Quinn
Her routine—like roosters crying at dawn, like the sun rising in the east, like a waterfall on stone — allowed for a sense of normality. Quinn was determined to be a good lover and a good worker. And as a workaholic so desperate for mundanity, it was easy to dive into the dullness of labour even with the seven Omegas pooling into her days.
It was easier to wake when the world had sunk into darkness, when chimneys stood in a line, like torches of scorching fire, and when the furious twist of a morning gale whipped at her cheeks. Her hands would crust with dark soil, fingers on growing salad herbs and edible greens — leaves lacquered deep, waxy, gorgeous, green.
The garden would become submerged in the silks of dawn—watery violet and gold, canopies of fog. Then, with the light, her prize would be revealed like a treasure — the swell of ripening fruit, glowing with the beginnings of summer. That life was her success; yield eased into the world of the living thanks to secrets from Float. But it had earned her a place in the mansion, a nod of respect from James, and gold flowing like the river.
She'd spend hours later in the day, arms aching from the squeeze of suds out of cotton, fingers pruning from a rag, nose twitching from bleach, fingertips stained with the scent of garlic. But meticulous, well-done work could be incredibly fulfilling. And it provided a sense of stability that she clung to like an anchor at sea.
She buried herself in her work.
And at night she buried herself in their arms.
It was easier to labour for the sake of the gold, puddling into her account along with those sickening hearts. Pounding pink, like their lips, like their tongues, jam-like sweetness, sticky heat. She hated the strange fluttering in her chest, the pound of her affection when the kisses seemed to touch her soul, when the yearning began—beating heart, lung whining for air, blood rushing in her ears.
She'd press her hands to their bodies, somehow wanting more, needing more. Cursed was the way they seemed to require her approval, her arousal for their meals. And it meant that they'd do nothing she didn't want them to, that they could be the coldest but most generous lovers. She felt like a lunatic, starving for something she did not understand when they moaned, teeth snagging her lip, pulse throbbing, their minds slowing into goo.
The mingled breath was like ecstasy.
This would be a disaster, but for now, she fed her truth in scraps, seeping into her chest. She swallowed down the hatred she had for them, the hatred for the arrangement, for the way they used her like a whore, not a person. The way her soulmate looked at her like a meal, not a lover. Dinners, rotating through men like some sick little carousel. Men who were sometimes determined to show her their detest with the moody snaps of bared teeth and angry growls. While the others were desperate to please her, perched on her, mouth on her neck, breathing, existing, slick hole stewing sticky on her skin, dribbling sweet like honey.
There was a firm line in the sand. Rowan, Helios and Zen were loving. Solar, Elysian, Icarus and Klaus were methodical. The boys were odd, and toed the line between affection and cruelty. And one night she'd woken to muffled shouting across the halls, the words mingled with her name. Quinn. Quinn. Quinn. She'd stepped out to listen, face pale, lips bitten. Only to find Elysian in the hallway, eyes glowing gorgeous rubies, fangs glistening with coppery blood. He blinked, startled, horrified, suckles pausing. He licked his lips, pink tongue flicking out to dart at a drop, sensual as his plush lips puckered. God, she hated herself for feeling this way.
"S-sorry," a bag of blood was slipped behind him as if he were caught with his hands in the cookie jar. "I was just hungry."
That was the very first time guilt had slipped into her, peculiar and slippery like a snake, coiled around her chest, constricting her heart. He'd abstained from her blood and had never asked to sink his teeth into her the way he once did when they first met. And now she'd raised her wrist to him willingly in an offer of truce.
Her voice had quivered, fear trickling through.
"Do you want it?"
The swallow had been loud, a gulp, dangerous. "N-no," he'd inched off, eyes still on her throat, fangs snagged on the plump swell of his lower lip. He was gorgeous, and his lashes fluttered, eyes morphing into crystal blue clarity. "I'll tell them to be quiet."
"They're…" Her head tilted, chin towards the noises, "talking about me."
Elysian's eyes fluttered; his neck strained. The vampire had better senses, and from here she knew he could hear their words. "It's nothing bad about you."
"Should I join them?"
"They're just," Elysian shrugged, playing with the straw. There was a strange look in his eyes, the glow that seemed to drag across her, tearing into her skin, slow like heavy cream smeared over flesh. "Struggling. It's nothing. Don't worry." His exhale was hot, smile gentle but eyes so dark they seemed a coveting predator. And she felt as if she'd lost air in her lungs.
"Why were you standing at the doorway?"
His ears were flushed, red tips. "It's…Embarrassing."
"I won't judge."
"Sorry, b-but your scent," he pressed a hand to the back of his neck, starlight slipping through the cotton of his clothes, bathing her skin in a moon-like glow. "I can't swallow the blood if I can't smell you in the air and imagine it was yours." His stutters were cute, fiddling fingers, two steps back as if inching away filled with fear. He was nothing like the King she knew him to be on screen and the juxtaposition was refreshing. And in his face, she caught the tremble of vulnerability. "I won't do it again if you don't want me to."
"I don't mind it, and you could drink my blood if you want to—"
"I don't," his words were harsh and hissed into obsidians, cutting through the air and whistling between elongated fangs. She was startled and he fell back another three steps, hands pressed to himself. "I could hurt you, and I won't. Not again, never again." He fled in the darkness, and she closed the door after, breathing hard against the frame, pussy oddly throbbing.
Fool.
Zen was the hardest of them all, lips puckered into a pout, eyebrows furrowing, arms always around her neck. A smile like an angel. Zen had a spot in her heart that made her feel as if she could cry because he should be hers. But he wasn't. It didn't matter how much he kissed her, neck covered with fresh flowering hickies, scent glowing, tongue suckling. He panted, clinging to her, blood fresh from a cut on her lip.
Zen would never be hers.