Pure Rapture

by Aja James

  Orienting himself again as he stepped outside onto the sidewalk, he decided to cross the street to the other side.

  There must be a lodging for travelers, he determined, hearing the sounds of the revolving door, a doorman greeting people as they entered the establishment and left.

  He could try to stake out an abandoned warehouse in a more secluded part of the city away from human crowds in anticipation of a battle with Anunit’s soldiers, but he might be making it easier for Anunit to come after him, and in turn, put Ishtar in imminent danger.

  Until he figured out how to keep her at a safe enough distance from him, it might be better to stay with the crowds.

  He listened to the ground vibrating under the passing vehicles on the road in front of him, felt the gusts of wind as they sped past. And at the right moment, when he detected a long enough gap in traffic, he quickly crossed to the other side.

  When he was about to enter the lodging establishment, Ishtar caught up to his side again and loosely held his arm, leaning slightly into his side, as if she were using him for support, when in fact she was gently guiding him through the revolving doors.

  She could have treated him all along like an invalid, he realized, given his handicap. She often penned him in when they were seated because she wanted to keep him with her. But when he decided to leave, she always let him lead the way, never presuming to “help” him along.

  She treated him, in fact, as if he were still a whole male. Just one she liked to keep close whenever she could.

  Like the way she used to do.

  “Good evening, how may I help you?” the establishment’s personnel said when they arrived before a long, tall counter.

  “One room please,” Ishtar said, “with your largest bed.”

  “Certainly, madam. How many nights will you be staying with us?”

  Tal didn’t pay attention to the rest of the conversation, focusing instead on their surroundings, trying to paint a thorough mental picture.

  “Tal,” Ishtar finally drew his attention, “how much money do you have?”

  He pulled out the wad of cash from his pocket and put it on the counter.

  “Is this enough?”

  “Yes, of course, sir,” the human worker said and presumably took the required amount for however many nights Ishtar had indicated.

  “Here are your room keys. Elevator is to your right down the hall. Have a wonderful honeymoon!”

  “With his surrender, the sacrifice is made. Death is near and Darkness surrounds, as the race’s Adversary raises its blade.”

  —From the Ecliptic Prophesies, buried and forgotten

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clara Scott, hand in hand with her young charge, Annie, was walking briskly to the closest subway station off of Central Park.

  She shouldn’t have kept Annie out so late, but the little girl so rarely spent any time out of doors, usually huddled in a secluded corner of the art room at the orphanage or in her bunk bed in the room that she shared with two other little girls.

  It was a good idea to come out, for Annie came alive when she felt the sun hit her face. She’d smiled and grinned freely all day, though she still hadn’t said a word since her arrival at the Little Flower Orphanage a few weeks ago.

  Clara worked as the children’s arts & crafts teacher three days a week. The other days she taught private and group art classes for both kids and seniors at her small studio and loft in a safer part of Hell’s Kitchen.

  As the resident art instructor at the orphanage, she spent the most time with Annie, given the girl was always drawing during waking hours. It was how she communicated without words.

  It was how Clara realized that Annie yearned to go outside. She’d drawn a large park that looked remarkably like Central Park’s Bethesda Terrace & Fountain this morning, so Clara decided on an impromptu outing after her shift was done by mid-afternoon.

  The administrators granted permission for Clara to take Annie out for the rest of the day, even for dinner, but Clara was to make sure Annie got tucked in by her bedtime at nine back at the orphanage.

  She led Annie down the stairs of the subway on 81st Street, near the Museum of Natural History. From there, she could get to her studio and loft within twenty minutes, door-to-door, or spend close to an hour to ride back to Brooklyn and walk to the orphanage.

  Clara made a split second decision to head home. She’d call the orphanage when she got back to her studio to let them know she’s keeping Annie overnight. It was against the rules, but Clara held a special spot at the orphanage. They trusted her implicitly.

  The reason she wanted to hurry home was partly because both she and Annie were hungry, if their growling stomachs were any indication.

  But mostly, it was because someone was following them.

  Clara snuck a look behind her.

  He was still there, a few yards back.

  It was easy to pick him out, because he was at least shoulder and head taller than most of the fast moving New Yorkers, most of whom were on their cell phones or head down trying to plow through the milling crowd.

  This man moved leisurely. Gracefully.

  So fluidly he didn’t even seem to stride, all but floating like a drifting leaf among industriously marching ants.

  He kept pace with Clara and Annie with no effort at all, though Clara was now almost dragging Annie at a trot beside her, anxious of any danger to the little girl.

  Clara quickly pulled Annie into the arriving subway train and took two seats facing the doors so that she could see if they were still being followed.

  The door of the train closed just as the man arrived at the platform.

  Clara stared directly into his eyes as the train gained speed and moved away.

  She was never going to forget that face, not as long as she lived.

  As an artist, she found beauty everywhere she looked.

  Young and old. New and ancient. Simple and Complex. Everything around her, both natural and man-made, could be turned into things of beauty depending on one’s perspective, depending on how she captured it in her imagination and through her tools—pencils, acrylics, oils, watercolor, clay and other materials.

