A slow, rising fury hardened her features, narrowing her eyes to slits, giving her a feral appearance.
“Two to go,” he said softly.
Chapter Three
‡
Quentin slammed his forehead against the cool black-and-white tiles, hoping the pain and the scalding-hot water sliding over his skin would relax the hard-on the bitch had left him with. His balls felt impossibly full, his cock rigid to the point of agony.
Nothing seemed to dampen the painful arousal that had made the short walk from his bed to the shower stall seem unendurable.
Kamaria’s revenge was as devious and deviant as any he’d anticipated.
Already aroused, already fighting his damnable attraction, he’d held himself still as stone after he’d pulled his fist from Kamaria’s dripping cunt and she’d flounced off the bed in a rage.
Her fury at how he’d tricked her, arresting her screaming orgasm in mid-release, had him holding his breath while she spat and cursed, her body trembling as she paced the floor.
When at last she’d halted, dragging in deep ragged breaths, she was faced away. Her slender but strong shoulders squared, her long fingers clenched then rolled open. When she turned slowly toward him, her cat’s eyes gleamed with malice. “Nicely done, husss-band,” she said, a small tight smile lifting the corners of her lips.
“Thank you,” he replied calmly, not bothering to tell her not to call him that again. Fighting to keep his features schooled in a bland mask, he waited, knowing there would be harsh consequences for his rebellion.
Her gaze flickered down his naked body, resting on his cock for a long moment. “You’d best shower if you want to see your woman without my stink on your skin.”
Then he’d noted the shimmer of tears in her eyes. He was damned if he’d feel regret for hurting the bitch. “Kamaria…”
Her lips twisted into a snarl. “You won—this round, at least. We’ll see how you fare in the coming battles.” Then her head fell back, her eyelids fluttered closed, and her hands rose, turning in the air, her fingers dancing.
Magic. He could feel the tingle in the air. Quentin’s jaws tightened. “Kamaria…” he said, his tone warning.
Too late. The bunched sheets beneath his knees began to move, sliding softly, slowly, like gently lapping waves on a lake. Lapping around him, sliding over his skin, exposing, hiding, over and gone.
Then the folds in the sheets lifted, filling around slender, cylindrical shapes that lengthened then began to writhe. Hissing sounds erupted around him, and suddenly snakes slithered underneath the covers.
Quentin held his breath, unafraid of a dozen goddamn snakes. If that was the best she could do…
But it was only the beginning.
The snakes glided from under the sheets, their sleek, black, unnaturally warm bodies winding under and over his bent calves and feet, encircling his thighs and skimming higher.
When the first asp’s head reached his balls, he clamped his jaws tight, damned if he’d tell her to stop. He had to remind himself she couldn’t really hurt him like this, not permanently, anyway.
But with the blunt nose of an asp that close to his testicles, he couldn’t quite relax. His jaws clenched, his fists curled at his sides, and his chest rippled as every muscle in his body strained instinctively against his mind’s command not to move, not to breathe.
A soft stretched hiss had his gaze dropping to his groin. One snake slithered from between his sac and his thigh, nudging upward along his cock. Silently, he begged his cock not to react, but he couldn’t stop it. It twitched.
The snake’s head reared back, its jaws opened to reveal two long, needlelike fangs. As a curse burst from Quentin’s mouth, the fangs sank into the soft head of his cock.
Quentin winced. The pain was just short of excruciating. Nothing he couldn’t handle. However, the sound of her soft laughter made him mad enough to spit. When his gaze came back up to Kamaria’s, he nearly lunged from the bed.
A broad, amused smile stretched her lips. “Now we see how you like being cheated of your pleasure.” She left him, striding naked and triumphant from the bedroom.
After slinging the snakes, one at a time, from the window, Quentin sat heavily on the side of the bed, his head swimming. The poison working through his system was strong. His body quivered as though palsied, goose bumps lifted on his skin. Every part of him grew chilled—except the flesh between his legs.
