A Hunger Like No Other iad-2

by Kresley Cole

  She'd known she was weak. Had accepted it. And she'd accepted the fact that she couldn't even defend herself with a weapon. She could scarcely wield a sword, her archery was laughable—as evidenced by everyone laughing at her when she practiced—and her fighting? Well, she didn't exactly have the madskills going on.

  Yet she hadn't known she could never have children…

  When Emma returned, and Lachlain stood and helped her to her seat, she noticed that while she'd been gone, he'd dug his claws into the table. Nothing like the hotel, merely five precise, deep indentations haloing the visible heat from his palm that was just receding.

  He sank into the booth once more, his brows drawn as though deep in thought. He looked like he was about to say something, then seemed to think better of it. She'd be damned if she'd fill this groaning silence.

  When her attention remained on the marks, he placed his hand atop them. He clearly didn't like that she stared, no doubt thinking she harkened back to the days—or, rather, this evening—of his destruction.

  She wondered what had happened to make him do this. He'd probably spotted that club-kid girl with the sheer blouse and visible nipple piercings and felt the call of the wild.

  Or was it possible that he regretted his humiliating questions? So much that he would react by absently digging into the table? She shook her head.

  He wouldn't regret humiliating her—not when he so obviously enjoyed it.

  "What do we know?" Annika asked. She took a deep breath, wincing as her healing ribs screamed in protest, and glanced over the Valkyrie who were present. Lucia, Regin, Kaderin, and others, waiting to act, waiting for the direction Annika would have to give.

  Nïx was conspicuously absent, having likely wandered onto the neighbor's property again. Regin was on the computer, accessing the coven's database, researching Ivo and any other vampire sightings. Her brilliant face illuminated the shatterproof screen more than it did her.

  "Hmm. That would be only two measly things for certain," said Regin. "Ivo the Cruel is seeking someone among all the Valkyrie. And he still hasn't found her, whoever she is, because the encounters haven't stopped. Our sisters in the New Zealand coven write that they're 'chockablock' with vampires. What does chockablock mean? No. Really."

  Annika ignored the last. She was still furious with Regin for abetting Emma. Because of her, Emma was now running around Europe with a—what had Regin called him?—a hottie. On top of this, Regin had had the nerve to accuse Annika of "smothering." It wasn't as if Annika didn't want Em to meet a man, but she was still so young and they knew nothing about this male other than the fact that he was strong enough to take down a vampire. Regin had actually thought to make Annika feel better by saying, "Dude, I could tell—Emma wants him in the worst way…" Annika inwardly shook herself, focusing on the situation at hand. "We have to determine Ivo's purpose."

  Kaderin said, "Myst just escaped his dungeon five years ago. He could want her back."

  "All this to recapture her?" Annika asked. Myst the Coveted, considered the most beautiful Valkyrie, had been under his power. She'd escaped when the vampire rebels took his castle. That situation always enraged Annika. Indiscretions between Myst and Wroth, a rebel general, had occurred.

  Until two days ago, Annika had believed Myst had put that vampire and the entire disgusting situation behind her. Yet everyone had heard Myst's heart speed up at the mere mention of vampires in the New World. She'd checked her flame-red hair again and again before joining a group setting out to hunt them.

  No, Myst hadn't moved on from the general. Had Ivo been unable to forget his stunning captive?

  "Could be Emma," Regin offered.

  Annika shot her a sharp glare. "He doesn't even know of her existence."

  "That we are aware of."

  Annika pinched her forehead. "Where the hell is Nïx?" This wasn't a time for conjecture—they needed Nïx's foresight. "Check Emma's credit card again. Any new purchases?"

  Regin logged into the coven's card accounts, and within minutes she had Emma's statement pulled up. "These records are lagging over a day behind. But there were some clothing purchases—how much trouble can she be in if she's clothes shopping? And here's a restaurant bill from the Crillon. Tightwad better be paying her back."

