The Vampire's Bride a-4

by Gena Showalter

  His eyes glazed with the darkness of his memories, a darkness still infused with passion. "I was infuriated. Crazed. The bastard had violated my woman, had laughed while she screamed and fought and then returned to his own woman for comfort."

  Delilah bowed her wrists and caressed as much of his thighs as she could, offering her own comfort.

  His fangs lengthened, sharpened.

  "And?" she prompted softly.

  "I snuck inside his home that night. I drank from the two of them to weaken them and then I tied them up. I meant to take her, use her, as he had done—as he—" Layel drew in a labored breath, released it. "But I couldn't. She was crying, pleading. So I killed her instead, right in front of him. I didn't give him the same courtesy, though. I dragged him back to my palace and locked him up, letting him live with the image of what he'd done, what I'd done."

  As Layel had had to do, she thought, aching for him.

  "But as the days continued to pass, his life…offended me. I couldn't tolerate breathing the same air as him. So I called my people forward and let them drink from him, tear him limb from limb, his screams of agony in my ears. I laughed, but his pain wasn't enough, not nearly enough."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I burned him until there was nothing left but bones. And then I used those bones to make my throne, and every time I sit on it—him, all of them responsible—I pray he is rotting in Hades."

  When his words faded, silence enveloped them, laden with tension.

  "Do you still desire me? Do you still want such evil inside of you?" Again he sounded as if he was at war with himself, wanting two different things from her. Exactly as she had felt when she'd first met him.

  "You're not evil. But, yes, I do." And that was the truth. She wouldn't have thought it possible to desire him more, but she did. The fierceness of him, the darkness…they called to her, drew her. They represented the very thing she'd always craved for herself: to be loved so inexorably, no act was too vile when it came protecting her—or avenging her.

  But because of that ferocity, Layel would never be an easy man. He would always be brutal, savage. He was conflicted and complex, hurt and broken, would probably never be whole. He wasn't misunderstood, and there could be no deluding herself about who and what he was. There was no denying he'd done an evil thing. Many evil things.

  "Yes," she repeated, confident. "Yes. I still want you inside of me."

  He jerked as if she'd punched him. Not the reaction she'd expected. "What did you say?"

  "I still want to be with you. Release my arms now. Please. I need to touch you, Layel."

  A play of emotions danced over his features. The same bombardment she had experienced earlier, a combination of a thousand different feelings, both wonderful and terrible. "You…want to touch me still?"

  "More than anything I've ever wanted before."

  As if he feared moving too quickly, he gradually moved down her body until his knees straddled her waist. Shoulders finally free, she reached up and flattened her palms on his powerful thighs.

  The muscles underneath jumped.

  "I love the feel of you," she whispered.

  "Delilah," he said, and it was a broken cry. "I will be careful with you." It was a vow. "Tonight I will be careful. You will experience nothing but pleasure."

  She studied him through the thick fan of her lashes, shadows twining around him like midnight phantoms who meant to carry him away. "I don't want you careful. I want you inside me, hard and demanding."

  He leaned down, this beautiful dark warrior, and laved at her neck, his tongue a hot brand. "You are so lovely. So strong and brave."

  "Again," she gasped, hips arching. "Lick again."

  While he obeyed, his body covered hers, his legs between hers, his cock rubbing against her belly. She rocked into him as he palmed one of her breasts, unable to remain still. The pleasure was simply too great. "Good?"

  "Yes."

  "I could lick you forever. Want to lick all your tattoos." His mouth soon replaced his fingers and he sucked her nipple gently, so gently. "What do they mean?"

  "Victory."

  He chuckled softly, and she shuddered at the exquisite bliss the sound wrought. "Should have known," he said. "Tell me if I do something you don't like. It's been a long time for me."

  Heat was building inside her, a fire her blood could not seem to put out, only seemed to incite as it rushed through her veins. The fire raged like a warrior, insistent, sure, strong. She could not fight it, didn't want to fight it. Only wanted to be consumed by the flames.

  "More," she begged.