His cock and balls held their erection, unflagged by the damage from the bite. Quentin soon suspected the snakes hadn’t been natural asps at all when the chills bled into rolling waves of heat that washed his body from head to toe, each wave increasing the sensual tension threatening his sanity.
He stretched on his back on the cool white sheets and spread his legs wide to ease the ache. Cool air from the oscillating fan above him didn’t help. He wrapped his fingers around his shaft, hoping to relieve the painful ache, but the first firm stroke nearly had him passing out.
Too sensitive to touch, too aroused to think of anything but the relentless, throbbing need between his legs, he’d crawled to the shower, turned the taps to the hottest setting and stood shivering under the faucet, damning the witch to hell.
All he’d wanted was to save Darcy. Now trapped in this sorceress’s lair, beholden to Kamaria’s whims and desires, he feared he was farther from his goal than ever. Darcy was somewhere inside this house, lying defenseless and alone while another forced him to give her vindictive satisfaction.
He couldn’t function this way, couldn’t help or protect Darcy if Kamaria kept him in this state. How long he stood there, his legs braced apart, his body reddening beneath the scalding spray, he didn’t know.
When finally he admitted defeat, he whispered, “Kamaria, I submit.”
*
Vero Beach, Florida
Joe Garcia stood at the iron gates of the compound, eyeing the new guards who patrolled two by two just outside. Their scent drifted to him, carried on the salty evening breeze, and he shuddered.
“It does take some getting used to.” Navarro’s voice came from just behind him.
Joe glanced over his shoulder toward the leader of the Northwest Council, who’d come only a week ago, bringing geneticists, who were also vampires, for safekeeping within the compound owned and run by the newly founded southeast division of the Vampire Council.
Everything had gone horribly wrong. The scientists had been kidnapped by the same wolf pack who killed Darcy Albermarle after they ripped her baby, his child, from her belly. The vampire responsible for recruiting the lycans, Zachary Powell, was nowhere to be found.
At least Lily was safe now, although they were seeking another doctor to see her through the births of their children. Their former physician had traded fluids drawn from her womb for cash, giving Zachary the genetic material he needed to mutate himself into the form of the original vampires—those rare creatures born of breeders like Lily—winged monsters whose undiluted powers surpassed those of the turned.
“This Dark Mountain pack—how are we supposed to trust them?” Joe asked.
“You trust your old police partner, Max, and he’s one of them,” Navarro said, his words delivered in his trademark even tones that never failed to irk the shit out of Joe.
Did the guy have ice in his veins?
“Blood, same as you.”
Joe snorted. No use trying to hide what he was thinking. Navarro’s special gift allowed him to sift through the thoughts of those around him. He had to hand it to him though, he was discreet. Looking into Emmy Harris’ dirty mind had to be a constant form of self-flagellation.
“The woman does have a one-track mind, especially when she’s within Dylan’s reach.”
Joe’s lips stretched into a smile. A rare occasion these days. “He seems pretty adept at keeping her mouth occupied when she starts to run on.” He turned back to glare at the armed guards. “The wolves who attacked us were from the same pack. Why the hell should we trust th
em?”
“Their own people helped us defeat the wolves Zachary paid. They want to make this right. They want Zachary and his people destroyed the same as we do. They also treasure their security and their lands.”
“I just can’t stand the smell of them.” Joe shook his shoulders, trying to shrug off his unease. “They don’t bother to try to hide their nature the way Max did before he came out to us. It’s like they want to rub our noses in their fur.”
“I understand why it horrifies you to know they’re so close to Lily, but we’ve taken precautions. She never leaves the house. The new security system for the panic room answers to her voice alone. They won’t get anywhere near her before the births of your children.”
“I know she’s safe. I just feel…uncomfortable. They’re here while we sleep, they even invade my dreams. I can’t escape them or the sound of them, the howling…”
The crunch of gravel alerted him to Dylan’s arrival. “Quentin was plagued by nightmares of wolves,” Dylan said, his Irish brogue roughening at the mention of his best friend. “He was attacked in London, chased down, ravaged. It’s how we met. I came to his aid.”
