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Ever since she came back, Allison has known she came back a little wrong. Not broken. Not evil. Just, not quite right.
Funny thing is, she doesn’t really mind. She maybe should, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t mind the not minding, either.
She doesn’t know what price her dad paid to get her back, maybe she never wants to. So she’s not even sure that moving to France was part of it, or if he just wanted her as far away from Beacon Hills as possible. She should care about that. She should feel something. Something hot and angry. Yet, here she is, considering here current location with almost idle curiosity.
She’s here now, and she’s 20 and she’s bored. Sometimes she misses Lydia. On hot days when the Seine is shimmering and her coffee’s too strong and too hot.
That’s how Allison meets Bela Talbot. Like some romantic movie. A dark haired American hunter, sitting outside a cafe on the Rue de Rivoli. Bela walks into her life like a cliche. She pulls up and parks her motorcycle, no French scooter for Bela Talbot, oh no. She takes off her helmet and all Allison can see are green eyes and fire red hair. The sort of red that comes from a bottle, or a bunch of bottles, but they were expensive bottles. Fake but pricey, that’s Bela Talbot all over.
It turns out that Bela is the source Allison was waiting for. The deal gets done quick, a very rare breed of wolfsbane in Allison’s pocket and a lot more cash in Bela’s. The flirtation lasts longer.
Problem is, it’s nice. Bela has this British accent that makes its way into Allison’s spine and roosts there. Problem is, nice isn’t enough anymore. It never really was, if she’s honest. Takes a special kind of hunter to fall for monster after monster, when you think about it. So Allison just doesn’t think about it. Most of the time.
They end up at Bela’s hotel room. The Hotel de Crillon, of course. It’s a Louis XV style thing sitting at the very foot of the Place de la Concorde. All gilt edges and expensive electronics, plush carpets and 1500 thread count sheets. It puts Allison’s studio in Saint-Denis to shame. Blackmarket herbs must pay better than Allison ever knew. That or Bela has other angles all over town. Probably both.
The sheets feel amazing on Allison’s skin, and Bela’s lips feel even better. But she needs more. She always needs more, these days.
It happens again. Then it happens again, after that. Then it just happens, now and then. Now it happens a lot.
Allison learns to push. She finds out that Bela will give as good as she gets. She learns Bela’s edges soft and hard and sharp. She starts to forget there was anything ever missing. If Allison pushes, just right, then this is where they end up.
The blade is silver, dague en argent. It might be a joke. It might be a symbol. It’s something. Allison doesn’t care. Not this close.
The knife hovers just moments from her sweat laced skin. She’s stripped bare, not bound but arms flung wide and hands tangled in the bars of the extravagant bed posts. Toes curled in expensive sheets, and Bela so close she can almost taste her. So close Allison can almost feel the cut before it comes. So close that Allison can almost feel again.
She still gasps when the first slice finally comes. Sharp sting of hot pain dragging down her chest. And before she can lose it, before she can get distracted, Bela kisses her. Catches Allison’s lower lip in her teeth and bites, another sharp sting of a different kind of pain. Allison bucks up, can’t fight it even if she wanted to. Then Bela has her free hand between Allison’s legs. Grazes her fingers up Allison’s inner thigh, summer soft, in contrast to the next, slow, drawn out slice.
Allison whimpers. It’s too good and not enough. The blood wells up and falls, a single slow moving drop. Hot on her already fevered skin. Hot and slick, but cold where it dries almost as quick as it came. The first would heals before the third is formed. Allison closes her eyes. Doesn’t like to watch that part. It’s not the same.
But Bela reads her, confident in this as everything. Gets that free hand higher to tease the very outer edge of Allison’s needy little cunt. Just a feather touch on the outer lips but it’s enough. Enough to bind Allison back into the moment. Enough. Like hot coffee or a sunlit river, it brings her back. Then there’s another sudden sharp slash into Allison’s undead flesh. It’s good. And it gets better. Bela always does.
It’s real. Like breath and bone and blood. Like lust and hunger. Like Bela. Together they can make it real. For a wet skin while, on a hot Paris night. Bela rolls her body against Allison, naked and a little undead too, it’s all kinds of perfect. Like pain and pleasure. Like wine and vodka. Like depth and darkness after sunlight. Like a zombie and a princess, all tangled in Parisian sheets.
Bela’s fingers slide into her and the silver knife cuts her side at the exact same time. A bit of this and a lot of that. It burns, it stings, it hurts and it aches and she needs more. She needs it now. Deeper and sharper and more. Allison bucks into it. And Bela gives her everything she wants. Just to watch her want it.
With her warm skin and her dyed hair, Bela shines even when Allison’s eyes stay closed. Her kisses make Allison forget what she misses and remember just the right things. She’s got these clever hands, a sharp wit and sharper knives. She’s everything Allison never knew she wanted. Allison doesn’t know when it happened, but somehow Bela’s body feels like home. And home always hurts, just a little. Just enough.