He was angry.

She had dared to cover herself with a blanket and he wanted to rush in and rip it off of her body. He wanted to be the one to warm her, to smother her curves with the flat angles and lines of his own form. He wanted to be warmed by her as he leaned in to her succulent flesh and caressed and laved his tongue over every pulse point. She would be receptive, there would not be a protest as he caressed and teased as he leaned in to consume her precious lifeblood, she would understand. Even if she protested, even if she attempted to cry out in help, even if – heaven or hell help her – to resist, her blood would still be his. She will try, he thought, and the very conjuring in his mind of the possibility made him smile.

Foolishly, he noted, she had left her window open again. Only a screen was between her and the observer. She believed by being on the second story she was somehow immune to any kind of kidnapping or in home invasion. He had simply heard as much in her father's thoughts. Her father ignorantly believed his daughter, allowing her to keep her windows open under the guise that yes, this was a small town and the worst crime in these parts was a small theft by some petty teenage boys who were sentenced to nothing more than probation. He also believed that because he was the Chief of Police in these parts, no criminal would dare to step on his property. This thought had also made him smirk in appreciation for the ignorance of the human mind. A simple gun would not stop him. The threat of a badge, a dog, a gun – it was all moot. There was no stopping him when his mind was set on a goal.

He didn't care about right or wrong. He didn't fear a God or a higher power or desire a redeeming for his sins. His life, his existence was a curse. A joke. A play on any foolish attempt religion tried to place on the value of life or any promises it held in a life after death. His being had become something of a sweet irony. He could not sleep or eat, die or breathe, cry or possess a heartbeat. It had been a long hundred years. He knew not the sweet embrace or want of love, and he did not need it. He only had needed one thing to survive: blood.

Somewhere in these years, he had lost himself to the insanity of the hunt. To the thrill of the chase, that feeling of the wind bending to his body as he sought out his prey. To the feeling of flesh under his fingertips as he tightened them, tighter, tighter, tighter still until the skin and muscle and veins gave away. To the sweet smell of fear as his prey realized what was happening, as they felt his strength and knew there was no possibility of escape. If they ran, he would catch them. If the cried out, he would silence them. If they struggled, he would destroy them. It was so simple it was almost painful. His favorite moment was the sweet sound of the flesh ripping under his razor sharp teeth. They usually struggled then too, even though by this point they knew their short lives had come to a gruesome finale. His lips would press the wound, showing a slight respect to the skin as he would bite again, taking pieces of sinew and muscle into his mouth. He would spit the bits out, as he only needed what was now freely flowing from the gaping wound he created. Then he would drink deeply of the nourishment he needed to survive. He would drink until the blood was emptied from every capillary, the thrill and desire he felt increasing the more he drank.

The mere memory of his last hunt caused his fists to clench. His nostrils flared as a particularly strong waft of her sweet smell drifted down to him. Coupled with his thoughts that had drifted back to his last kill and her delicious aroma, he felt the leash on his control waining. Did this girl never sleep? Would he be doomed to wait out here until daybreak?

He wanted to observe her more closely. Even with his hawk like vision, he was not as close as he desired. He could see her now, despite well past three in the morning, actively moving about her tiny bedroom. She appeared to be looking at her bookshelf in the pursuit of something new to read. He noticed she was a voracious reader, devouring almost anything that she could come across. He had seen her read Shakespeare, Bronte, Austen, Emerson, Thoreau, and several other classics. Today she had decided on rereading Wuthering Heights though she had read it at least twice since he had started his observations of her.

Already, she was back in that blanket of hers and on her rarely-used bed. It appeared his little subject suffered from the same insomnia he was condemned to endure for the rest of his existence. Rather than regain her energy in sleep, she would remain awake until the wee hours of the morning reading, writing, or typing away on her little black laptop. He wondered what she was writing about. Did she really have that much to say? Currently she was absorbed in what she was reading, completely oblivious to the outside world. He wanted to laugh out loud at her innocence, her ignorance. He wanted to tear the flimsy paperback from her fingertips and subsequently rip into her youthful flesh. His patience was being tested as he sat in the depths of the night. His eyes dilated darker when he saw the blanket had slipped to expose the creamy expanse of her bare shoulder. A growl escaped from his lips at the thought of all that pliable skin begging to be worshiped. Begging to have him run his teeth over and lave with his tongue as he tormented her again and again. He briefly closed his eyes in imagination.

Did she knew what type of game she was playing with him? He supposed if he truly desired he could snatch her from her childhood bedroom, right under the nose of her foolish father. It would be easy. Too easy. Though he tired of their game of cat and mouse, he had a plan. He had worked long and diligently on his scheme to make this unsuspecting human his toy and he intended on honoring it.

In the end, she would plead for him. She would plead for death. She would cry for the release it would provide. She would be his. He looked up into the window again. Immediately he noticed she had finally succumbed to slumber, form on the bed with her blanket half on and half off of her body. Her book was dropped on the hardwood floor next to the bed, spine upwards with the pages obscurely crushed underneath it.

With one swift movement, he was climbing though her window and inside her room. He made his way over to the crumpled book, smiling as he saw her chest moving up and down in deep breaths as she slept. He reached out with deft fingers and put two of them to her exposed throat, revealing her pulse. She did not stir. He closed his eyes, savoring the smell and the feel of her heartbeat. She was so fragile. A little more pressure and her existence would be snuffed from this forsaken world. It would be so simple.

For now, he thought as he leaned down to pick up the forgotten novel, I will play with my toy.


Hi everyone! Welcome to my latest work in progress...I've been contemplating whether I should write something for the Twilight fandom for a while, and decided to go ahead and give it my best shot. I know there are a lot of stories out there, and I want to make it clear that I have NO intention of copying any other author's work out there. The plot for this story is straight from my twisted little mind where I love to work with darker themes and elements. I know the characters will be slightly OOC, but this is so I can twist them to fit my little plot line. I also happen to like a darker version of Edward. If this isn't your cup of tea, please stop reading! Things will only get worse from here...his obsession will get darker and uglier as the story unfolds.

With all that said, I also don't own anything related to Twilight, so please don't sue. Just writing for fun.

I hope you all enjoyed, and the next chapter should be up soon.