“In London?” Joe asked. “Must have been years ago. He said he hates the place. Too cold and wet.”
“He went home just after he was turned. A disastrous visit, from what I understand. His family disowned him. I think they may have tried to destroy him—seems there was a history of vampire hunting in the family. He never knew.”
“It’s damn weird,” Joe murmured. “I dream of a gas streetlamps lining a street—wet cobblestone, horse-driven rigs—”
“Joe,” Navarro interrupted, “it’s not unheard of for one who is turned to inherit memories from his sire.”
Joe shook his shoulders, his face screwing with disgust. “So, when I dream I’m blond, I’m not just thinking I’m Fabio on some romance novel cover shoot? God, what a relief.”
His new friends’ soft laughter sifted through the air.
“Quentin’s memories, huh?” Joe said softly. “Damn, I knew he gave me more than just fangs. He had a hard-on for a witch—a dark-skinned woman—a long time ago. I’ve been dreaming of her, too.” He shot a glare at Dylan. “Don’t mention it to Lily. She’d skin me.”
“The witch was the vampire who turned him,” Navarro said quietly.
Their gazes locked.
Joe stiffened. “You don’t think—”
“That he took Darcy to her?” Navarro’s gaze sliced to Dylan. “Do you think he’d actually try it?”
“Fuck me. He never let any of us touch her body. No one saw her after…” Dylan’s eyebrows drew together, his lips tightened. “He just might give it a go.”
Navarro turned on his heels, his long strides eating up the distance between the gate and the house.
Joe hurried after him. “I’ll go.”
“You’re needed here,” Navarro bit out. “Lily’s time draws near. I’ll send Dylan. They’re close. He might have a chance to talk sense into him.”
“I’ll have to lock Emmy in the panic room,” Dylan said, his voice just as tight. “There’s no way in hell she’ll stay behind willingly.”
“Take her with you. You may need the buffer. Quentin will be bitter if he can’t save Darcy.”
Dylan snorted. “Bitter, I can handle. He might try to kill me if I get in the way.”
Joe asked the question hanging in the air among them. “Do you think there’s a chance she could be saved?”
“Quentin doesn’t understand what he risks by keeping her alive,” Navarro said, no hint of pity in his tone. “He’s grieving. His judgment’s clouded.”
“But if there is a chance…” Joe tried again.
Navarro halted and faced Joe, but his glance included Dylan. “Darcy, God help her, was bitten by a wolf. Quentin fed her a vampire’s blood. Add a woman’s rage over the loss of her child…” His eyes filled with regret as he gripped Joe’s shoulders. “If she awakens, she’ll devour him.”
*
As soon as Quentin whispered his surrender, the tension squeezing his balls and cock relaxed—enough he could slide his fingers around himself without wanting to scream.
He reached beneath his cock and cupped his balls, groaning with relief. He fumbled with the faucet, set the temperature of the water to a soothing warmth and began to work his hand along his shaft, thrusting shallowly inside his fist.
His foreskin glided up and down the rigid column as he remembered other, more enjoyable showers.
Darcy on her knees, her mouth suctioning hard around him, the hot swipe of her tongue over the smooth head as she made little choking sounds in her excitement while she tried to take him deeper.
Darcy with her belly swollen with child, her body bent over as she gripped the shower’s sitting ledge to take him deep into her body.
He curved the pad of his thumb over his crown and gripped the sensitive flesh just below the glans and squeezed, pumping…close, so close.
When his balls released, he spewed cum into the drain, his mouth gaping as his body shuddered. Shit.
Would he have only memories of his love to feed his loneliness? He was a selfish bastard to worry about how he’d cope without her. He swiped a hand over his face, glad the shower hid his tears. His pain gave his adversary power. She’d wipe his nose in it.
Bathing implements lay in a wire basket in a corner of the shower stall. He chose a pumice stone and scoured his body harshly. After washing the scent of Kamaria from his body, Quentin wrapped a towel around his waist and headed back into the room she’d given him.
There, he found a visitor.