  Still unhurried, he moved to her other breast, gave it the same hot, moist attention. Her hips writhed, riding wave after wave of sensation. Layel kissed just above her heart, as if trying to absorb the beat. One of his hands glided down her stomach, swirled around her navel, then dabbled at the small tuft of hair between her legs.

  "Yes, yes. Touch there."

  "Like?"

  "Like. More." She clutched his back, nails scoring deep. "Will you…Can you…Please. Hurry."

  Two of his fingers slid between her hot, aching lips and straight into her core. A groan of ecstasy burst from her. In and out. Another finger joined the play. She was stretched in the most delicious way.

  "So very wet," he praised.

  She undulated against those expert fingers, her vision going black.

  "That's right. Ride them, take what you need." In and out he continued to pump.

  She thought his voice sounded strained, wanted to tell him to replace his fingers with his shaft, but the words caught in her throat as wild passion slammed through her, a battering ram intent on destroying her every defense. She spasmed, jerked, arched, silently screamed.

  "I want to taste your release."

  He kissed a path down her body, tracing her tattoos with his tongue as he'd promised. And then he was between her legs, lapping at the wetness there. Hot, so hot. He tongued her, sinking deep, just as his fingers had, riding the waves of her orgasm and pushing her right into another one.

  Her legs locked around his neck, her hands fisted in his hair. Too much…too much…but she found that she wasn't shoving him away. She was pulling him closer, seeking more of him. Needing all that he had to offer.

  "Never this sweet," he said.

  He was infinitely careful not to lick her with his fangs, but she thought she might have liked that. Would have liked his teeth there, so intimately taking what he needed from her.

  As her tremors subsided, he kissed his way up her stomach, leaving a trail of aroused, sweet fire. I'm ready for more, she realized shockingly. Far from sated after those two climaxes, her body only seemed to be primed.

  He wasn't so careful now, perhaps was close to losing control, and one of his fangs nicked her. She hissed in surprised delight.

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. More."

  He was at her neck in the next instant, not drinking but kissing, licking, tonguing, and his arousal was probing for entrance in a rough forward-backward dance.

  "Tight," he gritted out.

  "I can take it."

  "Don't want to hurt."

  "Hurts without you. Need you." To prove it, she arched up, up, drawing him deeper.

  Sweat beaded on his face and dripped onto her, lava on her skin. "Almost…just…need a moment."

  "Now."

  "No, I—"

  "Yes!"

  With a roar, he slammed all the way to the hilt, as if he couldn't hold himself back a second longer. Stretched, burned. It had been a long time for her, too, and then only for that one night. Yet…Oh, gods, oh, gods. Nothing had ever felt so wondrous, so perfect. He was inside her. Layel was a part of her, touching deeply, so deeply, filling her up with all that he was.

  "Sorry," he chanted. "Sorry. I'll be still. Give you time. Can't leave. Long time, sweetheart?"

  Sweetheart. "Layel, kiss me. Please." She needed it, would die without it.

  He nibbled o
n her ear, his warm breath fanning the lobe and ruffling her hair. But he denied her demand. "You feel so good. I think I could happily die here, in your arms."

  She grabbed his face, palms flat on his cheeks. Their gazes met in a heated tangle. There were lines of strain around his eyes and mouth, passion blazing from his expression. Passion and pain and need, tenderness and self-loathing.

  "Kiss me. On the mouth."

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "Told you. Can't."

  "Kiss me. Take me the rest of the way. Please. I'm giving you everything. Do the same for me. I'm not asking for something you haven't already given, mistake or not."

  He shook his head again, pumped inside her once, twice, slow and measured. His lips drew tight over his teeth. "You're heaven, sweet. Feel just like heaven."

  She arched back, almost lost, drowning. Her head thrashed from side to side as he continued to pump. Important. Concentrate. She pulled herself from the eroticism of the moment. There was something she wanted, something she needed. Something she—A kiss! Yes. Her eyes narrowed on him, taking in the blood dripping from his lip where he'd bitten himself. He would not hold a part of himself back. She wouldn't let him. He could hate her later, could resent her forever, but she didn't care.

