True Love originally saw print in Necrotic Tissue.
Their bodies connect. He’s hard. She’s soft. He rips and consumes. She gurgles blood and begs for her life.
The pack crash through trees, a mass of writhing, rotten bodies. He bares bloodied teeth: she’s his, and has always been his. They advert their eyes, whimper, snarl, and scratch in the dirt.
“Mike,” the woman says, “please.”
“That’s not my name.” He sinks hands into her neck, and drops of blood spray out like red rain. He slowly peels away her face. Flesh hangs in viscous strands between claws.
He never had a name, and neither did she.