She’d live.
What the hell had he done? What the hell had he been thinking?
But by the Fates…that was it. He hadn’t been thinking…of anything but her. Of her smell, her taste, the texture of her skin, the feel of her hair…those memories had been painted in his mind, wallpapered over and plastered away for two years of emptiness—until now.
Until tonight, when it had all been stripped away.
He knew better. He knew it was wrong, dangerous, even selfish—especially now that he knew Ren Tyroli was her motherfucking husband.
Husband!
But he couldn’t stop himself.
He knew better, oh, Luce, he knew better, but that sweet, soft, silky skin he remembered so well was there: damp and musky and warm…and she was moaning and pressing against him, fairly climbing his body as she writhed and trembled, riding his thigh…as she kissed him back with those full lips and touched him every-damn-where she shouldn’t…and should.
He’d closed his eyes and plunged with his outthrust fangs…and tasted her once again.
And then he’d gone down the rabbit hole and very nearly lost it.
He’d nearly fucking lost everything.
“Did you get it?” he managed to growl. His knees were trembling with the effort of holding himself still. His fingers were white as death as they clutched the edge of the shelves, and his fangs felt as if they were going to shoot from his mouth, they were so long and hard and protracted.
And don’t even think about his cock, how wild and tumescent it was, ready and needy and raring from within the confines of his jeans. The scent of her blood, the beautiful, clean, sea-salt scent of her lifeblood, filled his nostrils. The Mark on his shoulder raged, pulsing and radiating with pain, as if to remind him how much better it would be to let go and turn back to her, and to—
Damn. No.
He focused on the pain writhing over the back of his shoulder like a tiny venomous snake that ached and burned evilly.
If he thought she’d do it, he would have ordered her to go. To fucking leave him.
But he knew better.
Gunnar gave a soft sigh of relief as a new ripple of pain shocked him—a different sensation. She’d done as he ordered—he felt it when she picked up the chain of feathers, for the awareness settled over him like a light blanket filled with a thousand and one dagger blades, all stabbing into his flesh at once. It slowed him, too, made him sluggish—as if he were at the bottom of the sea, slogging through the painful torment of a gelatinous ocean.
Two feathers were most certainly enough to cause him considerable pain; two dozen would turn him half senseless if they were in proximity. But he wasn’t an A-list stuntman for nothing, and there was no way in Lucifer’s hell he was going to let her know how weak he was.
Lyla Harris already had the greatest weapon over him imaginable. He didn’t want her to have control of another one.
He gathered up the stew of his brains—which had gone into a fiery red haze of pleasure and need along with the rest of his body—and collected them into some semblance of thought.
Turning around, forcing himself to move smoothly and not to let her see how much pain he was in—both from his Asthenia as well as Lucifer’s displeasure at his decision to thrust her safely away—he said, very carefully, “In the living room. There is a gold box lined with lead, resting on the mantel. Remove the contents and wear it. Then I’ll do as you ask.”
She stared at him, her aquamarine eyes heavy-lidded and dazed, her lips shiny and full. The scent from her blood, from her essence—oranges, twilight, sea salt, Lyla—permeated his being, and blood still glistened along her neck, leaching into the pristine white of her tee—and damn, damn, oh, goddamn me—he hadn’t finished off the wound… He closed his mind to that for the moment.
Later.
He had to collect himself first. Then he could face that torture.
Perhaps.
He focused on easier—slightly easier—thoughts because he couldn’t abandon them all together.
Her red hair was real, he’d learned that much, and it was even more full and tousled, making her look vulnerable and coquettish at the same time. Her breasts seemed fuller, straining against the tight, stretchy material of her shirt, and her nipples were starkly outlined behind it. They shivered gently as she inhaled and exhaled, confirming that, yes, she was definitely out of her mind, out of breath, crazy. That she, too, had lost all sensible thought—coming here, allowing him to kiss her, even asking for him to taste her.