  "What would Ivo want with Emma anyway?" Lucia asked. As she did whenever she mulled possibilities, she plucked at the string on her bow. "She may be the last female vampire, but she's not full-blooded."

  "If we think logically, the odds point to Myst," Kaderin said.

  Annika had to agree. Considering Myst's heart-stopping beauty, how could Ivo not want her back?

  "And one other thing that tips the scales in Myst's favor?" Kaderin added. "She hasn't returned from her hunt and she hasn't called."

  Settled then. For now. "Try to keep tabs on Emma's movements. We'll begin searching for Myst."

  Regin peered around her at all the damage in the manor. "Should I renew the inscription with the witches?"

  "Mystical protection can be cracked, as we well know. Only one guardianship is foolproof." Annika exhaled wearily. "We will bring in the ancient scourge." And be forced to pay the wraiths in the currency they desired.

  Regin sighed. "Well, damn, and here I was getting attached to my hair."

  11

  Gloaming arrived in the countryside of southern Scotland, casting a last light over their inn. As Emma slept, Lachlain sat in bed next to her, drinking yet another cup of coffee.

  The majority of his day had been full, by design, so he wouldn't sleep. Now he relaxed next to her, clad in nothing but comfortable jeans that came broken-in like boots might be. He read one of the few contemporary novels from the inn's library and half-listened to the news. He might even have been content—if he had taken her last night. And if he was confident he was about to again.

  There'd been no chance of that, even if she hadn't been shaking with emotion the entire drive after his blunt questioning debacle at the restaurant. He'd thought he could anger her into a response, get her nettled as she'd been just that evening over the state of the room. Instead, she'd tilted her head and given him an expression so stark it had torn at him.

  By the time they'd reached the inn last night, Emma had been out of her head with fatigue and hadn't even protested when he'd stripped her to her underwear and put them in the bath. Of course, he'd found himself fighting unbearable lust once again. Yet instead of punishing her for it, when she'd gone soft in his arms he'd petted her once more, staring at the ceiling in confusion.

  After the bath, he'd dried her, dressed her in one of her gowns—the chit hadn't asked for his shirt again—then placed her in bed. She'd looked up at him solemnly and voiced her concern that he might "wig out" again. When he'd assured her he wouldn't sleep, she'd regarded the floor with longing, actually reaching down to touch it, then passed out.

  Now he glanced at the folds in the curtains, and saw no light beneath each one. The last two nights she'd woken precisely at sundown. There was no yawning or shaking off sleep—she'd simply opened her eyes, rising in a floating way, instantly awake as if she'd been brought back to life. Lachlain had to admit he found this foreign trait…eerie. Of course, he'd never seen this before—in the past, any vampire asleep in his presence never woke again.

  At any moment now, her eyes would open, and he put aside the book to watch.

  The sun set. Minutes passed. She still didn't rise.

  "Get up," he said, shaking her shoulder. When she didn't respond, he shook her harder. They needed to get on the road. He thought they could make Kinevane tonight and he was anxious to see his home.

  She burrowed down farther in the covers. "Let…me…sleep."

  "If you doona get out of bed, I'm going to rip off your clothes and join you there."

  When there was no reaction even to that, he grew alarmed and felt her forehead—her skin was like ice.

  He drew her up and her head lolled. "What's wrong with you? Tell me!"

 
"Leave me alone. Need another hour."

  He laid her back down. "If you're sick, you need to drink."

  After a moment, she cracked open her eyes.

  Realization hit and his body tensed. "This is from hunger?" he roared.

  She blinked up at him.

  "You told me you ate Monday—how often do you need to?"

  When she didn't answer, he shook her shoulders.

  "Every day. Okay?"

  He dropped her shoulders just before his fists clenched. She'd been hungry? His mate had suffered from fucking hunger while under his protection. He had no idea what he was doing…

  Goddamn it, he couldn't care for her. Not only had he starved her for two additional days—obviously he'd kept her from hunting—but she needed to find a victim to drink every night. Each night they would go through this.

