by Kresley Cole
"Your man lets you travel by yourself?" he asked over the downpour. His voice was beginning to sound human again. When she didn't answer, he said with a sneer, "You've a careless male for yourself. His loss."
She stumbled in a pothole and he gently steadied her, then seemed angry with himself that he'd helped her. But when he led them in front of a car a moment later, he threw her out of the way, leaping back at the sound of the horn. He swiped at the side of the car, claws crumpling the metal like tinfoil, sending it skidding. When it finally stopped, the engine block dropped to the street with a thud. The driver threw open the door, dived for the street, then darted away.
Mouth open in shock, she frantically scrambled backward, realizing her captor looked as though he'd…never seen a car.
He crossed to her, looming over her. In a low, deadly tone, he grated, "I only hope you run from me again."
He snatched her hand and again lifted her to her feet. "How much farther?"
With a limp finger, she pointed out the Crillon on Place de la Concorde.
He gave her a look of pure hatred. "Your kind always had money." His tone was scathing. "Nothing's changed." He knew she was a vampire. Did he know who or what her aunts were? He must—otherwise how could Regin have known to warn her about him? How could he know her coven was well-off?
After ten minutes of her being dragged across avenues, they pushed past the doorman of the hotel, garnering stares as they entered the palatial lobby. At least the lights were dimmed. She pulled her soaked jacket over her ruined blouse and kept her head down, thankful that she'd braided her hair over her ears.
He released the vise-grip on her arm in front of these people. He must know that she wouldn't attract attention. Never scream, never draw the attention of humans. They were always more dangerous in the end than any of the thousands of creatures of the Lore.
When he draped his heavy arm across her shoulders as if they were together, she glanced up at him from under a wet lock of hair. Though he walked with his broad shoulders back, like he owned this place, he was examining everything as if it was new to him. The phone ringing made him tense. The revolving doors had done the same. Though he hid it well, she could tell he was unfamiliar with the elevator and hesitated to enter. Inside the lift, his size and his energy made the generous space seem cramped.
The short walk down the hall to her room was the longest of her life, as she devised and rejected plan after plan of escape. She hesitated outside the door, taking her time retrieving the key card from the inch-deep puddle in the bottom of her purse.
"Key," he demanded.
With a deep exhalation, she handed it to him. When his eyes narrowed, she thought he was about to demand "key" again, but he studied the door lever and gave it back to her. "You do it."
With a shaking hand, she slid it in. The mechanized buzz and then the click of the lock were like knells to her.
Once inside her room, he checked every inch of it as though to make sure she was in fact alone. He searched under the brocade-covered bed, then tore back the heavy silk drapes to reveal one of the best views in Paris. He moved like an animal, with aggression at every turn, though she'd noticed he favored one leg.
When he slowly limped to her in the hallway, her eyes widened and she eased backward. Still he continued toward her, studying her, weighing…before his gaze settled on her lips.
"I've waited a long time for you."
He continued to behave as if he knew her. She would never forget a man like him.
"I need you. No matter what you are. And I'll wait no longer."
At his baffling words, her body inexplicably softened, relaxing. Her claws curled as if to clutch him to her, and her fangs receded to ready for his kiss. Frantic, she rapped her nails against the wall behind her and tapped her tongue against her left fang. Her defenses remained dormant. She was terrified of him. Why wasn't her body?
He placed his hands against the wall on either side of her face. Unhurriedly, he leaned in, brushing his mouth against hers. He groaned from the small contact and pressed harder, flicking her lips with his tongue. She froze, not knowing what to do.
Against her mouth, he growled, "Kiss me back, witch, while I decide if I should spare your life."
With a cry, she moved her lips against his. When he stilled completely as if to force her to do all the work, she slanted her head and brushed his lips lightly again.
"Kiss me like you want to live."
She did. Not because she wanted to live overmuch, but because she thought he would make sure her death was slow and torturing. No pain. Never pain.
When she darted her tongue against his as he had done to her, he groaned and took over, cupping her neck and head so he could hold her as though for the taking. His tongue stroked hers desperately, and she was shocked to find it was…not unpleasant. How many times had she dreamed about her first kiss, even knowing she would never receive one? But she was. Now.
She didn't even know his name.
When she began shivering again, he stopped and broke away. "You're cold."
She was freezing. Being low on blood did that to her. Being tackled into the wet earth and soaked through hadn't helped. But she feared that wasn't why she shivered. "Y-yes."
He raked his gaze over her, then gave her a disgusted look. "And filthy. Mud all over you."
"But you…" She trailed off under his lethal glare.
He found the bathroom, yanked her inside, then tilted his head at the fixtures. "Clean yourself."
"P-privacy?" she croaked.
Amusement. "You have none." He leaned his shoulder against the wall and crossed his muscled arms, as if awaiting a show. "Now, undress for me and let me see what's mine."
Mine? Bewildered, she was about to protest again, but he jerked his head up as though he'd heard something, then bolted out of the room. She slammed the bathroom door, locking herself in—another laughable gesture—then turned on the shower.
