The Rapture

I regain consciousness, finding my way back onto a bar stool. My head throbs, a dull ache that reminds me of the events of the night before. A crystal glass, refilled with the intoxicating red liquid, sits before me, its scent both alluring and unsettling. Beside it, a sleek black dress, its fabric shimmering under the dim lights, awaits my touch.

The man who shot me stands nearby, his expression a mask of indifference. How much time has passed? It couldn't have been long, could it?

"Get dressed," he instructs, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

I nod, eager to shed my blood-soaked dress. I retreat to the bedroom, not even bothering to close the door behind me. As I peel off the ruined garment, I catch sight of him in the doorway, his eyes fixed on my bare skin. A shiver runs down my spine, not from the chill of the room, but from the intensity of his gaze. It's as if he's assessing me, dissecting me with his eyes.

I hastily pull on the dress, the soft fabric a welcome contrast to the now rough blood-stained dress I was shot in. As I zip it up, I steal a glance at him, wondering if he approves of the transformation.

"It's time to go," he says, grabbing his coat from a nearby chair.

"Go where?" I ask my voice barely a whisper.

"Just follow me," he replies, his tone a chilling blend of command and enticement. "You'll know when we get there."

Outside, the night air is heavy with the scent of prey, a heady aroma that awakens a primal hunger within me. My fangs ache, a sharp reminder of my newfound nature. I fight the urge to lunge at the nearest passerby, but a firm hand on my arm pulls me back.

My captor drags me through the shadowed streets, his grip tight and unrelenting. We stumble upon a woman, her eyes wide with fear as she takes in my disheveled appearance and the predatory glint in my eyes. But my captor silences her with a look, a silent warning that sends her scurrying away.

He leads me into an underground parking garage, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and damp concrete. A sleek black car, its lines as sharp and menacing as its owner, sits waiting for us. It's unlike any car I've ever seen, its sleek design hinting at both power and danger.

Questions swirl in my mind. Why is this man dragging me around? What has he done to me? And why do I crave the taste of human blood?

He stops me short of the car, his grip tightening on my arm. "Don't hurt my car," he warns his voice a low growl.

I blink in surprise. Hurt a car? This sleek, menacing machine? The thought is absurd, yet I nod obediently, a shiver running down my spine.

He opens the passenger door for me, a sardonic smile on his lips. As I slide into the luxurious leather seat, he takes the wheel, the engine roaring to life with a guttural growl.

The world outside becomes a blur as we speed through the city streets, the darkness cloaking us in anonymity. I steal glances at my captor, his face illuminated by the dashboard lights. He's focused, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, a predatory gleam in their depths.

We come to a screeching halt in front of a sprawling mansion, its gothic architecture looming over us like a creature of the night. The sight sends a shiver down my spine, a primal fear mixing with an undeniable fascination.

The car's engine dies, the silence broken only by the chirping of crickets and the distant howl of a dog. My captor hands the keys to a valet, who asks, “Are you going to be joining the Masquerade?”

The dark figure walks away and shakes his head. His movements are fluid and graceful. I follow him up the grand staircase, my eyes scanning the imposing facade.

"Masquerade?" I whisper, the word barely audible.

He glances at me, his lips curling into a sly smile. "Business of a different sort tonight," he murmurs, his voice sending a shiver down my spine as the doorman invites us in.