Gunnar vibrated deep inside and just barely caught himself from moving toward her.
He could even smell her arousal: the unique and lush musk that told him she’d let him do whatever he wanted.
The Fates. One of them had to think. One of them had to be in control. Or this time, she’d end up dead.
He drew in a staggered breath, tightened his fingers into his palms, and set his jaw. He even managed a cool, unaffected smile.
He thought.
He had to get rid of her. As soon as possible.
“Gunnar,” she said, some of the haze easing from her eyes, “I—”
“Go to the living room and get the contents of the box and put it on,” he said. This time, he was short and sharp and even more desperate than before. “Do it now.”
Go away. Go the fuck away. Leave me be. Leave me in peace.
“I really do need your help,” she said quietly. “You’re my only hope. And…” Words seemed to fail her, and she blinked rapidly. “Gunnar…”
“Yes. I’ll help you find your husband.” He wrenched the words from his mouth, reminding himself that the woman he’d longed for, dreamed of, lost his mind for, was married.
It shouldn’t matter to a vampire. To an immortal, immoral devil like himself.
But it did. Dammit, it did.
Lyla made her way to the living room, still dizzy with desire. Her blood still oozed gently from the wounds on her neck and shoulder. They didn’t hurt; she was simply aware of a subtle, dull ache.
But she sensed that she needed to do as Gunnar asked, for there was a dark desperation lurking behind his glowing, passion-filled eyes. And when she opened the gold filigree box as directed and saw what was inside, she gasped.
I can’t do this.
She pulled out a handful of white feathers and realized that they were formed into a cuff…no, a necklace. A choker. A choker that would fit snugly, but comfortably, around her neck—and keep him at bay.
And fill him with unimaginable pain.
I can’t do this.
She shoved the horrible thing back into the box and slammed its lead-lined lid closed.
When she stalked back to the study where she’d left him, Lyla stood with her hands on her hips. She was a flipping DEA agent on Team Z. She didn’t need protection from Gunnar Malkensen.
She might need protection from herself—after all, her body still thrummed and quivered and burned for him—but she wasn’t afraid of him.
“Do you keep that for Tonja?” she demanded. “That choker?”
His head snapped up from where he’d been watching as he filled a glass with a translucent burgundy liquid. “Lyla. What did I tell you?”
The madness and the desperate desire were gone from his eyes, but she saw his hand tremble a little as he set down the bottle.
“I’m not going to wear that thing. Not the same thing your mistress wears.” She spat the words, then realized in horror how she’d exposed herself.
“Lyla. Don’t be a fool. I don’t want to—I could—I could’ve killed you.”
“You aren’t going to kill me. I thought by now you’d realized what happened that night—that it wasn’t you, it was—”
“Don’t be an idiot. I nearly drained you, nearly tore you apart. If Chas Woodmore hadn’t intervened…” Gunnar’s face was white with fury.
“Gunnar. Please. I know you and Ren were friends a long time ago. I need to find him, and he’s gone underground. I’
m pretty sure he’s responsible for Barry Rudolph’s death.”
Gunnar looked at her for a long moment, then turned back to his bottle of whatever it was. Blood whiskey, probably. “Put the damned choker on and I’ll help you.”
“How the hell will you be of any help to me if you can’t move? I’ll wear my necklace, but not the choker.”
“You, my dear, are not in any position to bargain,” he replied.
“Gunnar, please. What happened before wasn’t your faul—”
“You’re the one who should be afraid—after what just happened here.” He looked at her again, and she saw his attention settle at the place on her neck where the blood still oozed. His gaze seemed to be drawn there. “Damn.” The syllable was little more than a breath. “You’re still bleeding, and I…” He heaved in a breath. “I have to take care of it.”
A sharp squiggle of heat shot through her belly and she lost her breath—for she knew what he meant. “I do have salted holy water,” she told him. Just to be honest.
“That’s not good enough. It’s not as safe as the saliva of a Dracule.”