She sank down on the floor, head in her hands, and wondered how she would get away from this lunatic. The Crillon boasted foot-thick walls between the rooms—a rock band had stayed next door to her and she'd never heard them. Of course, she didn't envision calling for anyone—never scream for a human's help—but she was contemplating digging her way out through the bathroom wall.
Soundproof walls, ten floors up. The luxurious room that had been a haven, protecting her from the sun and nosy humans, was now a gilded cage. She was trapped by some being, and Freya only knew what.
How could she get away when she had no one to help her?
Lachlain heard a scarcely squeaking wheel, smelled meat, and limped for the room's door. In the hallway, an old man pushing a cart yelped with fright at the sight of him, then stared wordlessly as Lachlain snatched two covered plates from the cart.
Lachlain kicked the door closed. Found steaks and devoured them. Then pounded a hole in the wall at a sharp memory.
Flexing his now bleeding fingers, he sat on the edge of the strange bed, in a strange place and time. He was weary and his leg pained him after running the vampire down. He pulled up his stolen pants and inspected his regenerating leg. The flesh was sunken and wasted.
He tried to push away memories of that loss. But what other recent memories did he have? Only those of being burned to death repeatedly. For what he now knew had been a hundred and fifty years…
He shuddered, sweating, and retched between his knees, but kept himself from vomiting the food he needed so badly. Instead, he ripped his claws through a table by the bed, just preventing himself from destroying everything in sight.
In the last week since his escape, he would be doing well, focusing on his hunt for her and his recovery, seeming to acclimate; then something would put him in a rage. He'd broken into a manor to steal clothes—then destroyed everything inside. Anything he didn't recognize and understand, destroyed.
Tonight, he'd been weak, thinking unclearly, his leg still regenerating, and still he'd gone to his knees when h
e'd finally picked up her scent once more.
But instead of the mate he'd expected, he'd found a vampire. A small, fragile female vampire. He hadn't heard of a female being alive in centuries. The males must have been secretive about them, cloistering them all these years. Apparently the Horde hadn't killed off all of their own women, as the Lore told.
And Christ help him, his instincts still said this pale-haired, ethereal creature was…his.
The Instinct screamed inside him to touch her, to claim her. He'd waited for so long…
He put his head in his hands, trying not to lash out again—to get the beast back in its cage. But how could fate rob him once more? For more than a thousand years, he'd searched for her.
And he'd found her in what he despised with a hatred so virulent he couldn't control it.
A vampire. The way she existed disgusted him. Her weakness disgusted him. Her pale body was too small, too thin, and looked like she'd break with her first stiff fucking.
He'd waited a millennium for a helpless parasite.
He heard the squeaking wheel, going much faster past his door, but his hunger was sated for the first time since the ordeal began. With food like tonight's, he would shake off any physical trace of the torture. But his mind…
He'd been with the female for an hour. Yet it had been an hour during which he'd only had to push the beast back twice. Which was a considerable improvement, since his entire existence was of constant bleakness interrupted only by sharp rages. Everyone said a Lykae's mate could soothe his any woe—if she really was his, she had her bloody work cut out for her.
She couldn't be. He must be delusional. He seized on that idea. The last thing he'd regretted before they forced him to the fire was that he'd never found her. Perhaps this was a damaged mind playing tricks. Of course, that was it. He'd always pictured his mate as a buxom redheaded lass with wolven blood who could handle his lusts, who would revel in the raw ferocity with him—not this fearful wisp of a vampire. Damaged mind. Of course.
He limped to the door to the bathing chamber and found it locked. He shook his head as he broke the knob easily, then entered a room so thick with steam he could hardly spy her balled up against the opposite wall. He lifted her up by her arms, scowling to find her still wet and dirty.
"You've no' cleaned yourself?" When she only stared down at the ground, he demanded, "Why?"
She shrugged miserably.
He glanced at the cascade of water within a glass chamber, opened the door, and ran his hand under it. Now, this he could use. He set her away, then stripped.
Her eyes widened, focused on his cock, and she covered her mouth. You'd think she'd never seen one. He let her look her fill, even leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest while she stared.
Under her rapt gaze he grew hard, his length distending—his body, at least, must think she was his—until she gasped and lowered her gaze. His wasted leg caught her attention, seeming to startle her even more. That alone embarrassed him, and he stepped into the water to break her stare.
He closed his eyes with pleasure as the water ran over him, noticing that it did nothing to quell his erection. He sensed her tense as though to run, and opened his eyes. If he'd been stronger, he would've hoped she would try it. "Looking at the door like that? I'll catch you before you make it from this room."
She turned back, saw he'd grown harder, and seemed to choke on a cry.
"Take off your clothes, vampire."
"I-I will not!"
"Do you want to come in here with them on?"
"Preferable to being naked with you!"
He felt relaxed under the water, even magnanimous after the excellent food. "Then let's make a bargain. You grant me a boon and I'll return one."
She looked up at him from under a curl freed from her tight braids. "What do you mean?"
He put his hands on each side of the door and leaned forward out of the water. "I want you in here, unclothed. What do you want of me?"
"Nothing of value equal to that," she whispered.
