DREXON DRAKOVIC RHODES

Th roaring of my bike across the tarmac on a dreadful night should be enough to distract me.

But I’d be a liar if I said, I wasn’t distracted by her scent—the same wildflowers scent with a hint of lavender that she has worn on her skin since time immemorial.

It clings to me, it festers, it calls for my fangs and the beast inside me that has been panting like a love sick mutt high on weed.

‘She accepted us, today. We could have had a taste of her blood, we could ...