Blood and Damnation

by Belinda Boring

  “What do you mean acquainted?” the woman repeated. “Do you mean to stand there and say that not only did you murder my sister, but you also corrupted her with your debauched and vile ways?” Her gaze narrowed on me as if she’d already judged and condemned me.

  Images from earlier returned to invade my mind.

  Primrose squirming against me, her hand rubbing hard against my erection. Based on her nymph-like response, she’d definitely been corrupted, but not by me.

  If there was even an inkling of possibility that they’d believe me, I would tell that to her family. I would give them a quick education on how very unvirtuous their precious Primrose was.

  The older woman drew herself up slowly, finally coming to a stand. She’d been quietly rocking back and forth with the deceased as she watched the interaction between her kinswoman and me. She was small, as women went, the years beginning to hunch her over with a stoop. I would’ve sworn that as she stood there, vengeance blazing in her eyes, she grew in stature—rivaling my own height.

  “Chor!” she accused. As she stepped around the body she’d lovingly been holding, an energy began to fill the space around them. Somewhere in the distance, I heard dogs howling as thunder shook the air. Something was stirring, and it felt as though its focal point was solely on me.

  The words were coming thick and fast as the woman launched into a rhythmic speech that was occasionally broken up by her quick gasps for breath. She droned on and on for what seemed like a lifetime.

  I was able to pick out the occasional word, but what I heard next chilled me to the core.

  Bibaxt. Bad luck.

  Marime. Outcast.

  Naswalemos. Sickness.

  Strazhno. Danger.

  Amria. Curse.

  That word hit me the hardest. She was cursing me, and as I propelled myself forward to stop her, a pain like nothing I had ever experienced drove me abruptly to my knees with a demonic roar of agony.

  Fire blazed through my veins, heating then boiling my blood until I was positive my insides were liquefying. Sweat dripped from every pore as my body trembled with vicious convulsions that threatened to render me insane.

  Now writhing on the floor, words failed me.

  All I could see—feel—was excruciating pain.

  Deep within my chest a humming began, the sensation causing my heart to beat erratically. All I wanted to do was beg for death as I felt something inside me explode. Whether from mercy or approaching unconsciousness, the pain began to fade as everything dulled. My vision darkened.

  I wept with relief. As I curled up into a ball so I could welcome oblivion like a long-lost friend, a single word reached out and branded my soul.

  Shilmulo.

  A small shard of alarm pierced me the moment I recognized it, but I was without hope, the world finally crashing around me.

  Shilmulo.

  Vampire.

  Chapter 2

  10 Years Later

  “Enter.”

  Annoyance flickered through me at the interruption. A new lead about the band of gypsies who’d cursed me to this blasted existence had surfaced, but instead of leaving to pursue it, I was stuck here, collecting a debt.

  With heightened senses, I could hear her lurking outside the door as if trying to will her feet to move. This lack of spine was something I wouldn’t tolerate once she became mine to do with as I pleased. Cowardice was an ugly trait—especially for a woman of her breeding.

  Pity it hadn’t stopped her father from being a squandering fool who believed I would show mercy and forgive his mismanagement of funds.

  Hesitation seemed to still delay her in obeying my command, and my annoyance was quickly evolving into impatient anger. I had a reputation for crushing those who thought they could keep me waiting.

  She wasn’t the one controlling this meeting. She was merely property exchanging ownership—from the keeping of her father to mine.

  “I won’t ask again,” I called out, knowing full well she heard me. My voice was one no one could ignore without paying the price for it.

  There was a microscopic part of me that was impressed her hesitancy was because of fear and not because she was inherently rebellious. She knew who I was.

  I was the fearsome Marcus St. James.

  A monster.

  Cruelty personified.

  And unfortunately for her, her newly betrothed.

  Her heart picked up its pace, that telltale sign she’d finally made the decision to act. She may be terrified of me, but she had a deep, abiding love for her father, and it was that devotion that turned the door knob.

  Perhaps she still doubted that her father meant to force her to marry me. We hadn’t officially met, although I’d sensed her hiding in the shadows when I’d attended her father’s request that I become his financial benefactor. Her family was facing utter destitution, and he had approached me out of desperation.

  I wasn’t ashamed to admit I had also overheard part of the discussion between them when he broke the news of the conditions. I had no real need for money or a wife, but I saw the sense in having a blood source readily available. If anything, she was at least good for that.

  “But, Father!” she’d cried, the sound of her heart breaking ringing out. “His heart is ugly . . . blackened . . . cruel. Surely, you’ve heard the town gossip? How can you ask this of me?”

  I heard the tears in her voice, but they did nothing to move me toward empathy. Let her believe I was guilty of the foul acts I was often accused of. Her opinion meant nothing.

  I could’ve been the very Devil himself, but she was a woman, and they had no say in the affairs of men.

  Catriona finally stood, shuddering, in the doorway. Her gaze scanned the room, no doubt looking for me, but I remained hidden. Let her panic. It would teach her not to keep me waiting in the future.

  “Girl, this will be the last time I repeat myself. You are to obey my every word without qualm.” My voice, harsh and filled with bitterness, drew her attention in my direction.

