Bloodlust Denied

by Phillips, Christina

  Want throbbed between her thighs, trembled through her tender slit. She’d ridden him as if her life depended on it, and perhaps it had because she’d never been so mesmerized by a physical entity before. Only Thanatos’ hypnotic notes could raise her from the drudgery of this existence. Only her dancing shimmered orgasmic delight through every atom of her incorporeal self.

  Yet tonight, physical orgasm had shattered her corporeal being. A climax so intense she could still feel the aftereffects spiraling through her blood, could still feel his hands on her body, his lips on her skin, his cock buried deep inside her clenching pussy.

  “Morana, beloved.” Thanatos flashed a sardonic smile that was at odds with his boyishly handsome face. “He exposed himself most admirably.” He ran a finger along her bare arm and she shivered, recalling the way he had touched her. “What was it about him that captured you?”

  “I don’t know.” She closed her eyes and sank back against the luxuriously upholstered seat. It had never happened before. “Something inside me seemed drawn to him.”

  Thanatos was silent for a moment. “If I hadn’t called you, would you have agreed to his proposition?”

  Would she? What kind of proposition would a creature—a man—whatever he was—like that make to a woman he had just fucked in a filthy back alley?

  “Quite likely.” There was no point lying to Thanatos. The dark stranger had captivated her despite the way she’d tried to escape his clutches, and only the urgent strains of the violin had shaken her bemused senses awake.

  “Morana.” He glided his fingertips over her silk clad thigh. “Such a liaison is fraught with danger, but if you wish to indulge then I’m only too willing to accompany you on a short sabbatical.”

  Hot visions of spending endless nights in the stranger’s arms assaulted her heated mind. A strange ache whispered through her heart for everything she had lost, had forgotten and could never again recapture.

  It was tempting madness to even imagine such an encounter wouldn’t end in bloodshed, real or metaphysical or both.

  She pushed aside insanity and embraced the starkness of her reality. It was the only way she could survive.

  “I’ve no intention of seeing him again.” Man or creature, what did it matter? She could be nothing to either. “We’ll bring forward our plans to visit eastern Europe.”

  Chapter Three

  His Grace, the Duke of Havenshire, briefly closed his eyes as his carriage rolled away from his elegant townhouse in Grosvenor Square. The Season had scarcely begun but already Alexius was tired of the endless round of balls and dances, of maintaining the façade of a bored aristocrat amongst his peers in order to preserve the masquerade of his existence.

  But his was no shallow boredom such as the rakes of the ton assumed. His concealed a far deadlier truth; the fathomless abyss of his bloodied immortality.

  He stared through the carriage window into the darkness. For centuries he’d ensured no whisper gained credence, no rumor found foothold. What did it matter if those he had known in their youth now wondered, in their dotage, at how similar he was to the previous duke, his alleged father? No one would imagine he was one and the same. That he had been one and the same for years without number, and would continue to live the irrefutable lie for all eternity.

  Except now, the masquerade had cracked. He was no longer driven by primal need to disguise his true nature or preserve the illusion of propriety. The end of his eternity beckoned, and she was a temptress with wild black hair, a sensuous dance and seductive smile.

  His jaw tensed as the memory teased, mocking him with its elusive touch. With the knowledge a mere mortal had twisted his convictions with nothing more than a brief taste of her sinful body and the echo of her scornful laugh scorching through his brain.

  The carriage rocked to a standstill and his trusted manservant opened the door. Alexius ignored the warning in the man’s eyes, ignored the warning pounding through his temples. Discretion no longer ruled his existence. What did he care if his actions caused gossip and speculation? He had been the Duke of Havenshire for four hundred blood-drenched years and was untouchable.

  “Your Grace.” Evan’s voice was low. “Take care. Word is spreading of the strange cases of amnesia occurring at society functions. Your name is increasingly whispered below stairs.”

  Alexius curled his lip. “Let them whisper. If they continue, I’ll rip out their tongues.”

  Evan, damn him, was not to be distracted. A frown etched his brow. “Why alter a lifetime of self-preservation, Your Grace? Over the last few years, your actions appear as if you want the truth to be discovered.”

  Three years. That’s how long it had been since the full force of his isolation had finally shattered through his brain, demolishing the carefully constructed barriers he’d erected to protect his toxic sanity.

  Three years since that cursed woman had captivated him with her wanton dance, tempted him with her lush body and then disappeared into the night without a word or glance or lingering scent for him to hunt.

  She had vanished from the face of the Earth as if she had never existed in the first place.

  “What do I care for the truth?” He flicked Evan a dark glare as he alighted from the carriage. “No one dares question my movements.” Except for Evan and his blood relatives, but that was the price Alexius paid for such unwavering loyalty.

  But even the danger of discovery as he sequestered mind-shrouded debutantes in shadowed alcoves and sampled their untried blood did little to stir his own desires. Did nothing to slake the ravening want shredding the core of his essence, or halt the insidious disintegration of his brittle veneer of civility.

  For more than two thousand years, he’d taken his pleasure wherever and however he wished, had indulged his bloodlust without a second thought and navigated the ages with weary mastery.

