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My muscles shift, preparing to spring at the unsuspecting man, when the wind changes direction, bringing with it a delectable scent. Goosebumps erupt on my arms, and my cock instantly hardens. What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck? I’m about to murder my nemesis, and I’m sporting a raging boner. Am I really that kinky?
The smell assaults me again, and my eyes practically roll up into my head. It reminds me vaguely of the cookies Mom used to make. Melted chocolate. Smoke from the hearth in our living room. The floral scent from our collection of flowers on the dining room table. It smells like...home.
I know what this is. I’ve read about it hundreds of times in my textbooks. But it’s utterly impossible. Mate bonds don’t exist between creatures of different species, and never in the history of monsters did a Van Helsing get a call.
This girl—this blonde-haired, dewy face girl—is my mate. And if her close proximity to Dracula is any indication, she’s his daughter. As a wise man once told me, “Fuck me sideways, backwards, and everywhere in between.”
There’s a reason us girls bleed out of our vaginas: to warn away monsters. Show them how badass and deadly we can be. Oh, your cock shoots out cum. How quaint. My pussy? Yeah. We have blood, motherfuckers.
“So the Roaring,” I repeat, smiling disarmingly at the man to show him I’m not going to kill him. It takes real skill to perfect such a smile. I had to practice for days in the mirror before the humans stopped running from me. Apparently, grimacing malevolently while holding the severed head of your enemy is not the way to make friends. Who knew?
I still have that head, if you want to know. My first accidental kill. In my defense? He totally deserved it. The man cornered me in an alleyway when I was fourteen and slapped me. When I began to scream, he slapped a hand over my mouth and pulled down my pants. So I killed him. Accidentally, of course.
“I think you broke my nose,” Jack declares, voice muffled. One glance confirms that, yes, there is an ungodly amount of blood dripping down his face. “Oh shit,” I curse, crab-walking backwards until I’m a safe distance away. Jack seems nice and all, but I know how monsters work. An eye for an eye. Blood for blood. And dammit, I like my blood in my body where it belongs (yes, I see the irony).
“No! No! No!” I scream, pounding at walls I don’t see. Don’t sense. Panic coils in my gut, but I push it down. I won’t forget. Not her. Not the pretty monster who gave me my first gift. My gift… Which is currently still in my hand. I fall to the ground, a sob breaking free, and cradle my treasure to my chest. It came with me. Violet. Her name reverberates through my head. Violet.
Does he not know about Hux? Dozens of questions are rattling together in my brain, and it’s increasingly difficult to separate and ask them. Welcome to Prodigium, my friends, where you learn to expect the crazy.
The last thing I want to wear is a short skirt, knee-high socks, and a jacket that suffocates my boobs. No, thank you. We may be monsters, but we believe in individuality. If the human world taught me anything, it’s that it’s fun to stay at the YMCA. Oh, and that people should be free to express themselves however they see fit.
He has dark brown hair cut short and tan skin. He’s big—intimidatingly so—and his muscles are clearly defined beneath his gray shirt. His body seems to be hewn out of stone. When he crosses his arms, I spot intricate tattoos clamoring up his biceps. The pattern undulates, ripples, as he flexes. “Um...hi,” I say awkwardly. Because, really, what else can I say? He totally just scared my breakfast away with his big, sexy muscles and his big, sexy smirk and his big, sexy cock—y smile. Head. Out. Of. Gutter.
“Does that happen every time you feed?” he asks, tone unreadable. An intense orgasm? Lust permeating the air like a smoke bomb? I fucking wish. “No,” I say with a quick head shake. “Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.” His eyes trace my features, and his hand comes up to cradle my cheek. “Don’t let anyone else feed you but me, understand?” he orders. That shakes me out of my lust-induced haze.
“She’s Dracula’s daughter,” another hunter, this one female, protests. Vin makes a scoffing sound. “She’s nothing,” he says dismissively...as if he hadn’t just shot a load in his pants and made me orgasm as well. I hope he’s super uncomfortable right now walking around with cum pants.
I’d recognize that ring anywhere. Two crossing swords etched into the gold. Van Helsing. Vin is a Van Helsing. And I… I swallow the sudden lump in my throat, refusing to cry. And I’d just been played like the strings on an out-of-tune guitar.