  Catriona closed her eyes and absently crossed herself before stepping completely into the room, closing the door behind her. She kept her eyes to the ground, losing what little bravery she’d somehow managed to muster.

  I let out an amused chuckle.

  “God won’t help you. You would be wise to abandon whatever faith you cling to. He cares not for his supposed children.” It was a lesson I was all too familiar with. A decade ago I had reached out—begged with all the sincerity my young, naïve heart could rally for His intercession and benevolence—only to find silence and betrayal.

  Judging from her expression, the room was nothing like she’d thought it would be. She no doubt expected to find opulence and extreme finery, with my entire wealth on extravagant display. Without thinking, she raised her eyes, her mouth opening in surprise as she drank in our surroundings.

  I had the room decorated for this precise reason. I loathed meeting the expectations of others. I had quickly realized the power that came from allowing others to underestimate me. It gave me the upper hand in every situation—throwing each person off their game and leaving them at my whim.

  The room was definitely beautiful and unbelievably simple in its decorations. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases flanked the room on two of the four walls, and I saw the instant she fought the urge to run to the impressive library and see what treasures were displayed. The comfortable chairs and settees were strategically placed because it was the room I most used for quiet solitude. Elegant crafted lamps placed on side tables were positioned to offer the best light.

  This room was my sanctuary. Very few had been granted entrance.

  Silently, I watched as she turned around, momentarily transfixed. Her gaze was drawn to the portrait hanging on the wall next to the door she’d just come through.

  Each brush stroke, each choice of vibrant color presented the image of a man who had no problem dominating those beneath him. The artist had been able to capture the strength of his sub
ject, a power and authority that filled the room by the mere presence of the painting. It reflected a man who could command armies, yet held a glimmer of something else—a trace of humor and mirth in the way the eyes seemed to twinkle and the gentle lifting of the lips into a smile.

  My lips.

  My eyes.

  Or should I say, the person I should’ve been, had I not been in that damned alley all those years ago. I had been tempted to smash the portrait into pieces, to set it aflame until all that remained were ashes, but oddly enough, it comforted me. At least this way, that version of me still existed.

  Looking at the small brass placard at the base of the frame, Catriona reached out, letting out a gasp when she recognized the name.

  Marcus St. James.

  “Do you like what you see?” I teased, reminding her I was still in the room, and her focus on my portrait hadn’t gone unnoticed. Let her fall in love with the illusion. Let her find peace in her fate.

  My voice held a strange softness. She raised her hands slowly, rubbing the sides of her arms as though she was suddenly cold.

  “I do. It’s hard not to. This man is definitely attractive, and there’s something mesmerizing about the way he presents himself,” she uttered, unable to drag her gaze away from the image in front of her.

  “Would he be a man you could fall in love with?” My brows furrowed. Why the hell did I care what she thought?

  “I hardly think that’s an appropriate question, sir.”

  “Answer the question.” The gentleness of the moment was shattered by the ruthless command I barked out. “And don’t presume to lie to me, Catriona.” Her name rolled off my tongue with ease. “I’ve a way of always finding out the truth, and heaven help the fool who thinks they can deceive me.”

  Raised goose bumps danced across her skin, causing her to tremble slightly. Swallowing nervously, she answered. “Yes. Yes, I think this is a man I could fall in love with.”

  She let out a soft sigh, realizing that such romantic hope was folly, because the man she was to marry wasn’t the image before her but the monster behind her.

  “Will you not turn and address your betrothed . . . your beloved?” The last word was spat out with such vehemence and scorn that it caused her to jump from its force.

  She slowly turned. Her confused expression elicited another chuckle from me.

  I cleared my throat, a reminder that whatever she had fantasized about meeting her future husband had been in vain. She wasn’t here for loving gestures and thoughtful acts.

  “How do I address you, sir, if you won’t show yourself?” Try as she might, she wasn’t quite able to hide the curt frustration in her voice.

  “Are you sure you are ready to come face to face with me? Have you fortified your delicate sensibilities? You are, after all, about to meet the Beast of Smithersby Field. Are you not scared, trembling in your corset?” I all but mocked her.

  Raising her right hand to eye level, she revealed the unsteady tremble that had come over her. “As you can see, I am afraid, and wish the introduction over. If you are so concerned for my sensibilities, as you put it, please reveal yourself and let us speak freely. I assume there is much to discuss.”

  I stepped out from the curtains. I didn’t bother withholding my grin as another gasp escaped through her lips.

  A beast I may be, but I also knew the effect I held over the weaker sex. It was encouraging to see that I could use my physique and appearance to weaken her knees, so to speak.

  I stood at almost six foot one and had been described as the epitome of masculine perfection. I could see she agreed with that sentiment as she all but licked her lips. I had inherited my father’s strong face, with a defined jawline and a cleft in my chin that many females had stroked with soft fingertips.

  We also shared the same hair color, that of the darkest black oil, but unlike my father, I didn’t tie it back with a ribbon like most men of the time did. I’d grown accustomed to letting it hang loose.