  And all it had taken to wrench open the deceptive shell of his existence was a fleeting fuck with a tantalizing creature as sensual as a courtesan and refined as a countess.

  As he approached the assembly rooms, the rich scent of feminine blood drifted on the warm May breeze. Raw need seared him as impossibility slammed into his brain.

  It couldn’t be.

  But there was no mistake as her evocative fragrance spun through his senses, intoxicating tendrils igniting his mind. For a second he froze, unable to believe that after all this time he’d once again found her, but there was no mistake. His body had only ever reacted so violently to Morana’s presence.

  Lust stirred deep in his groin, thickening his shaft, arousing his anger, heightening every sensitized nerve.

  She meant nothing to him. Yet their fleeting encounter in a squalid back alley obsessed his thoughts and corroded his reason. He should have taken her blood when he’d had the chance, and then she would have been like all the others he’d claimed.

  Forgotten.

  Instead, the memory of her body plagued him, the recollection of her voice haunted him and the circumstance in which she had left him tormented his sanity.

  Tonight she would not escape him. Tonight, vengeance would be his.

  Morana edged through the pressing crowd inside the assembly rooms toward the refreshments where her beloved Thanatos lounged, violin in one hand, drink in the other.

  She took a glass of punch and pretended to sip the sweet liquid. “Our quarry isn’t here.”

  Thanatos offered her a lazy smile. “The night is still young, Morana.” He placed his empty glass on the table. “There’s a vampire haunting London this Season and he’ll be here tonight.”

  The familiar rage snaked through her veins, yet it was disturbingly diluted. She took a deep breath and refrained from going to Thanatos to seek comfort in his embrace. Such behavior would scandalize the ton and shred her credibility.

  “And yet I don’t feel his approach.” It was a facet of her gift, or her curse, to know when the bloodsuckers were closing in. She could feel their encroaching depravity like a suffocating fog. B
ut all she could feel tonight was the clawing restlessness that had plagued her like an infection in her blood, a malignancy in her mind since that night three years ago when she had made a devastating error in judgment.

  Thanatos briefly brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “You still think of him.” His voice tinged with empathy for how she still, inexplicably, yearned for the touch of that stranger in the squalid alley.

  “Not as I once did.” That was a lie. She dreamed of him every time she closed her eyes and fought his constant intrusion during her waking hours. He had been arrogant, so sure of his power over her, so certain she was nothing but a cheap whore flaunting her body as she danced to the exquisite strains of Thanatos’ violin.

  “You have to forget him.” Sorrow tinged Thanatos’ voice. “Even if we found him again, you could have no future together.”

  She knew that. She had always known that. But it made no difference to the aching void within her breast.

  Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, the only outward show of frustration she allowed herself. Together, she and Thanatos lured a vampire to its destruction, but since that night in the alley, she had second-guessed her every instinct and questioned every glint of intuition, crippled by the knowledge that her infallibility was a lie.

  She glanced around at the swirling throng of silks and muslins, fluttering fans and becoming blushes that teased the cheeks of the innocents. They were so young. So unaware of the malevolence that skulked beyond their trammeled vision. An ache sank through her soul at the knowledge of how long it had been since she’d been that naive. That trusting.

  And now she could no longer even trust her own judgment.

  “I need clarification.” She took a deep breath, knowing how Thanatos would react to her next words. “I want to read the contract. There must be something in it that explains my lapse. Could help me see clearly again.”

  Unease flickered over Thanatos’ face. His fingers toyed with his exquisitely crafted bow, a bow that enticed heartrending beauty from his violin yet concealed its true deadly purpose within its slender frame.

  “You’re making too much of this. You desired the man and took him. He showed not the slightest interest when you offered him unfettered access to your throat. It was obvious he wasn’t a vampire, Morana. He was never in any danger from us.”

  Three times since that night, she’d tried to persuade Thanatos to split open the blood-soaked contract they’d signed with Death so many centuries ago, and each time he talked her out of it.

  She understood why. Not only would such an action temporarily drain their powers, but Death had warned them that by so doing, the very creatures they hunted would be able to track them when they were at their most vulnerable.

  But she had to discover why she questioned every thought, why her single error haunted her so destructively and why her obsession with their crusade to eliminate those bloodsucking vermin was being insidiously replaced by that dark, enigmatic stranger.

  “I fear I’m going insane.” The words were scarcely audible but Thanatos heard, and understood. He swallowed, and his fingers tightened around his beloved violin.

  “Tonight.” His whisper curled through her senses. “We’ll find sanctuary and rip the contract to shreds if we have to. But I swear we’ll find something to help you, Morana.”

  Chapter Four

  Morana smiled and flirted with the young gentlemen who vied for her attention, but her mind had already left the cloying confines of the assembly rooms. Thanatos, now back in the orchestra, would play two more dances and then they could unobtrusively disappear into the night.

  They would read the blood contract, discover a hidden clause, and this fog of impending disaster that refused to release its spectral grip on her soul would vanish.