  Clara was rather egalitarian when it came to beauty.

  There was no such thing as “more or less” beautiful, just brighter or darker, warmer or cooler—the nuances of beauty changed based on the person perceiving it, the individual’s mood, emotions and reflection.

  But one thing was very clear to Clara when she’d gazed fully upon the stranger’s face:

  He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

  *** *** *** ***

  Have a wonderful honeymoon.

  Tal wasn’t familiar with the term, but he got the gist of what it meant, based on the way Ishtar stuck to his side like glue, squeezing her breasts against his arm whenever they passed by well-wishing humans.

  Who said things like “congratulations, you make such a beautiful couple,” or “go get ‘im tiger,” (this from an aged lady who must have been wheeled out of the elevator when they got inside, based on the location and scratchy quality of her voice).

  And Tal’s favorite—“try the scented oil massage to limber him up, makes it last longer, if you know what I mean. Though by the looks of your man” (a nervous titter here) “he’s got the goods to last all night.”

  “Oh, he can last as long as I want,” Ishtar replied literally back to the tactless human woman.

  “Hard as steel, is my Mate.”

  Her hand had slid to his ass to squeeze it possessively as if punctuating her point.

  Tal ground his teeth in silence until they got through the door of their chamber. The moment it clicked shut, he rounded on Ishtar.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “What?” Ishtar asked innocently. “They were just being friendly and congratulating us on our recent nuptials.”

  “Which you invented out of thin air,” he retorted.

  “Well,” she dr
awled out the word as if preparing him for some bad news, “this is a honeymoon hotel, after all. It would seem strange if we stayed here without being newly married. The human at the front desk told me that this is the most sought after romantic establishment in all of Maryland.”

  She paused for dramatic effect, as if saving the best piece of information for last.

  “And I requested their best suite. Reserved for only the most amorous of couples.”

  What?

  Tal wanted to kick himself for stupidly choosing such an establishment. He should have listened better to the words that were being exchanged as the guests milled in and out of the hotel before he entered it.

  “It’s tasteful,” Ishtar said as she made a tour of their luxurious penthouse suite.

  “The décor is quite nice, though I wouldn’t know what these types of lodgings are supposed to look like. They have lots of mirrors everywhere, even on the ceiling. Why would I need to look at myself when I stare up at the ceiling in bed?”

  Tal colored at the implications as Ishtar continued to ponder the mystery.

  “I’d be sleeping anyway, so I wouldn’t be able to see myself. Why would they…Oh!”

  She clapped her hands together as the light finally dawned upon her mind.

  “Oh, that would be very exciting! How clever of them to think of it! So then, all these other mirrors are for…” her voice trailed off as she went into what must have been the bathroom, for Tal could hear a different echo against the stone walls and tiles.

  “Mirrors in here too!” her delighted voice traveled back to him. “And I found the scented oils the nice lady recommended!”

  Tal took one deep breath after another. This was a nightmare.

  Being alone in a locked chamber with Ishtar for a whole night was bad enough, but this. She sounded like she actually wanted to try out all the mirrors and scented oils.

  With him. On him. All over him.

  She might have been funning him but he didn’t think so. She’d been doling out affection all night, just the way she used to.

  He could smell her increasing arousal, her heated blood. Feel the way it called for his, pulling him to her despite his will to keep back.

  He needed to stop this before it went too far.

  But she came back to him before he could fully brace himself, taking his hands in hers and pulling him farther into the room.

  “I’ve always wanted to have something like this—what the humans call a honeymoon. Where we shut the world out and it’s just the two of us, feasting on each other’s bodies, making love all day and all night, Claiming each other for our very own. Just me and my Mate.”

  She tugged a little harder when he resisted her pull, until she had him in her arms, her hands linked loosely at the small of his back, her face turned sideways against his chest.

  He pulled her arms from his waist and held her wrists firm.

  “I’m not your Mate,” he reminded her in a low voice, his rare temper barely leashed.

  Why was she doing this to him?

  Every word she spoke was like a spike hammered into his heart.

  He would never be her Mate.

  For one, a vampire didn’t Mate a Pure One. For another, a vampire doubly didn’t Mate her Blood Slave.

  And most of all, he didn’t even know how much longer he had to live. He could feel his body unraveling at an accelerated pace. The pain embedded deep into his tissues, his blood, his very cells, was getting worse with each passing moment.

  If she was ever foolhardy enough to try to Mate with him, she’d have to reverse the process just as quickly, for tying her life force to someone on the verge of dying would be suicide.

  Tal didn’t know all the specifics of how vampires Mated, but if it was anything like Pure Ones, there could only be one Blooded Mate.

  They would depend on each other for survival. If one died, the other would suffer greatly. And once the Bond was formed, breaking it could end in death, madness or some other calamity that the vampire would suffer for the rest of their existence.

  He never imagined she would be so cruel as to find amusement in saying these things to him. Didn’t she know how her words tore him apart inside?