  Did she kill each time as other vampires did? "Why did you no' tell me?"

  Her eyelids were drifting closed again. "So you could make another 'bargain'?"

  Could he allow her to take from him? Among his clan, being drunk by a vampire was reviled, considered a filthy act. Even if it was done against his will, a Lykae would suffer abject shame. But what choice did he have? He exhaled and said with a heavy heart, "You will drink from me for now on." No vampire had ever bitten him. Demestriu had debated it, arguing with his elders over the decision. For some reason, in the end he'd decided against it, preferring to torture Lachlain instead.

  "Can't drink from you," she murmured. "Not straight from a source."

  "What? I thought your kind took pleasure from that."

  "Never done it."

  Impossible. "You've no' drunk another? Never killed?"

  She cast him an anguished expression. His question had hurt her?

  "Of course not."

  She wasn't a predator? There were rumors of a small faction of rebel vampires who didn't kill—of course, he'd dismissed the tales immediately. What had they been called? Forbearers? Could she be one? But then he frowned. "So where would you get blood?"

  "Blood bank," she murmured.

  Was that a joke? "What the hell is that? Is there one nearby?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then you've got to take from me. Because I just signed on to be your breakfast."

  She looked too weak to take his neck, so he sliced his finger with a claw. She turned her face away. "Put it in a glass. Please."

  "Do you fear I'll turn you into a Lykae?" He would never attempt that grueling ritual on her. "Or do you think you'll turn me?" Surely she didn't believe that. The only way to become a vampire was to die while one's blood was in your body. Only humans believed one could be turned from a vampire's bite, while those in the Lore knew one had a better chance of turning by biting the vampire.

  "It's not that. A glass…"

  He didn't understand what the difference was. Then his eyes narrowed. Did she find the thought of drinking from him objectionable? Galling. She had no idea what he was sacrificing for her. He snapped, "Take it, now," then dripped the blood across her lips.

  She resisted for longer than he would've if he'd been starved. Finally she dabbed the tip of her tongue at her lip, then licked there. Her eyes turned silver. To his shock, he went instantly hard.

  Her small fangs shot longer. She had sunk them into his arm before he could blink.

  With the first draw, her eyelids fluttered closed and she moaned; he went dizzy with sexual pleasure, feeling on the verge of coming. Stunned, groaning, he reached out and yanked her gown down, exposing her breasts, covering one with his palm. He squeezed harder than he'd meant to, but when he stopped she raised her chest into his hand, her hips undulating, never hesitating her sucking.

  With another groan he leaned down, opening his grasp to hold her breast so he could take her nipple with his mouth. Licking desperately, his tongue swirled around the throbbing peak. When he drew it between his lips and sucked, he felt her tongue flicking against his skin at the same time.

  The pleasure he derived was indescribable, and her every draw intensified it. She clung to his arm so sweetly, holding it between her breasts. As if he'd ever take it away. Her nipple was so hard between his lips.

  He placed his hand on her thigh, rubbing upward, but she withdrew her fangs and flung herself away, rolling to her side. He sat on his haunches in shock, trying to compose himself, baffled by his reaction.

  "Emmaline," he said in a broken voice as he took her shoulder and turned her to her back. His eyes widened as her wee fangs grew smaller. Her eyes turned blue once more, and she rolled them with apparent ecstasy, falling back, her pale arms over her head. As she stretched and writhed, her nipples puckered tighter. Then she gazed up at him with her full, red lips curling. The lass had a smile such as he'd never known—

  Euphoria, that's what he was seeing as her skin pinkened. His erection was growing unbearable—watching her skin warm was incredibly erotic. Every detail of this sordid act with her was erotic. Her face grew softer, her body fuller—God help him—curvier. If possible, her hair shone more.

  He vowed she would drink him—only him—from then on.

  And, sweet Christ, she needed it every night.

  She rose to her knees before him, leaning forward, seeming hungry for something else entirely. Her uncovered breasts were plump and luscious, as if begging his palms to cup them.