A young man sat on the side of the freshly made bed. His glare could have sliced slivers off Quentin’s flesh.
Her latest lover, no doubt. He had the look. Tall and lean with black hair that touched his broad shoulders, dusky skin that betrayed a mixed heritage. Blue eyes narrowed to angry slits.
He rose slowly to his full height—his gaze level with Quentin’s as he stepped close.
“I’ve no interest in taking your place,” Quentin said easily while preparing himself mentally for a fight. The tension in the other man’s body shouted his desire to wipe the floor with him.
“She wants you in the woman’s room. Now,” the man bit out then stalked to the door.
As it slammed shut, Quentin’s mouth twisted. What did the bitch want with him anyway when she’d found a loyal replacement? Revenge served cold—a century and a half past the expiration date—made for a sour dish.
Quentin found his clothing already hung in the closet. He dressed quickly and headed down the corridor, tamping down his excitement and his hope. He passed an open doorway and spied the young man standing just inside. Kamaria stood over a figure draped in a thin blanket.
Darcy.
Quentin let go of his irritation, ashamed with himself for letting the man and Kamaria pull his thoughts from his first priority. He entered quietly, ignored the snarl from the witch’s lover and stepped around the opposite side of the bed from Kamaria.
His glance went immediately to Darcy. Her features were still deathly pale, her expression lax. As though she were dead, her spirit already departed from her body. He hoped it wasn’t so, that somehow the woman whose gaze burned over him from across Darcy’s lifeless form would somehow be able to save his wife. His only love.
“What did you want?” he asked when he finally lifted his gaze from Darcy.
Kamaria lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her sloe eyes. “I’ve decided you should be here. You shall come with me into her dream world. She doesn’t know me. She may shy away from me. I might lose her.”
Quentin knew her explanation was a mask for her true intent. She wanted him to suffer. He just didn’t know how she’d accomplish it. “Can it be done? Can you take me there?”
“We shall see.” She turned toward a low hutch beside the bed and withdrew a burlap bundle from inside. “You must trust me, Quen-tin. Follow my voice, no matte
r what approaches you and tries to lead you away from me.”
Trust her? Quentin snorted. Well, if she wanted round two to ever happen, she wouldn’t abandon him in the ether just yet. “Just tell me what to do.”
Chapter Four
‡
Kamaria’s eyes narrowed as though she read the mental challenge he’d thrown down.
Quentin reminded himself to tread carefully around the witch. She’d already given him a powerful reminder of the extent of her abilities. His groin still throbbed from the arousal she’d held suspended, unabated until he’d whispered his surrender alone in his shower.
Her lips curved; her gaze grew sly. “Sit beside your other woman. Speak to her. Maybe she’ll hear you.”
Quentin glared with all the hatred and desperation that filled his soul. If he’d had any other choices, he’d never have come here. Still, he’d bargain with the darkest demon in hell for Darcy’s life. He pulled a ladder-back chair close to the bed and sat next to Darcy, pulling her hand between his to warm her cool skin.
Ignoring the other two people in the room, he bent close to his beloved wife and whispered, “Hello, love.”
He looked for some hint she knew he was there, but the same slackened expression she’d worn since he turned her as she lay dying greeted him. Without the spark of life to light her features, she seemed almost a stranger.
Yet, he had only to close his eyes and remember the glowing happiness that had animated her face just days ago as she’d walked near the ocean’s edge wearing her pretty blue dress—the one she’d chosen because it matched the color of his eyes. The liveliness of her expression, whether spiced with anger or tenderness, had always made her beautiful to him.
“Hold on to those thoughts, husss-band,” Kamaria said, her tone edging toward irritation.
“Don’t call me that. Not here,” he said, feeling suddenly tired. His wife lay in a coma, but Kamaria wanted to play games.
“What will you give me if I behave?”
Quentin drew in a ragged breath, not bothering to mask his anguish as he raised his gaze to hers. “All that we bargained for.”
Truly, Madly...Werely (Night Fall Book 9) Page 3