  “But you are,” she insisted quietly, sensing his anguish.

  She took a step toward him, and he took a step back, releasing her wrists.

  He couldn’t bear it if she touched him now. He couldn’t fight the pain, the stress, his own body’s response to her nearness and her.

  Her words. Her innate effervescent joy. Her unconditional affection.

  It was killing him to fight her.

  “To me, you’ve always been my Mate,” she said, following him as he backed away from her.

  “That’s not what you said last night,” he reminded her ruthlessly.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I said those horrible things. I lied. Just as you lied on that mountain top.”

  He shook his head. “You’re lying to yourself. I meant what I said. I’ve never—”

  “You never have and never will love me,” she repeated his devastating words without inflection.

  They were just words after all, she realized. They no longer had the power to hurt her. Not when she knew what she knew. Not when her heart knew the truth.

  Tal stopped and swallowed thickly.

  Hearing the awful lies thrown back in his face made him relive the agony as he’d said them, as if he’d been tearing his heart out in the process.

  She would never know what it cost him to utter those words. To watch her heart break before his very eyes. To not reach out and clutch her to him desperately, begging for her forgiveness, revealing the truth.

  She slowly approached him until she was within arm’s length. But she didn’t touch him, didn’t back him into a corner as she’d been doing all day.

  “I believed those words so long ago,” she said softly, “when I should have believed in you.”

  He flinched, remembering what he’d practically begged of her the night before she’d confronted him on the mountain top. The night he’d given her all of himself. All he had to give her, on her twentieth name day.

  “I should have believed in the way you touched and kissed me,” she said in that hypnotically low, half-growling, half-purring voice.

  “I should have believed in the way you sighed as you arched your body into mine. The way you held me so close in your arms, always protecting me, giving me all of yourself.”

  “Stop,” he whispered.

  He couldn’t bear it any more. He was dying inside.

  “The way you gazed into my eyes as I hurt you, Claimed you, took away your freedom, marked you my slave.”

  His face contorted in remembrance of the three nights she’d laid Claim to his body and blood.

  How much it had devastated him. Physically, emotionally, spiritually.

  And yet how much he had loved her all the while. Helplessly loving her—the one who enslaved him.

  “The way you poured your heart and soul into me, along with your blood, your seed,” she continued relentlessly, hunting him, haunting him with her voice.

  “Nourishing me with everything you had, as no male had before or since. There’s only ever been you, Tal. Because I desire and need only my Mate.”

  “Stop,” he rasped, his chest heaving with gusty breaths, tears rising like acid up his throat, corroding his nostrils, burning his eyes.

  “I love you, Tal,” she said clearly, her voice strong.

  “I’ve always loved you and I always will. Last night was the only time I’ve ever lied to you. To myself. I never will again. I hurt you terribly then, and I hurt you before long ago, by not having faith in you, letting lies poison my mind, my blood, my heart. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

  He couldn’t find his voice any more. He could only shake his head and focus on not letting the tears drop. He clenched his jaw almost hard enough to break it, until his entire body began to quiver with the stress of his emo
tions ramming against the dams of his will.

  She wasn’t any closer to him than a minute ago, but he felt as if she was already inside of him, laying claim to every single internal organ, as if she didn’t care she was getting a broken wreckage of a male, a scarred, pitiful creature living on borrowed time.

  “Please, Tal,” she implored, though she seemed even stronger for the supplication, not weak, “believe in me too.”

  And finally, she came to him, slowly and gently, giving him time to move away.

  She stood before him and raised one palm to cover his breastbone, behind which beat his bleeding, tortured heart.

  Too damaged to hope. Yet too stubborn to give up.

  “Believe in this,” she whispered, standing on tiptoe to press her lips softly to his.

  “I want to be yours. I’ll always be yours. Will you be mine?”

  It was the question that broke him.

  She, the Mistress, was asking her Blood Slave for permission.

  She, who could command his blood and body to obey her every whim.

  She, who could have taken everything she wanted from him, but who now held her breath for his answer, as if only he held the power to break or heal her heart, her soul.

  Asking for permission to love and be loved by him.

  A long, shaky breath sifted out of his body as the tears finally broke his resolve to contain them, rolling down his cheeks in clear, salty rivers.

  In the end, he wasn’t strong enough to fight her.

  He couldn’t deny her.

  And selfishly, he couldn’t deny his own heart, which had craved so long and stubbornly for her, no matter what she did to him, no matter how she hurt him.

  He raised his hands to cup her face as he lowered his head to hers.

  For long moments he simply held her there, her mouth a hair’s breadth away from his, breathing in her scent, letting her arousal suffuse the air between them, tangling with his.

  Until the currents of their desire for each other crackled in a storm of passion and sparks, illuminating the darkness that surrounded him.

  He saw her.

  With his blind eyes he saw her. Standing before him, her hand on his heart. Her face raised trustingly and lovingly to his. The tears that spilled down her cheeks. Tears of pain for his pain. Tears of joy and love.