"The scars never faded," Elias growled, glaring at the spot she refused to cover with make-up. His loud voice instantly shook Elios awake, who stirred in his mother's arms.
"In my eyes, it has," Adeline argued. "The spot you injected me with Dorothy's blood also never faded."
Elias narrowed his eyes. How could he forget? His own children drank from Adeline.
It happened one afternoon when he was occupied with an emergency meeting, and the next thing he knew, he found his wife nearly dead on the floor, the twins' face buried into either side of her neck, draining the life from her. They had been too young, too naive, and too foolish to distinguish mother from food, human from prey.
"And like my stretch marks, they'll never fade, but I've embraced it," Adeline said, reaching forward to grab his limp hand.
ELias scowled, but walked to her anyway, tightly holding her hand.
