, freezing agony in every part of my body. I was being incinerated, deep-frozen, and electrocuted simultaneously. That steel-like grip over my mind was absent. I still couldn’t scream, so I moaned as loud as I could while my body spasmed. The thumping and banging got the attention of a freaked-out morgue attendant. He opened the cooler and pulled my tray out before my thrashing caused me to flip off the stainless steel pan to the hard floor. I guess he lost his shit and fled because a code team arrived, freed me from the sack and took me back to the Emergency Room.

I was strapped down because of the seizures and stuck with two large IVs while someone screamed for a Belmont rapid infuser. Someone else began slamming on my chest while others ran about, doing lifesaving shit and calling for this and that. Something was pushed down my throat, and I couldn’t even moan anymore.

“Phenobarbital 20mg!” “What’s her spin crit?” “Get me an ultrasound!” “FAST negative.”

“Get a STAT CT. We need to find where she’s bleeding from!”

My body had repaired itself during stasis because when they began pouring blood into me, it didn’t spill on the floor. But lab tests couldn’t determine why my blood level stayed low, so they gave me more blood. They used two coolers before they felt I was stable enough.

A small part of my brain was conscious of this while the rest of me was still being burned, frozen, and electrocuted. They gave me every pain med: morphine, fentanyl, Dilaudid, Demerol—nothing eased my pain—I wasn’t suffering from simple mortal agony. This was demonic. And no amount of narcotic could ease it.