Deep Kiss of Winter

by Kresley Cole

  “Watch what you say, plika.”

  “Chit? You called me a chit?”

  Figured she’d know Estonian.

  Her own ire clearly mounting, she said, “And what’ll happen if the plika doesn’t watch what she says? Will you hurt me, your one and only Bride?”

  “You think I’m bound by this? Bound to you?” Even as he sneered the words, he had to resist that unbearable pull toward her. Resent it. “You think that I’ll follow you around like a dog as you scorn me?” His eyes kept straying to her neck. Would she notice?

  “Scorning you hadn’t even been in the decision tree for me, but now that you bring it up, it makes total sense, especially considering the repercussions otherwise,” she said. Yet then she frowned. “Wait a second. I see what you’re doing. Trying to scare me off.”

  She rose, tucking the sheet around her like a towel. “Look, I’m as freaked out about this as you are. But the fact is that I . . . liked you, up until five minutes ago, and I wanted to see you again—even though I’d be risking ridicule at best and ostracism at worst.” She took a step closer to him, that vulnerability in her expression. “I’m sure this is all overwhelming for you. One minute you’re going about your business, and the next you’re blooded with a Bride—”

  “One I didn’t choose.” He was taking his frustration out on her, and he couldn’t seem to stop. “I didn’t manage monogamy as a human, though I could have wed my pick of the most ravishing women in my country. How do you think I’ll fare with a female I can’t touch?” Especially now that he could have others.

  Her eyes narrowed, and lightning struck outside. “Monogamy? I’m not angling for a wedding!” All shades of that previous vulnerability were gone, replaced by haughtiness. “And if you don’t think I can hold my own against all those eighteenth-century mortals you were out tagging, then you’re a fool, Casanova.” At his expression, she added, “Oh, yes, I know all about you.”

  He went still. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was alive back then. And all the Lore heard about the ruthless warlord brothers from Estonia. The general, the scholar, the enigma, and . . . the manwhore.”

  He clenched his jaw at the thought of having his life analyzed, especially by creatures he didn’t even understand. The Forbearers could garner little information on Lore beings—their lives held secret—and yet they’d been actively following his own exploits?

  “A manwhore?” Was that all he’d been remembered as? “Maybe I left behind the women I’d enjoyed because I didn’t want to deal with exactly this.” Even now he wanted to end this argument by kissing her and taking her to bed, which confused him even more. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the hour we just shared was the best we ever will—it’s all going to go downhill from there.”

  “You don’t have the sense to realize you were blooded by one of the only Valkyrie who would accept a vampire in her bed.”

  “To do precisely what there? Freeze?”

  In a flash, she drew back her blistered hand to slap him.

  “Do it, ice queen. And feel the sting with me.”

  Lightning struck again as she lowered her hand. “You’re not worth it, leech,” she said, but he was scarcely listening. Below her collarbone, a small line of blood had just risen from the last remnant of her wounds.

  That stark red against her alabaster skin called to him, made him imagine following the trail with his tongue, then pinning her down to suck from her breast.

  Already the scent was all around him. And now to see it?

  Don’t look at it.

  How the hell had Nikolai restrained himself from biting Myst all those years ago?

  Murdoch’s hands fisted as he struggled not to fall upon Daniela. He’d been able to resist touching her when under the most painful pressure he’d ever dreamed of.

  But I’m not going to be able to deny this call. . . .

  TEN

  HOW CAN THIS BE HAPPENING? They’d been doing so well. Fantasy made reality . . . somewhat.

  But now the vampire’s eyes had flooded black again. So he was as angry as she was?

  Danii turned from him to snag the T-shirt, donning it as she dropped the sheet. When she met his gaze, he appeared even more incensed than before.

  “Obviously, I need to leave,” she said, while thinking, Tell me I’m your Bride, and that I will be staying. Be an arrogant, possessive Neanderthal vampire!