  It was my piercing blue eyes, however, that many confided bored deep down into their souls, digging about for whatever secrets they kept hidden, and I could exploit. That wasn’t what made me appreciate them, though.

  They were the eyes of my beloved mother—my champion. She was the one, had she lived long enough, who would’ve kept her only son from becoming a broken shell of his former self.

  As much as I hated to admit it, my mother would’ve instantly approved of Catriona—pleased her darling son had found such a beautiful woman to marry. I could barely remember her voice, but something told me she would’ve uttered with pride how pleased she was.

  I tried to view my bride-to-be as though I was peering out through my mother’s eyes. What would’ve caught her attention? What traits would she admire? I shook away the thought softly murmuring that there were plenty of attributes I found attractive. As my gaze attempted to take in Catriona’s appearance, there was no need to closely study her features—I already knew what I liked.

  Her eyes. Philosophers shared that they were windows to the soul and everything you needed to know about the measure of a person could be found by taking a few moments to peer into their depths. Catriona’s eyes terrified me because the briefest of glances—the tiniest of peeks—had felt like the strike of a match . . . an instant desire. Not in a sexual way, although there was definitely a stirring of lust within me. No, her dark eyes all but promised that should I linger . . . should I cave to temptation . . . I would find myself lost. The clarity and intelligence that stared out at me struck a chord of warning that once distracted, I would gladly walk away from the life I knew and follow her to the ends of the earth.

  I didn’t like that. I hated it. I refused to let another person control me or alter the path I had chosen to walk. A woman had been my downfall once before, and now this temptress stood before me—unaware of the power she held, the power that beckoned.

  Her smile, a voice in my head gently pressed, forcing me to drop my gaze to Catriona’s mouth. While her lips were only slightly curled upward, there were moments where a smile came as the result of her seeing something that pleased her. I’d caught a glimpse as she stared up at my portrait, and there was a growing need building within my chest that wanted to see it again.

  This was absolute absurdity. I didn’t want love. I wasn’t looking for it. I was half convinced to take her by the arm, drag her back through my home, and toss her out on her behind. I didn’t need a wife, or any kind of distraction, especially one that would no doubt prove to be trouble.

  Yet all I could do was stare. By some miracle, I managed to keep my mouth shut, because I had the sinking suspicion that I would make myself look like a blithering buffoon or a lunatic incapable of speech.

  I would need to act cautiously around her, never lowering my guard or showing any sign of softening.

  I could see Catriona gathering her resolve, so she could push her fear aside.

  I needed her afraid, however. If not for her, for me.

  One moment I stood by the wall, and the next I was before her, grasping her hand with the intent to kiss it. Questions rose in her mind, shining out through her eyes. There was no need to ask her what they were—I had heard most of them before.

  How did I move so fast?

  Why did I toy with her like a cat plays with a mouse?

  Why wasn’t I acting completely monstrous, instead keeping her unbalanced?

  She lowered her eyes out of habitual respect, yet the nicety of the moment vanished when I flipped over her hand and buried my mouth in her palm, nudging the soft flesh with my lips. Her skin heated when I pushed her buttons further, the tip of my tongue caressing her skin in light swirls.

  Her knees buckled this time, and without thought, my arms banded around her waist, pulling her flush against my hard body. Propriety demanded she ask to be released, and truth be told, I wasn’t quite sure I would honor it.

  I liked how she felt.

  Damn.

  She couldn’t help b
ut shudder with pleasure as I nipped at the meat of her palm with my teeth. Whatever resistance she’d felt all but melted away as she softened against me further.

  Intriguing.

  I curled my finger under her chin, raising it until she was looking up into my eyes. Common sense finally took back the reins, and she tried to back away, but I refused to release her.

  I should have.

  I should’ve returned to where I’d been standing and kept the space between us until I understood the lust now bubbling up within me. It was hard to believe such a frail female could be dangerous, but I could feel her presence chipping away at my intentions.

  All I had wanted was to put a greater fear in her—help her understand that the life she’d once dreamed about was gone and lost forever.

  Instead, my mouth came down over hers.

  It was as if the heavens opened and a chorus of angels began to sing their praises. Passion burst through me, and as inexperienced as she was, it didn’t take her long to know what I expected.

  As my tongue flicked out against her closed lips, she parted them willingly and actually groaned when I caught a taste of her.

  Her hands moved up over my shoulders and wrapped around my neck. It sent off an alarm inside my brain—that she was taking liberties I hadn’t yet granted her. I was the master here—her master—and she touched me as though we were consensual lovers.

  We would never be lovers in that sense. Ever.

  My body betrayed me, and I tugged on the back of her head, my hands fisting in her thick, silky hair. I deepened the kiss, and with it, I almost lost what remained of my sanity.

  Time seemed to stand still.

  Her body began to rub against me, and I felt that familiar pressure building—one that felt urgent, hot, and needy.

  I moved us, pinning her against one of the bookcases. Catriona gasped as my hands found her breasts, kneading them with my fingers.

  Gripping onto my shoulders, gathering fistfuls of my shirt, she dipped her head back, and the movement exposed her throat.