  "Lachlain," she purred his name as he'd waited to hear for a millennium.

  He shuddered and his cock pulsed. "Emma," he growled, lunging for her.

  The back of her hand connected with his face. Caught off guard, he flew across the room.

  The second time he attempted to rise, he realized she'd dislocated his jaw.

  12

  Never taking his eyes from her, Lachlain punched himself in the face in the direction opposite of how she'd hit him. She heard his jaw pop into place as he loomed closer, his expression menacing.

  With no shirt on to disguise how strong he was, every sculpted muscle in his chest and torso was visible as it tensed. He looked bigger without clothes on? How exactly did that happen? Yet for some reason she was unafraid. Emma the Lamb was scanning him for something else to dislocate. Vampires were evil. She was a vampire.

  And she was on fire with his delicious blood.

  He was on top of her before she had time to react, pinning her arms above her head and shoving his knee between her legs. She hissed at him, struggling, making a better showing than before, but she was still no match for him.

  "You're strong from my blood," he said as he wedged his hips between her legs.

  "I'm stronger just for drinking," she snapped, which was true, but she also suspected his immortal blood, taken straight from his body, was seriously high octane. "I was hungry for anything."

  He gave her a patronizing look. "Admit it. You like the way I taste."

  She'd tasted power, tasted him, and lusted for more. "Go to hell."

  He adjusted his position on her, his chest rubbing over her naked breasts. When he rested against her, she felt his erection hard as steel between them. "Why did you hit me?"

  She raised her head aggressively—the only movement she could manage. "For everything you've done to me. For endangering me and for every time you've ignored my wishes." Her voice was different, throatier. She sounded like she should be on the cigarettes-and-curlers end of a sex line.

  The list of reasons was endless, from ripping off the Band-Aid that had covered her traumatic memories, to making her go mindless with lust while drinking, to slicing through a thousand dollars' worth of hand-painted Jillian Sherry underwear his first night. She settled on, "For every time I've wanted to strike you and couldn't."

  He studied her, clearly not knowing what to make of her. Then the hands that had been pinning her hard cupped over the top of her head. Wolflike. "Fair enough."

  Her lips parted in surprise.

  "Do you feel better for it?"

  "Yes," she answered honestly. If only for a moment, she'd f
elt powerful for the first time in her life, surging with power. And the next time he forced her into a restaurant, or went rock star on their hotel room, or woke her by kissing down there, she'd smack him again.

  As if he read her mind, he warned, "But doona hit me again."

  "Then doona break your promises." At his frown, she said, "You vowed that you wouldn't touch me. But you…you touched my breasts."

  "I vowed that I would no' touch you unless you wanted me to." He leaned up to run the backs of his fingers down her side. She had to battle the urge to flex and stretch into his touch like a cat.

  "Tell me right now that you dinna want me to."

  She looked away, distressed by how attractive she found him, by how she had nearly keened when she'd lost the warmth of his hand covering her entire breast. The feel of his hot mouth sucking her nipple…Between them his erection was rigid, straining against her, coaxing her body to grow wet for it. "Make a note now that I will not in the future."

  His lips curled wickedly, and her breath hitched at the sight. "Then all you have to do next time is remove your wee fangs from my arm for long enough to tell me no. Long enough for one single word."

  She pulled her gown into place, yearning to hit him again. The bastard knew that tonight she could no more have taken her fangs from him than she could have stopped breathing. "You assume I'll drink from you again?"

  With a sexy smirk and a rumbling voice, he said, "I'll have to insist."

  She turned her face away as the full import of her actions hit her. She'd actually taken living blood. She was officially a leech. And drinking directly from him was like coming home, like something had shifted into place. She feared she could never go back to cold, plastic sleeves. Just what kind of schwag blood had she been drinking before him?

  "Why had you no' ever before?"

  Because it was forbidden. Yet she'd done just what her aunts had feared of her…