The Becoming (Book 4): Under Siege by Jessica Meigs

you
pack this meat up for me while I’m gone? I shouldn’t be long.” Once
he nodded, she slipped out of the kitchen, letting the door swing
shut behind her.
    The meat lay on the cutting board in a small
pool of blood, taunting him. Ethan swallowed and circled the
counter, stopping in front of the meat to study it carefully. He
scooped up the knife that still rested beside the cutting board and
gently prodded at the lump of meat. As he examined the meat, his
stomach let out another rumble, and he pressed a hand to it as if
to quiet it. Ever since he’d awakened, he’d eaten like he hadn’t
eaten in a year—four, five, sometimes six meals a day—but none of
it had even remotely satisfied him; he had yet to actually be not hungry. He drew in another deep breath, and the scent of
blood assaulted him again, setting his stomach off into another
loud round of hysterics.
    “Fuck,” Ethan breathed out as the temptation
became too much. He set the knife gingerly back on the counter, his
eyes riveted on the meat. With one last cautious glance around the
room, before he even realized he’d done it, Ethan picked up a
somewhat large chunk of raw, bloody meat and shoved it into his
mouth.
    As his teeth sank into the meat and blood
flooded his mouth and poured over his tongue, it took everything in
him to suppress the groan of pure, unadulterated pleasure that
threatened to escape his throat. He closed his eyes as a shudder
ran down his spine, and he clapped both hands over his mouth as if
to keep anyone from taking the meat from him. He chewed furiously,
working it with his teeth, feeling like a man dying of thirst being
handed a tall glass of ice water. When he swallowed, all he wanted
was more. He grabbed the plate of meat and started to cram the
morsels into his mouth, smearing blood on his chin as he gorged
himself.
    Ethan felt drowsy and heavy when he emerged
from the euphoria that eating the meat had brought on, and he
looked at the now-empty plate with a measure of forlornness. He was
fighting the impulse to lick the remaining blood from the china
when footsteps rapidly approached. He looked up to see a
thirty-something year old man with black hair. Ethan didn’t know
this man who was stepping through the kitchen door, a rifle resting
against his shoulder. Their eyes met, and the other man’s stare
widened as he took in the sight of Ethan standing there, empty
plate in hand, blood smeared on his face, and stray droplets
staining his shirt. The man swung the rifle around to point it at
Ethan, even as he yelled out, “Hey, I need help in here!
Quick!”
    “That’s not necessary,” Ethan said. He
dropped the plate onto the counter and put a hand up, palm out.
“Really. Just…just don’t. Please.”
    The man shook his head and adjusted his aim.
“What did you do?” he demanded. His eyes scanned the kitchen. “Who
did you hurt?”
    Ethan looked at him blankly for a moment,
and as comprehension broke through the haze shrouding his brain, he
reached up and touched his face. His fingertips, already stained
with blood, came away with even more red. He must have looked
horrible, like a monster, like one of the…
    “Oh God,” Ethan whispered as the shock hit
him full-force. He leaned against the counter heavily, closing his
eyes and gripping the edge like a life preserver, his knuckles
turning white. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the other
man’s weapon aimed at his head. It would be his fortune—good or
bad, he wasn’t sure which—if the man squeezed the trigger. And as
he heard three more sets of footsteps on the living room floor, he
couldn’t help but wonder if said outcome would be preferable. He
didn’t bother to wipe at the blood on his face as Cade, Brandt, and
Kimberly came back into the kitchen. Brandt’s boots squeaked on the
tiles as he stopped, and Ethan squeezed his eyes closed even
tighter, feeling overwhelmingly ashamed.
    “What the hell is going on in here?” Cade
demanded. Her