"You'll be with me indefinitely. Until I decide to let you go. Do you no' want to contact your…people?" He spat the word. "I'm sure you have much value to them, being so rare." In fact, keeping her from her vampire kin would just be the beginning of his revenge. He knew they'd find the idea of her being fucked repeatedly by a Lykae as revolting as his clan would find it. She nibbled her red bottom lip with one tiny fang, and his anger flared again. "I doona have to grant you anything! I could just take you in here and then in the bed."
"A-and you won't if I agree to be in there with you?"
"Come willingly and I will no'," he lied.
"What will you…do?"
"I want to put my hands on you. Learn you. And I'll want your hands on me."
In a voice so soft he could scarcely hear her, she asked, "Will you hurt me?"
"Touch you. No' hurt you."
Her delicate blond brows drew together as she weighed this. Then, as though in great pain, she bent down to her boots, unfastening them with a buzzing sound. She stood and grasped the edges of her jacket and ruined blouse, but she seemed unable to proceed. She shook wildly and her blue eyes were stark. But she was agreeing—in a flash of insight, he knew she wasn't agreeing because of any reason he could fathom. Her eyes seemed so expressive, yet he couldn't read her.
When he loomed closer, she peeled the wet jacket and blouse away, then the shredded undergarment beneath them, hastily draping a thin arm over her breasts. Shy? When he'd seen the orgies of blood the vampires reveled in?
"Please. I-I don't know who you think I am, but—"
"I think"—before she could blink, he'd ripped her skirt clean from her body and tossed it to the ground—"that I should at least know your name before I set to touchin' you."
She shook harder if possible, her arm tightening over her breasts.
He studied her, his gaze drinking her in. Her skin was perfect alabaster covered only by her strange pantalettes, the black silk that was like a V on her body. The front was transparent jet lace and teased against the blond curls between her legs. He remembered his two fleeting tastes of her skin in the howling rain and unnatural lightning, and his cock pulsed, the head growing slick with anticipation. Other men would find her exquisite. The vampires would. Human males would kill for her.
Her trembling body was too small, but her eyes…wide and blue like the daytime sky she would never witness.
"M-my name is Emmaline."
"Emmaline," he growled, slowly reaching forward one claw to slice away the silk.
2
She'd been a fool to agree to this, Emma decided when the remains of her underwear fluttered to her ankles. Why should she trust him? She shouldn't, but what choice did she have? She had to call Annika, her foster mother. She would be frantic when the pilot reported Emma had never shown up.
But was that really the reason she'd agreed to this? She feared it wasn't so selfless a reason. Throughout her life, men had asked things of her—things her hidden vampire nature made impossible. Not this male. He knew what she was, and he wasn't asking the impossible, he was demanding…
A shower.
And yet…
He held out his hand. Not aggressively or impatiently, but accompanied by a slow perusal of her wholly naked body with eyes that were intense but now warm and golden. He gave a sharp groan that she knew was involuntary. As if he found her beautiful.
His size was still terrifying, his leg sickening, but with a deep breath, and more courage than she'd conjured in her entire life, she slipped her hand into his.
Just when she fully grasped that she was completely naked in a shower with a six-and-a-half-foot crazed male of indeterminate species, he pulled her under the water with him, turning her back to him.
He took her left hand and placed it against the marble. The other he placed against the glass. Her mind was racing. What would he do to her? She couldn't be more unprepared for a situation like this. A sex
ual situation. He could do anything he wanted. She couldn't stop him.
She drew her head back in surprise when, all business, he began running soap down her back, over her backside, his palms big on her. She was embarrassed that this stranger saw her like this, but she was also intrigued by his body. She strove not to peek at his huge erection as he bent and moved, but it was…eye-catching. She tried not to notice that the hair on his arms, legs, and chest was golden-tipped, or that his skin, but for that of his leg, was tan.
He bent down to wash her legs front and back, and scrubbed the grass and mud from her knees. When he rubbed toward her upper thighs, she shoved her legs together. He gave a frustrated growl, then stood to draw her back against his chest, until she could feel him prodding her. He started the same leisurely exploration of her front, one arm bent by her side, his hand clasping her shoulder.
Suddenly his callused palm cupped her breast. She would fight, or scream—
"Your skin's so damn soft," he murmured in her ear. "Soft as the silk you wore."
She shivered. One compliment, and Emma—who'd never suspected she was easy—relaxed somewhat. When he ran his thumb slowly over her nipple and back, she sucked in a breath, glad he couldn't see her eyelids briefly slide closed. How could anything feel that good?
"Put your foot there." He motioned to the narrow bench along the shower's back wall.
And spread her thighs? "Um, I don't—"
He lifted her knee and placed it there himself. When she began to move it, he snapped, "Doona dare. Now, lean your head back against me."
Then both his hands were back on her breasts, now rubbing with friction since the soap had washed away. She bit her lip as her nipples hardened almost painfully. She should be terrified. Was she so desperate for touch—any touch—that she would submit to this?
His fingers inched lower. "Keep your legs open to me."
She'd just been about to shove them together again. She'd never been touched there. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
She'd never even held a man's hand.
