Free Hunger by Karen E. Taylor

my surprise, he turned his back to me, took off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt.
    â€œCare to finish what you started, my dear?” He turned around and I saw deep ruts in his shoulders, each surrounded with drops of congealing blood. I turned my head away in answer, disgusted at my behavior. “No? Well then, let me just clean up a bit and we’ll talk about it all.” I looked at him again and saw that he had wiped the blood from his arms with his shirt. He discarded both the shirt and jacket into the wastebasket and went to the closet behind his desk to get new clothes.
    â€œNo, Max,” I said desperately, anxious to leave him. The taste of his blood lingered in my mouth, the smell of his blood in the air. “There’s been enough talk for one night. I must go now.” I left the room and closed the door behind me. Leaning up against it, I tried to catch my breath. What was happening? I wondered, how could I lose control so quickly? If he had shown the slightest trace of fear I would have been on him in seconds, my teeth imbedded tightly in his neck. I recalled the gratifying feel of his torn flesh beneath my fingers and shivered.
    â€œDamn,” I swore softly, then hurried down the hall toward the exit, to put as much distance between us as possible. Soon I was running, as if pursued by all the demons of my past and present. The doorman hailed a taxi and I rode into the comfort of the night.

Chapter 5
    T he roses began to arrive at my office on Monday afternoon, bouquets of massive, deep-red blooms overwhelming in their fragrance and their beauty. Every day that week another arrangement was delivered, each one more spectacular than the previous. No cards were included but I knew who had sent them. They all had Max’s signature, a single pure black rose embedded amid the profusion of red. He had once, in an uncharacteristic, poetic mood, referred to me as a “rose clad in black.” The mood had passed quickly and soon he was his cynical self, but the epithet had remained. Ever since, any gift or message he sent was accompanied by a black rose. He was, I knew, seeking forgiveness and a reconciliation. The first I could grant, given time. But the second seemed to be a risky venture. The passion and anger that he had inspired frightened me, more than I cared to admit even to myself. Yet, as the week went on, and the flowers continued to arrive, I began to soften towards him, the emotions I felt subsided. Perhaps I had misjudged him; he really had not had a chance to explain, maybe I did owe him that chance.
    In actuality, I spent very little time worrying about Max and our relationship. Even the thought that there might be another of my kind prowling the city was pushed into the back of my mind. The week proved to be as busy as I had expected and I immersed myself in the work. I could lose my identity in the designs, following and coaxing the ideas and drawings into something with texture, something with a tangible beauty. By Friday evening, when my office was overflowing with flowers, all delicately displayed in tall alabaster vases, a similar array of colors decorated the rack of finished garments in the dressing rooms.
    The show was now only a week away and we had made great progress. I worked like one obsessed and had expected no less of my employees. With the prospect of a free weekend ahead of them they had matched my long hours with few complaints and were now tired but relieved that the rush was behind us. The tasks that remained for the next week were the final fittings, some accessorizing, and the staging of the show itself, mostly work for Gwen, myself and a few of our top seamstresses.
    When everyone else had left the building, Gwen entered my office bearing two cups of coffee, one so diluted with sugar and cream it lost all resemblance to its origin, and for me, one black and steaming. I took it from her appreciatively and gestured to one of the office chairs.