  A ripple of movement around her drew her reluctantly back to the present. The elderly Lady Harriet, her unwary mentor tonight, fluttered like a flustered schoolgirl as the young gentlemen retreated and Mr. Shaw, the Master of Ceremonies, approached, unaccountably beaming with delight.

  The breath strangled in her throat and her heart collided against her ribs. The tall, broad-shouldered man being introduced to Lady Harriet was the reason she questioned her purpose, her existence, her sanity.

  She tried to relax her fingers before they shattered her fragile fan, but it was her only lifeline. The only thing preventing her from doing or saying something so outrageous, the ton would gossip about her for innumerable Seasons to come.

  They turned to her. She heard Mr. Shaw explain she was the Lady Harriet’s great-niece, but his voice came from a great distance as each amplified beat of her heart echoed through her ears and thundered through her blood.

  “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Havenshire.”

  He bowed, and a shiver raced along her spine as she recalled the last time he had bowed to her just seconds after she’d demanded his soul. She forced a curtsey, her knees stiff, thighs shaking and finally risked glancing up at him.

  Vibrant green eyes mocked her in a face so starkly beautiful her breath escaped in a shocked gasp. The flickering lantern in the alley had revealed his strong jaw, his high cheekbones and sensual lips, but had concealed the extent of his charismatic allure that enfolded her like a living entity.

  But his eyes. She stared into them, mesmerized. In the dark alley, it had been impossible to discern their color and yet she knew these eyes. They were as familiar to her as her own but that was impossible. Madness.

  He was speaking. She struggled to clear her mind, to compose her senses. She resisted the urge to press her hand against her face, just to check that her cheeks weren’t really as hot as they felt.

  “May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Craven?” The quirk of his mouth was the only indication he found such formality amusing. She flicked the tip of her tongue over her lips and didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the movement.

  She could refuse. Turn and run. And knew she never would.

  “Thank you.” Her voice sounded cool, collected. Thank the gods. He took her gloved hand and even through the fabric his fingers heated hers, branding her.

  Surreptitious glances followed them as they took their place in the dance. He released her hand, slowly, as if in two minds as to whether to comply with the rules of etiquette before once again offering her a sardonic bow.

  She swept her glance over him. He was impeccably attired in a cream, elegantly embroidered waistcoat and black coat, a fashionable man of society. A duke, no less, and yet how could he be anything else with his arrogant bearing? Through lowered lashes, her gaze hovered over his tight breeches and her breath caught in her throat at the telltale bulge.

  Memories spilled from the dark corners of her mind. How often during the last three years she had dreamed of his thick cock filling her damp folds. Of the way he had ridden her without mercy or constraint, causing her to scream in wanton abandonment.

  “We meet again.” His dark baritone surged through her senses, like rich whiskey heating her blood.

  “So it would appear.” She pulled her errant thoughts back from the gutter and glanced along the line of dancers. But they were for the most part in animated flirtation with their partners and appeared to find nothing amiss with her flustered appearance. “Although the circumstances are somewhat different tonight.”

  He laughed aloud, a shocking breach, and her eyes widened as half the room turned toward them, fans fluttering, eyebrows arched. But then he was a duke. What did he care for others good opinion?

  They came together, and his grip on her fingers was more possessive than decorum allowed. She returned the pressure because what did she care for the etiquette of this time?

  His green eyes glittered in approval. “Your social status is certainly elevated, Morana.” He gave emphasis to her name, daring her to reprove his familiarity. “Do you care to share the secret of your success?”

  She followed the prescribed steps of the dance, so elegant, so refined, yet
all she wanted was to throw off these social restraints and dance the way she had always danced. The way she had to dance, melding her body into the music and once again seducing this hypnotic stranger until he roared his release to the heavens.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she blinked rapidly to clear the haze of lust that floated through her mind.

  “There’s no secret to my success.” She hoped he couldn’t hear how erratically her heart thudded against her breast. “I am who I have always been.”

  They parted, yet their eyes remained locked. When they once again faced each other his cynical glance incinerated her from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.

  “And who is that?” His question asked far more than the mere words uttered. “The same bewitching dancer you were three years ago?”

  She hadn’t been the same since the moment they had met.

  “I’m the Lady Harriet’s great-niece.”

  Again he clasped her fingers as they drew together. But this time he angled into her body, shockingly intimate, and his breath scorched her ear.

  “Lady Harriet has no great-niece. Don’t fuck with me, Morana.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks, pooled between the juncture of her thighs.

  “You’re mistaken, Your Grace.” Her voice was breathless, as though she were aroused. Of course she was aroused. No man had touched her since that night in the alley, since that night when everything she believed in, every certainty she had thought absolute, had crumbled.

  “I’m never mistaken, Miss Craven.”

  “Nor am I.” Except about him. Her greatest mistake of all.

  “Who is your protector?” He glanced around the room searching out the man in question. “Gods.” For a brief second he looked startled before returning his focus to her. “Your fiddler plays.”

  “Exceedingly well.” Again they parted but she could feel his eyes on her, burning her, branding her despite their separation.