  She wanted him to simply inform her that he would never let her go and she would just have to accept that, or whatever domineering misguided tripe these manly men always said. To women that aren’t me.

  This one wouldn’t even look at her. “You need to go. Now.”

  Kicking me to the curb. She didn’t know how much more of this her ego could take. Leeches were detested by most Valkyrie—by most of the Lore—yet Danii had been ready to offer this one more. He has no idea what I’d been willing to risk for him. “I’m a bit perplexed here. Most vampires refuse to be separated from their Brides, yet you can’t get rid of me fast enough.”

  Because he no longer needed her. Danii had helped give him his initial release, her Bride’s duty done, and now he could be with other females. She was expendable.

  But one day he would realize what he’d lost—a frigid, broken female he could never claim, and one with skin issues—and then he’d be sorry.

  When her bottom lip trembled, she cursed herself bitterly. Don’t you cry in front of him!

  “I thought you were going.”

  Exasperation drowned out the urge to cry. Exactly how was she supposed to leave? She didn’t have a car here, didn’t even know where they were. “No.”

  “What?”

  “Not until you tell me why you’re so intent on getting rid of me.”

  His gaze was transfixed on her neck, his voice a snarl as he said, “I’m about to throw you to the ground. Take your blood in a frenzy.”

  “B-but your kind doesn’t bite.” Her lips parted, and she backed away with real fear. “I’m not strong yet, Murdoch. If you did that, you could kill me.”

  His eyes went wide, then narrowed. Yet he’d still begun striding toward her. She backed to the wall.

  Can I spare enough cold to stop him? With a grimace, she started building ice in her palm, planning to trap him as she had before.

  When he was just before her, he shook his head, his entire body going off balance. With a last look at her face, he snapped, “Leave here. Before I return for you.”

  Then he vanished.

  How much time had passed since he’d left her, Murdoch didn’t know.

  Hours, it seemed. But only now was the ravening frenzy subsiding.

  After leaving Daniela, he’d traced to his rooms at Mount Oblak, Kristoff’s castle, then attacked his supply of blood like an animal.

  Now crimson was everywhere. He stared at the smeared floor and counter. My God, what would I have done to her?

  He was still astounded that he’d been able to keep from touching those luscious breasts of hers—yet he couldn’t deny himself her neck?

  Once he’d caught his breath, he rinsed his body in the shower, then redressed. Having managed some level of sanity, he decided to go to Blachmount.

  Returning to the time-ravaged manor was always uncomfortable—almost all of Murdoch’s family had died within those walls— but he needed to talk to Nikolai.

  He traced to Blachmount’s great room downstairs, listening for the sounds of fighting. Or otherwise. The manor was silent. Frowning, he traced to the master chambers, and was stunned by what he saw.

  Nikolai and Myst were sleeping together peacefully in the bed. Nikolai had his arms wrapped possessively around the Valkyrie, and she was clutching his chest.

  Contentment suffused Nikolai’s face, his visage markedly changed from the strain of the last several years. He was still pale, still gaunt, but his face . . .

  Just as Daniela had predicted, Nikolai and Myst had come to some kind of understanding.r />
  I wonder if Nikolai takes it for granted that he can hold his Bride? With a start, Murdoch realized that, for the first time, he was jealous of Nikolai. Which shamed him.

  He knew of no one who deserved this peace more than his brother.

  Seeing them like this eased much of his animosity toward Myst. No matter what had happened in the past, at this moment she was giving Nikolai pleasure.

  Murdoch shook his head, no longer surprised that his brother had taken Myst here. Nikolai always came to Blachmount when he missed their family.

  With this woman, he was planning to start a new one.

  Murdoch tried to imagine what it would be like to have a female belong to him alone, above all others . . . and couldn’t. It wasn’t meant to be for him. He’d driven his own Bride away. Only now did Murdoch recognize that he’d taken his anger toward Myst—and his frustration over the blooding—out on Daniela. Who’d done nothing to deserve his ire; indeed, just the opposite.