Note to self: don’t ever, not ever, trust a man. Instead, cut up their bodies and bathe in their blood.
It’s her. She sits on the floor, her skirt pulled up to her thighs and flashing a sliver of lacy, pink underwear. Her blonde hair is disheveled, and blood coats her mouth. A vampire. And my mate. I know that as surely as I know my name is Mason and I’m the son of Medusa. Everything about her calls to me in a way I didn’t think was possible. I can feel her, sense her, deep in the abyss of my tattered soul. Just seeing her mends something within me, something I can’t articulate into words. My mate. Who has just been humiliated.
“Hello, little miss. Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you having a shitty day?” When she stares at me blankly, mouth agape, I continue, “Then you need the new and improved Mason Medusa. Satisfaction guaranteed. If he breaks, or if he doesn’t perform to your standards, feel free to return him to get a full refund. And if you act fast, I’ll throw in a Frankie as well.” There it is. That singularly beautiful smile I didn’t even know I needed to see crosses her face, revealing dimples on both cheeks.
“So...recap. Not that I trust any of you, keep in mind. I already made a mental promise to myself that I’ll bathe in the blood of all men. But anyway, so I’m hungry and all that, and I find a nice little donor who’s happy to feed me the goods.” “Is this donor male or female?” Frankie asks the question I’ve been thinking. Her brows furrow adorably. “Male.”
“No males will be ‘feeding you the goods,’” I say curtly, and when she turns towards me, brow raised, I add, “You deserve more respect than that?” Yup. When in doubt, talk about respecting a lady. Fucking nailed the whole “mate thing.”
“Fuck,” Frankie mumbles, his eyes trained intently on her ass. It does look rather nice in that short skirt. I don’t know why I’m okay with him looking at her like that. I want to murder all of the other guys who do it. “Fuck is right,” I reply.
“What the hell type of game is Van Helsing playing with Dracula’s daughter?” Because now that I’ve seen her up close, now that I sensed the magic thrumming through her veins, I have no doubt that’s who she is.
Van Helsing or not, best friend or not, I will not hesitate to kill him if he tries to harm my mate. My loyalty has changed in the last five minutes. She doesn’t know it yet—she doesn’t know me yet—but I have just become hers unconditionally. At the same time, Violet is mine, and I’ll always protect my own. After all, how can we be monsters if we’re not selfish assholes?
Boys are weird. Monster boys? Even weirder.
Is he wanting to be my friend? Is that what this is about? Does he expect me to give him a blowjob or something? Fuck. I hate peopleing.
Oh shit, she’s talking to me. Say something normal, Violet. For the love of Dracula, say something fucking normal. “I gave your brother an orgasm,” I blurt. There you have it, folks. The reason why I have no friends. Fucking shit, brain. You had one job to do, and it was not that.
At this school, you need all the friends you can get. The good and the bad. The monsters and the saints.
Listen up ladies and gentlemen. Don’t ever, not ever, allow a guy or girl to treat you like Vin did me. You’re not trash, and the minute someone starts treating you like it, carve out his heart and eat it. This concludes my public service announcement. Suck dicks. Don’t be one.
Vin places his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “You okay? I saw—” Before he can finish whatever he’s going to say, I lift my leg and knee him in the balls. Motherfucker shouldn't have messed with a monster.
I focus on Violet who is currently sitting on Vin and...tickling him? Yup. My little monster is using the borrowed arm to tickle Vin’s side, and Vin—the epitome of cool and collected usually—is laughing hysterically, attempting to bat her away. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
The Van Helsing stares at Dracula’s daughter as if he has never seen a girl before. As if he never wants to see another girl. I imagine his expression is similar to my own. She’s glorious, Hux praises, tone awed. I can’t help but agree with him. Perfect, I agree. Because, really, what sane monster would take on a Van Helsing...and win? Only someone like Violet Dracula. Perfect for us, Hux states.
Note to self: don’t ever wear skirts and crop tops to the gym again. Seriously. Don’t.
“What a whore.” That last one is of course said by Gills. That’s rich coming from the girl who dated the wind. He probably just blows in her vagina to get all that dust out.