That wasn’t strictly true—and the fact that he was exaggerating, or even lying, made her even hotter and more expectant. He wanted to touch her again. Taste her.
“Put on the choker so I can…tend to you safely.” His words were hardly more than a whisper, and they came out sounding to her like a promise.
Lyla swallowed hard. “Gunnar. You need to understand: what happened two years ago wasn’t your fault. And look at what happened tonight. You were completely in control.”
He gave a derisive laugh and gestured at her with the bottle. “You call that in control?”
“I have the necklace on. I’m not going to wear that choker. You’ll have to trust yourself to—to tend to me”—her voice became low and husky at the thought of it—“safely. I do.”
Gunnar stared at her for a long moment. There was no glow in his eyes, no attempt to glamour her or enthrall her. Only inevitability. And fear.
She saw fear.
He set the down the bottle without looking, and it made a dull clink in the silence. “You could use the salted holy water,” he said roughly. “It would work all right to stop the bleeding.”
“I was under the impression that it was the gentlemanly thing to do to—you know—tend to things,” she replied. Her heart was thudding hard, and interestingly, his wasn’t trying to match hers this time.
“Who told you that?” he asked, still watching her with those penetrating gray eyes.
“I don’t remember.”
“Another Dracule? Woodmore?”
“Gunnar. I’m standing here bleeding.” She made a show of shifting the necklace so that both feathers fell behind her, and looked at him purposefully.
He muttered something. Then, as if going to his execution, he walked toward her. Lyla’s pulse pounded harder, and she felt the blood surge softly from her wounds in reaction.
He took her by the upper arms, carefully but firmly, and bent his head to her throat. This time, instead of the smooth, sharp piercing, he kissed her at the side of her neck, bussing her salty, bloody skin with his soft lips. She closed her eyes as a sweet prickling rushed over her.
His breath was warm on her moist skin, and she felt it come out in a hot, hard gust as he drew back. He had enough space between them that only the very front of her breasts brushed against him. She thought he was going to push her away again and resort to the salted holy water after all, but instead he bent once more to the place where he’d bitten her. This time, he sucked gently and lovingly over the wounds, then licked away the vestiges of blood with his tongue and lips.
Lyla realized she was holding on to him, clutching his forearms during the sensual play of his mouth and tongue over her skin. She might have moaned his name—in fact, she was fairly certain she did, along with some other sort of pleading nonsense.
He’d long finished the job of “tending” to her, but still he kissed her, and trailed his lips over her neck and throat, his eyelashes brushing her cheek. One hand had slid beneath her shirt and cupped her breast. His thumb was doing lovely things to her taut nipple, making little sensual circles over it through the thin sheath of her bra.
Suddenly, he stiffened and pulled away, still holding on to her. Through the haze of lust, Lyla sensed it too—the presence of another person—and she looked up just as a figure stepped through the doorway.
“What the fuck are you doing with my wife?”
Chapter 6
When It All Goes to Shit
Rage flushed with shame washed over Gunnar as he turned to face Ren Tyroli.
“Get the hell out of my house,” he said evenly. But it was too late.
The man he’d once called friend, but now loathed even more than Chas Woodmore—because at least the vampire-hunter-slash-security expert was honorable—stepped into the room. He was holding a container hardly larger than a safety deposit box, and Gunnar had a very bad feeling about what was inside it.
And that was when he realized in a cold flash of comprehension just how he’d been set up. Ren had already tried to kill him more than once, and now Gunnar had walked right into the perfect trap.
Fury barreled through him and his fingers tightened around Lyla’s arm. “How dare you,” he hissed—then thrust her away and turned to face what was surely going to be his death. Probably a long, slow, and painful one, too.
Ren placed the box on the side table just inside the door, watching Gunnar with a crafty smile. He was just about to raise the lid on it when Gunnar moved.
His leap was far slower and more sluggish than usual, thanks to the necklace Lyla had thoughtfully worn to his execution, but he had the advantage of surprise.
