A/N: Hey all!

So, here is the newest chapter for Red Eyed Vixen, written by the new writer of this fic; vnsjvhgs.

Now, to clear a few things up;

This will be the only chapter I put here, the rest will be here; www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/s/8078504/1/Red_Eyed_Vixen

I will be acting as a beta for this story.

Okay?

So enjoy

Xox

Red eyes were not a nice thing to wake up to. As soon as my eyes had focused on Dimitri's Strigoi ones, my hands shot out and slammed against his chest as I hurriedly tried to put a little distance between us. I turned my eyes down as I shoved him away, not wanting, or needing to look at him any longer. My strength caught me off guard as he was knocked off of his feet, and by the look on his face, it had had the same effect on him. He laughed quietly as he pushed himself off of the ground.

"Roza," he murmured, his voice like liquid honey, "I've been waiting for you to open your eyes." He closed the space between us in two steps, and a warning growl ripped from my lips. Slowly, tauntingly, he ran the back of his finger down my cheek and smiled.

"You're still so soft . . . ."

I knocked his hand away and stumbled backwards. I allowed myself half a second to take in my surroundings and locate the doors and windows, and then returned my eyes to Dimitri.

I didn't doubt that he'd overpower me if I chose to fight him. Though I'd knocked him over earlier, I lacked the strength I'd need to take him down again and I'd left my stake back at my apartment anyway. I could only stay or run and neither looked too appealing.

If I stayed, I'd maybe regain a little clarity and later kill Dimitri, but I didn't think I'd be alive long enough to have the chance to do that. If I ran, I could potentially keep myself from death another day, but I didn't know what waited on the other side of those windows and doors. Either way, my chances of survival looked slim, almost non-existent. And that sucked.

"You look . . . troubled, Roza. Are you not pleased to see me?"

I took another step back and shook my head. Then it struck me. I really wasn't pleased to see him.

Upon regaining consciousness, Dimitri had only been another Strigoi to me, not the man who owned my heart and body. That revelation upset me a little. If Dimitri didn't own my heart, then who did? I pushed that thought to the back of my mind and concentrated on trying to establish my next move.

"You haven't killed me yet," I flinched at the sound of my raspy voice, "why?"

Dimitri frowned, "I don't want to kill you."

"I don't trust you."

"I'm not asking you to. But I'm not going to hurt you, Roza." His voice sounded so sincere I almost, almost thought he was telling the truth.

"Then what do you want?"

He stalked towards me, and whispered one word.

"You."

Dimitri tucked my hair behind my ear and slowly moved his mouth toward mine . . . and a little red light went off in my head. My knee collided with his groin at the same time my head crashed into his, and then I ran. I sprinted towards the door closest to me, not stopping to think about where it would lead me, or the chances of another Strigoi waiting on the other side of it. I tugged on the brass door knob and the door clicked open, and sparing a small glance over my shoulder, I found Dimitri leaning against the far wall, a smirk on his face and some unknown emotion blazing in his eyes. I didn't know why he wasn't running after me, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I turned away from him and bolted out of the room, and only let myself stop after the icy night air was the only thing surrounding me.

I looked down at my white cotton shorts, stained with someone's blood, and cursed. My top and trainers had survived, though I'd lost my keys and jacket somewhere along the way. The lost keys didn't bother me, seeing as I had no idea what direction my apartment was in, and how far it was.

Not wanting to stop any longer than I had to, I started to run again, and tried to ignore my throat's pleads for water. A little later I came across a narrow dirt road, and followed it to a small country town. I slowed down and wandered the streets, looking for a car that didn't have an alarm and that no one would miss. God must have loved me, because soon, a small red Toyota Corolla Hatchback came into view.

I tugged my top off and wrapped it around my fist, and then looked around for any movement before punching in the back window. I reached my hand in and unlocked the front door, and then slid into the car, and dropped my top onto the passenger's seat. I opened the glove compartment and sorted through its contents in search of a screwdriver. I didn't find one. I sighed and got out of the car, and then silently walked around to the back yard of the nearest house. The tin shed that stood in the corner of the yard looked helpful, and thankfully it wasn't locked. The moonlight that streamed through the window helped to locate a small toolbox on a shelf to my right, and I found a flat screwdriver relatively quickly.