  But it didn’t matter how he’d driven her away. Only that he had. This way was best. He’d just end up hurting her, had almost bitten her.

  Even after his brother’s five years of torture, Nikolai hadn’t succumbed to bloodlust and bitten Myst. Her neck was unmarked.

  At that moment, Nikolai drew his brows together and tightened his arms around his Bride. Though he slept, Nikolai still sensed another’s presence.

  So Murdoch traced back to the mill. He held his breath as he materialized, not sure if he hoped Daniela would still be there or not.

  Empty. He ignored his baffling disappointment. What’d you expect? He’d threatened her, insulted her—

  He spotted a piece of paper on his desk. Tripping in his haste to reach it, he snapped the note up and read:

  Vampire,

  At some time in the future, you’re really going to want my number. So I thought I would give you this:

  867-5309.

  XOXO,

  Daniela, the Ice Queen

  The words were embellished with whimsical hearts. I haven’t blown it. Relief sailed through him, so strong he sagged onto his mattress.

  She’ll see me again. He ignored the part of him that was filled with foreboding, the part still warning that she’d be safer if she didn’t.

  When he felt the afternoon sun’s heavy reach over the earth, his lids grew heavy. Exhaustion caught up with him and, with her note clutched in his fist, he slept.

  ELEVEN

  THE CRACKED VINYL OF THE TRUCK BENCH stuck to Danii’s heated thighs, disgusting her even further.

  Her hands were clenched and a steady stream of lightning trailed her as she and Farmer Ted bounced along a pitted road, closing in on Val Hall, the manor that housed the New Orleans coven of Valkyrie.

  Earlier, once she’d trudged a mile from the mill, in the heat of a Louisiana noonday sun, she’d eventually stumbled onto a desolate county highway—and an old farmer driving by in an even older truck.

  After dashing in front of him in the road, begging for a ride, she’d promptly deduced that Farmer Ted was a man of no words, communicating solely by strategic spitting of his tobacco chew.

  With one healthy splat out of his truck window, he’d agreed to drop her near home. At least, she’d translated that as an agreement. Before he could argue—that would just get untidy—she’d clambered into the cab. The one without air-conditioning that reeked of taxidermy and Levi Garrett tobacco.

  If Valkyrie ate, Danii would be vomiting right now.

  All because of that vampire. The only thing getting her through this ordeal was the belief that Murdoch would regret what he’d done.

  And the fact that she’d left him a special number for when he returned.

  The second he’d vanished, she’d rushed to the mill’s garage, agreeing that she needed to leave, stat. Rule to live by: If a vampire warns you he’s coming back to attack and possibly kill you, then you listen.

  Inside, she’d found a classic Porsche, refurbished and lovely, with a new Maserati Spyder beside it. She’d been eager to steal and trash either one, already planning to return the vehicle with a UV bulb in the overhead light. But she couldn’t find the keys.

  She’d tried to call for help on his sat-phone, but the service was code-locked.

  Rather than stay and wait like an unwitting bag of O positive, she’d scribbled her note and set out in her bloody boots, wearing damp underwear, the vamp’s T-shirt, and a cloak of rage that only a two-thousand-year-old Valkyrie could pull off.

  For so long, those in the Lore had noted the differences between Danii and her sisters—including Danii. But in truth, she had just as many Valkyrie traits as she had Icere.

  Most notably, Danii possessed the Valkyrie’s notorious pride and need for retribution. Like her sisters, if she was wronged, then gods help the subject of her wrath.

  I’ve so been wronged. By the first vampire in history not to want his Bride. She didn’t know if that said something about him—or about her. If anyone found out she’d been cast away by a Forbearer, she would never live it down. Her only hope was that no one ever discovered her disgraceful morning.

  To add insult to injury, she’d also remembered him interrogating her. While she’d been filled with poison, he’d been filled with questions.