  She was a warrior and she would fight for all he had to give.

  "Kiss me," she commanded once more. She lifted her head and bit into his jaw. "Kiss me now, like you did before, with tongues rolling together, teeth scraping."

  He stilled, his muscles taut. He was growling low in his throat, an animal. Needy. "I can't!"

  She almost gave up, that cry was so tortured. More than that, she was desperate to have him moving again. Without the friction of his body sliding in and out of hers, she felt lost, adrift. "Kiss me. I need your tongue in my mouth, tasting. I need your flavor. I need you like I've never needed anyone else. I want you so badly, I feel like I've been waiting for you forever and will think of you, dream of you, every night for—"

  Her words were cut off as his mouth smashed into hers, tongue thrusting deep. With that one touch, that one melding of their mouths, it was as if his control snapped completely. No tether, no reining him in.

  He jerked from her only to slam forward, hard, rocking her and even scooting her backward, from moss to twig-laden bank. A few rocks cut into her skin, but she didn't care. This was it, the kiss she'd remember all the days of her life, more powerful than even the first. "Yes. More."

  He tongued her deep, probing. Their teeth scraped together with a ferocity that surprised her. His fangs even dug into her lower lip. He sucked and he thrust and he growled, all the while hammering inside her.

  This wasn't sex. This was possession. This was…magic.

  Release tore into her with the same intensity as his thrusts and her inner walls clamped down on him. He roared loud and long, and she swallowed the sound. His body heaved, the force of his climax so strong he was nearly convulsing.

  He gripped her tightly and she thought her bones might snap, but she didn't stop him. She held him, cradled him, cooed to him as she'd never done to another.

  A few minutes passed, maybe an hour. His spasms eased and he was left shuddering…shivering…Her own limbs were weak, her body utterly sated, but still she held on to him. Every feminine instinct inside her was screaming for her to do so, to never let go.

  He was hers.

  Only tonight…foolish girl.

  She wanted forever. Wanted more nights like this, wanted to wake in his arms and talk with him, eat with him. Every morning.

  Mine, she thought.

  "I'm sorry," he said brokenly. "I'm sorry."

  She tangled her fingers in his silky hair. "I'm glad we did this. I loved everything that happened. I—"

  "I'm sorry," he repeated as if he couldn't hear her or just wasn't listening. Perhaps he was trapped inside his head, his thoughts consuming him.

  Her chest ached for him. For herself. "Layel—"

  "So sorry." He wrenched from her, separating them completely. His half-hard shaft was covered with her climax and glistening in the moonlight.

  She shivered from the sudden cold. "Talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

  He turned from her without a word and ran. Just ran. Delilah watched, feeling more helpless than she had in the whole of her life. Even the time she had been captured by the demons after she'd been wounded in battle, she hadn't experienced this sense of despair.

  What should I do?

  She pushed to shaky legs, almost fell as she tried to move forward. Then something cool and wet slid from her collarbone and down, down her stomach. Confused, she wiped at it and held up her hand. Clear, glistening liquid.

  Tears.

  Layel's tears.

  LAYEL HUDDLED against the base of a tree, raw, alone, destroyed. Hot tears streamed down his face, and he laughed bitterly. What kind of warrior was he? What kind of king? Sobbing like a godsdamn infant?

  He wasn't a warrior, he decided. He was a nothing. Worse than nothing. He had betrayed Susan in every way possible now.

  He'd thought to hold a part of himself from Delilah, to prove to himself, he supposed, that she was different than his beloved mate. But in the end, he had given Delilah everything. His body, his mouth, his desire, his seed, perhaps even his soul—because he wanted to give her even more.

  Shame coursed through him. Shame and—no, surely not. But it was there, undeniable. Pride that he had satisfied a woman such as Delilah, that pleasure had blanketed her features, that she'd clutched him tightly, gasped his name, wanted more. That she'd given herself to him, precious gift that she was.