Back in the car, I pushed the screwdriver into the ignition and turned, and then drove.

The little digital clock on the dashboard read 3:47 a.m. when the car rolled to a stop a few blocks away from my apartment complex. The three hour drive had been particularly painful, though I'd improved my-driving-while-map-reading skill. I reached over and snatched up my tank top and took the coins that sat on the dashboard, and then stumbled out of the car, and started the daunting walk home. All I wanted to do was cuddle up to my pillow and sleep for a day or two. I wasn't physically tired, but my mind was.

A few drunken men staggered by, reeking so strongly of alcohol that I started to feel a little tipsy, and none of them spared me a second glance like others so often did. I knew I looked like hell, covered in blood and dirt and God knows what else, so I started to walk faster, all the more eager to get in the safe confines of my apartment. They stopped at a pay phone three or four metres from the car I'd ditched and called for a cab to take them to another bar. Their slurred voices faded as I rounded a corner and stopped to pull my tank top over my head.

I'd started my walk home again when I remembered my lost keys. I couldn't get into my apartment without them, and I wasn't going to wait until morning to call the landlady to collect a spare. I didn't want a spare, either, I wanted the locks changed. Dimitri could have taken my keys, and if he didn't know where I lived already, it wouldn't take him much to find out. I knew that he could just knock my door down, but at least I'd feel a little safer with a new lock. My mind made up, I backtracked to the pay phone the men had been at, and pushed a coin into the slot. I dialled a twenty-four hour locksmith and told him I'd meet him outside my apartment in a half hour.

Once I'd finally made it to the front steps of my apartment complex, I thought of a failsafe excuse for the blood and mud covering my clothes. I'd gone for a run, slipped and rolled down a hill, catching my thigh on something sharp on the way. My keys had fallen on the way, and it'd been too dark for me to find them. I didn't have my phone with me, so I had to walk home, and it'd taken a long time because of my leg. The locksmith had to buy that. I sat down on the steps and dropped my head into my hands and waited.

A few minutes later, a red Cherokee turned down the street and parked a little down the road. A man emerged from the driver's door and started towards me, a toolbox in his hand and a small smile on his face. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and had inky black hair that stood up in all directions and dark grey eyes that looked black under the street lights. I got to my feet and shook the hand that he held out as he introduced himself as Logan Smalls. I tried to ignore his eyes that lingered on my chest and buzzed us into the building, and tried to make small talk as we made our way to my apartment. He didn't ask about the mess covering me, but I told him my cover story anyway, not wanting to let his mind have the chance to come up with any other potentially drastic scenarios.

Logan told me about his seven month old son and ex-fiancée as he worked on my door, and stopped at one point to show me a picture of the little chubby boy. The baby didn't look anything like him, though the cheeky half-smile that graced his son's face looked a lot like the one he had when he stepped out of his car. I'd handed him back his wallet and watched him play with the lock, and even offered to hand him his tools at one point. It took half an hour to take the lock out, and in that time I learned the name for nearly every tool he used, and a lot about his life. And then finally, he pushed my door open, and I breathed a sigh of relief as my couch came into sight. Logan said something about fitting the door with a new lock, and I moved towards the kitchen counter, my eyes locked on my phone. I snatched it off the counter and unlocked it, only to find an empty screen. No missed calls, no new messages. I scowled and put it down on the counter again.

Then, a muffled curse came from the behind me, and a loud thud as something hit the ground. I spun around, my thoughts running almost painfully through my head as my eyes sought out first the bloodied tool on the carpet, and then Logan, cradling his hand against his chest as profanity and profanity fell from his mouth. My lips parted and my eyes widened, and my nails clawed at my thighs, leaving angry red marks scattered across my skin. It was an all-consuming pain, one I would never in my life forget. It burned my throat, and I could only think of one thing.

Blood.

If you enjoyed that, continue to read this story from the link posted above.

I am sorry that I could not continue writing this, but the author that has taken it has agreed to keep me involved (yay!)