He crashed into Ren and the two of them tumbled to the ground. Though Ren was bulky and muscular himself, Gunnar had the force of fury and surprise on his side. After dodging a few blows, taking a head crash into the floor and a punch to the gut, he got the man by the neck. He pinned the slick and greasy motherfucker to the ground with his hands, and was fantasizing about slowly strangling the life out of him when he realized he didn’t want to make it that easy for the bastard.
“What do you want?” he asked, tightening his fingers over the man’s throat. Despite being faced with a prime piece of skin real estate, the last thing Gunnar was tempted to do was to feed on—or even tear open—this piece of roadkill. Surely his blood would taste old, dead, and of rot.
“I’m pretty sure he’s here to kill you,” said a voice from behind him.
Lyla.
He didn’t bother to turn. “And you thought you’d help him—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Gunnar,” she said, moving closer. She was obviously still wearing the feather necklace, and her proximity made the thousand and one dagger blades stabbing him go even deeper. “You’re really starting to bore me with the whole martyr thing. I thought you had more imagination.”
His breath slogged and he felt his strength waning, but he dared not let on. And for once, the Mark on his back had settled into nothing more than a subtle tom-tom. Apparently, Lucifer approved of Gunnar’s lethal intentions.
“I came here to try and warn you so you could stop him, but I didn’t know he was planning to come here—which raises the question, how did you get in here, husband mine?” she asked.
She was either oblivious to the fact that standing behind Gunnar, adorned in feathers, was slowly killing him, or it was part of her master plan to torture him to death: make him brainless with desire, weak-kneed with need, then turn the tables and slay him slowly and painfully while her husband looked on.
He almost glanced around to see whether Woodmore had made an appearance yet. That would just be the icing on the cake.
“So, Gunnar, if you would release him, he might actually be able to answer my question.”
His only response was to tighten his fingers and watch the bastard gurgle a little more. His head was pounding, and his body was
still trying to make the switch from the hottest, neediest passion of his life to his life on the line, all the while battling back the pain of a thousand and one blades.
“Maybe just loosen your grip a little then,” she persisted. “He’s not going anywhere.” She was standing far too close to him, and Gunnar felt his fingers beginning to weaken as the paralyzing pain set in. The longer and the closer he was to his Asthenia, the more potent it became. “Gunnar, please. Let him answer. I’ve got him covered.”
That was when he finally managed to move his head enough to see that she wasn’t lying. For, with that minor adjustment, he was able to see the barrel of a gun just out of the corner of his eye. It was aimed steadily at the man whose neck he gripped. Hmm. That gave him a new perspective on things…unless it was just a plan to get him to release Ren instead of kill him.
Lyla met his eyes briefly as he eased up on the man, and Gunnar recognized determination—and was that anger? Carefully, Gunnar pulled to his feet, still fighting to appear graceful and unmoved, even though he could hardly draw a breath. Putting a little distance between himself and Lyla and those damned feathers would give him a little temporary relief.
His Mark gave an unhappy twinge now that the possibility of lethal violence had waned, but as he stepped back, Gunnar felt the thousand and one blades retract a millimeter or two.
“Don’t move,” Lyla said, and he realized she was speaking to her husband. Gunnar’s mind was still more than a little cloudy. “Just stay right there, Ren. I don’t trust you one bit. Now, if you don’t tell me how you got here, I’m going to put a bullet in your belly and cut out your crystal.”
“Bitch,” was the reply from the man on the floor. “Stupid bitch. Should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Clearly, there was no love lost between the two honeymooners. That made Gunnar feel slightly mollified, though he was still suspicious about the entire situation. How had both of them showed up here tonight at basically the same time? What sort of fucking coincidence was that?
Taming the Vampire: Over 25 All New Paranormal Alpha Male Tales of Contemporary, Military, Shifters, Billionaires, Werewolves, Magic, Fae, Witches, Dragons, Demons & More Page 59