  Never again, he vowed. He'd had his night, and that would have to be enough. Any more, and he would forget Susan altogether. And if he forgot her, he would not be a man worthy of Delilah. Delilah, who he wanted to return to, take again, hold. And love. Should have been Susan he craved.

  "Susan, I'm sorry. I'll do better, I swear it." Scowling, he grabbed a jagged rock from the ground and jabbed the sharpest end into his wrist. Tissue broke apart, veins split, revealing a pool of blood.

  He carved two words into his flesh, a reminder: Never again.

  CHAPTER 19

  SHIVAWN WAS NEARING panic.

  He had searched the Outer City, but Alyssa hadn't been there. So he had gone to the Inner City. No sign of her there, either. Next he'd traveled to the vampire stronghold, where she lived. No one had seen her. He believed them, because they'd immediately launched a search party of their own.

  Shivawn knew of no other place to look.

  No matter where he'd gone, he'd caught no trace of her scent—and nearly two days had passed since he'd breathed her in. Almost two days since he'd spoken to her, enjoyed her wit, tried to convince her of his love.

  She was his. He needed her. Would die without her.

  Already he was weak, but no other would do. Not anymore. He couldn't even consider kissing another woman. The thought was abhorrent to him. This must have been how Alyssa had felt, needing his blood and no other's. He deserved this suffering, he realized. This and a thousand times more.

  Alyssa was the only female for him. The one. The forever. No longer could he get hard for anyone else. During his search, many had tried to change that and had failed. A fact he was glad for. He didn't want anyone else, didn't want his body reacting to them. That would be a betrayal to Alyssa and Alyssa was more important to him than breathing.

  He just had to find her.

  What if she was hurt? What if another man tried to claim her? An unholy fire sprang to life inside him. When mated, a nymph female would desire no other man, but he wasn't sure how vampires handled mating. He didn't know of a nymph who had ever taken a vampire as wife.

  Where in Hades was she?

  I caused this, he thought darkly. I should be gutted. He had hurt her deeply, and he planned to spend the rest of eternity making up for his behavior. If only he could find her.

  There was a sudden bang. A crash. His eyelids popped ope
n. When had he closed them? Shivawn frowned and studied his surroundings. All he could see was nymph warrior after nymph warrior. His frown deepened.

  Valerian had the lead and scowled down at him, sword in hand. "Where have you been?"

  Better question: where was he now?

  His tired gaze moved from the warriors, up, up, to a thatched roof. The scent of hay and horse filled his nose. A rented room, he remembered. He was inside a centaur stable, on the outskirts of the city and as close to the vampire fortress as he could get without actually being inside it.

  Just in case she returned. Or her brethren found her.

  Damn it. Where was she?

  "Shivawn?"

  His attention snapped to Valerian, and he eased to a sitting position. Scrubbed the sleep from his face. "Have you seen Alyssa?" he asked without preamble.

  "No. Is she missing?"

  "Yes. Damn it, yes."

  "Where have you been? What have you been doing? You didn't report to me as ordered, and I've been worried."

  "I'll tell you." He leveled a pointed glance at the men. They didn't need to hear of his shame. "Once we are alone."

  Valerian's jaw clenched and for several seconds he said nothing, did nothing. He loathed being thwarted. That Shivawn knew well, for the king usually killed such offenders.

  "Please," Shivawn said.

  Finally Valerian nodded and the army pounded from the chamber without hesitation, their boots clomping heavily. "Talk."

  They were alone now, but Shivawn suddenly couldn't find the words. He dropped his head into his upraised hands and anchored his elbows on his knees. The sheet covering him slid to his waist and pooled over his flaccid cock. Would he ever be hard again? Alyssa…it twitched.

  "Did you learn anything about my soldiers?" Valerian asked, trying to get them started.

  "No. They have disappeared, along with two creatures from every other race. No one has seen or heard from those warriors, either. A few even disappeared in front of witnesses, there one moment, gone the next."

  "So Poseidon is responsible," Valerian muttered. "Who else could conjure such mischief?"