  Her supposed white knight had taken advantage of her, and she couldn’t recall how much she’d told him. Surely she hadn’t revealed any critical secrets or weaknesses. . . .

  Stop thinking about him. You have things to do. Like fleeing the city.

  Since none of the assassins from last night would be reporting back, King Sigmund would soon send another Icere contingent. He wouldn’t stop until he’d killed her.

  Just as he’d murdered the true queen of the Iceren, Svana the Great, Danii’s mother.

  Danii had to get home and pack, but she grew weary merely thinking about returning to Val Hall, weak and shamed, a vampire informer. Via Farmer Ted. How could she face her sisters now?

  Myst was still getting razzed for hooking up with Nikolai five years ago, even by other Lore factions. Having the aggressively omnisexual nymphs ridicule one’s choice of lover was about as low as one could get. Mysty the Vampire Layer was the butt of many a joke.

  Who was worse? Myst, who’d dabbled with a vampire, or Danii, who’d dabbled and had desperately wanted more?

  Murdoch dreamed.

  Sometimes he dreamed of the sun, sometimes of old battles. Now he dreamed of his father, of walking in on him wet-eyed, clutching a portrait of Murdoch’s mother on the fifth anniversary of her death.

  Murdoch had loved his mother, though she’d been zealously religious, and he’d grieved her loss, but his father had been left a broken shell of a man.

  At first, Murdoch had pitied him. Then he’d scorned the father who had scant time for his family, who’d all but orphaned his four young daughters with his neglect.

  By this time, Murdoch had been enjoying women for years, knew that they were always about when he needed one. His father could have enjoyed the same—as a wealthy aristocrat, he could easily have found a woman to replace his departed wife.

  “Get another one,” Murdoch had finally demanded, unable to comprehend what kind of hold the woman had over him. His father had refused to move on, obsessed with her.

  A woman’s death had broken a strong man. . . .

  The dream began to change. Murdoch found himself with Daniela in a strange room made of ice walls. But he felt no chill from it, no discomfort.

  He placed his palms on either side of her ethereal face—without giving her pain. When his thumbs brushed her delicate cheekbones, she smiled up at him, but her countenance was different. Everything about her had changed.

  Wisping ice crystals had formed in half-moon shapes at her temples. More crystals spiked her lashes and tangled in her wild, shimmery hair. Her skin was even paler, her lips tinged with blue. Delicate cobalt-colored designs laced around her wrists and descended over her hands. In his dream, he knew they ran across
her lower back as well.

  Her eyes seemed to be filled with an ancient knowing, and they glowed as if banked with a blue fire.

  She looked otherworldly. Like a completely alien being. She is otherworldly. . . .

  “Do you want me?” she whispered on a frosty breath, leading him to a bed in the center of the room.

  He’d never wanted anyone more. “I have to have you.”

  “Then take me, Murdoch.”

  He was about to give her his standard warning, that this was only for a night. He wouldn’t be interested in more. But she pressed her chill lips to his, stunning him with the cold—and with the pleasure. Perfection. Delicious.

  He lost track of what he’d been about to say.

  As they kissed, he slipped her skimpy dress from her, then pressed her back on the bed. He tugged her panties down, left her heels on.

  Sweeping his hands up her thighs, he spread her legs. Now that he could, he made a feast of her body for hours, licking her in secret places. Instead of her own fingers delving into her sex, his now thrust inside her.

  He tormented her, first keeping her from coming, then forcing her to, over and over.

  In his dream, he knew she’d never been with another man. He painstakingly prepared her body for his, determined to spare her pain as he claimed her virginity.

  When he’d been human, he’d never been interested in virgins. Back then, much was taboo in his conservative country. Deflowering a maid one never intended to marry was virtually blasphemous.

  So why was he continuing with Daniela, positioning his hips between her pale thighs? Why was he kissing her soft breasts, rubbing his face against them, sucking on those stiff nipples? Did he want to be bound to her? One woman. For more than even a mortal lifetime. Possibly forever.