Hux’s different from Jack in the fact that he’s more confident, more sure of himself. He doesn’t slouch, and he seems to wear this metaphorical cloak of imperiousness. Sort of like: fear me, peasants, or I will smite you. Sexy as fuck, I’ll admit.
There’s something endearing about both the timid, soft nature of Jack and the holier-than-holy side of Hux.
As the guys move farther ahead, discussing their game plan or whatever the hell men discuss—dick sizes? ways to make a female orgasm? how to milk a cow?—I
“She’s in a lot of danger,” Jack murmurs softly, and both Vin and I whip our heads in his direction, trying to discern if what he just said is a threat or a warning. He isn’t looking at us, however, but at the golden-haired beauty currently clinging to Mason’s back. “Hunters. Other monsters. She’s Dracula’s one weakness, and the other monsters know that. It’s a wonder why Dracula sent her here in the first place.”
You’ve heard of stain-be-gone? Let me introduce you to the new and improved version: body-be-gone. That’s right, folks. Pour it on any body—young or old, male or female, the body-be-gone doesn’t discriminate—and watch it disappear before your very eyes.
Some hunters, like the group slowly converging on us, follow the strict regiment implemented by the Van Helsing family: kill all vampires. Hell, they might even be Van Helsings themselves. Heaven only knows how large they are—cousins, aunts, aunts of aunts, cousins of cousins, a brother’s friend’s uncle’s grandma’s cousin. The Van Helsings are a fucking tribe. And this tribe? They want my blood.
“We’ll meet you outside the classroom.” Vin’s voice leaves no room for argument. Turning towards me, his eyes soften considerably. “Be safe, okay?” “Um...yeah, okay.” Vin is a strange, strange man. A confusing man. One second he’s throwing me on the ground and accusing me of a despicable act, and the next he’s following me around apologizing, concerned for my safety.
I only have a moment to ponder about their strange clothing attire when the door to the classroom opens...and the most perfect guy I’ve ever seen enters. He has light blonde hair, so blonde it’s almost white. His body seems to be hewn from stone, muscles rippling as he places a stack of papers and his briefcase onto his desk. Dimitri Gray. Dorian Gray’s only son.
I probably planned Dimitri’s murder five hundred times in a million different ways. My favorite? It involves monkeys, yellow paint, and a dick.
Omg! That's perfect!
“Vin, Mason. Meet Barret and Cal.” Violet points towards the Boogeyman and Cupid respectively. “We’re having ice cream.”
“My mate goes into detention to be sacrificially slaughtered and leaves as the best friend of the monsters who were supposed to kill her,” Mason mutters, too low for anyone but me to hear. “Just fucking great.” Great. That’s the beginning to a twisted joke. A vampire, the Boogeyman, and Cupid walk into detention together… The Breakfast Club: Monster Edition.
haven’t seen Cal or Barret since detention, and I miss the bastards. They’re probably getting all murdery without me. Cue: an exasperated sigh in French. Why French? No reason. I just think it’s a sexy accent, and I love the way it flows from a man’s lips.
Dimitri Gray looks as impeccable as always with his hair slicked into a low ponytail and a suit on. On closer inspection, I see a splotch of blood on his white collar. The guys’ warning about him being an assassin comes back to me. Or maybe I heard it from students gossiping.
“Next time I’m woken up by a hot assassin in the middle of the fucking night,” Cynthia begins, her voice coming from the opposite corner of her body. “You need to be a good friend and help me find my fucking tits.”
“Someone's framing her,” Mason says darkly. “But the question is who, Pretty Boy,” Cal jests, pointing with his spoon. As always, Mason’s face darkens with annoyance at the nickname, but he lets it slide. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to start something with the two most fearsome monsters in existence. Not that I think they’re that scary. Total marshmallows. All bark and no bite.
“Let’s make a list!” Barret suggests eagerly, reminding me distinctly of a besotted, energetic puppy.
“I wanted to officially invite you to the Halloween Spectacular,” she purrs, undeterred by Mason’s obvious dismissal. I have to give the girl credit: she has balls. Or very strong ovaries. The Queen of Ovaries. Her Vaginasty. This is why I don’t have any friends.
