Highland Hunger Bundle with Yours for Eternity & Highland Beast

by Hannah Howell

  Why would he?

  As the clan chief of the London vampires, he was the most powerful demon in England. He had only to lift his finger to have an entire harem of beautiful females, human or demon, to sate his hungers. For blood or sex.

  And as for entertainment . . .

  After ten centuries of indulging in the most exotic and rare pleasure to be discovered throughout the world (from being the only male on an island filled with female wood sprites, to pitting his strength against the lethal Yegni demon), a mundane society ball was laughably dull.

  Or at least it should be.

  He disguised his rueful grimace as his gaze covertly skimmed the crowd until he discovered the one female in London, perhaps in all the world, who could have lured him to the stuffy, overcrowded townhouse.

  She was here. He’d already caught the scent of ripe peaches. Yes. There she was. Miss Juliet Lawrence.

  His unbeating heart jerked with an excitement that he didn’t entirely appreciate.

  The female was beautiful enough. From her imp father she had inherited delicate features and a long mane of curls the vibrant color of autumn leaves. She had also been blessed with faintly slanted eyes that were the palest shade of green. But, unlike most imps, she was slender rather than lush, with an innate grace that had first captured his attention when she had arrived in London two years before.

  Beauty, however, was not enough to explain his ruthless fascination for the woman. Especially considering her mother was a witch.

  He hated witches.

  Not only because his one weakness as a vampire was magic, but because his brother, Dante, had been abducted by a coven of witches and chained with their spells for all eternity.

  Worthless whores.

  And worse, Juliet was currently under the protection of a powerful mage, Justin, Lord Hawthorne.

  He hated mages as thoroughly as he hated witches. Especially arrogant, pompous mages who didn’t possess the sense to defer to their betters.

  So why was he growing consumed with the savage need to claim Miss Lawrence as his own?

  Victor had tried to accept that it was nothing more than the fact that Juliet stubbornly refused to succumb to his seduction. It had been centuries since a woman had pretended indifference to his charms. What was more enticing than a prey that was clever enough to put up a struggle?

  He had even traveled to Venice to prove that his enthrallment with the female was nothing more than a passing bit of insanity that was easily dismissed.

  Unfortunately, all he had managed to prove was that Miss Juliet Lawrence was destined to plague him regardless of the distance between them.

  He had filled his nights with the most alluring females and lavish amusements, but he could not rid himself of the aching need to return to London.

  And Juliet.

  His lips twisted as he watched her stiffen and slowly turn in his direction, belatedly sensing his presence. A predictable expression of dismay rippled over her beautiful features before she was covertly edging through the crowd, clearly preparing to bolt.

  He moved forward, a flare of anticipation jolting through him. The chase was on and she was not going to escape.

  Beginning tonight, Juliet was going to pay for reducing him to little more than a eunuch.

  “My lord . . .” Unaware how close he came to a swift, bloody death, Lord Treadwell stepped directly in Victor’s path and grasped his arm. “We never expected . . . such a delight . . .”

  Victor leashed his violent urge to rip out the throat of his host. Even if Juliet managed to slip away, there was nowhere she could hide.

  Instead, he peered down at the pudgy fingers that were crushing the fall of Brussels lace that peeked from the hem of his jacket sleeve.

  “So I perceive,” he drawled, his voice cold. “My dear Charles, have a care for my lace if not for my poor, abused arm.”

  Treadwell jerked back his hand, reaching beneath his puce jacket for a handkerchief to mop the sweat from his flushed face.

  “A thousand apologies.” The nobleman nervously cleared his throat, his customary air of smug superiority notably absent. “Please, allow me to introduce my wife.” He waved an absent hand toward the plump blonde less than half his age who stood behind him. “Letty, this is Marquis DeRosa. DeRosa, my wife, Lady Treadwell.”

  Victor offered a graceful bow. “Enchanted.”

  “Oh.” The woman rapidly waved her fan, her eyes wide and her lips parted in feminine awe. “Oh.”

  Treadwell gave a bluff laugh, clapping Victor on the shoulder as if he had every right to touch the most powerful demon in England.

  “I say, you quite overwhelmed the poor gal.” He winked at Victor, indifferent to his wife’s sudden embarrassment. “Let me escort you round the back way to the card room. That way, you won’t be bothered with the giggling petticoats. Give a man an ache in the head. Always best to avoid ’em when you can, eh?”

  “Which only proves just how little you know me, Treadwell.” Victor’s tone was edged with a warning that made the fat idiot pale in fear. “Remain with your wife. I am capable of determining my own destination.”

  “Oh . . . , I say. Of course. Certainly.”

  Dismissing the idiot from his mind, Victor turned toward the dance floor, parting the thick crowd with a wave of his slender hand. Distantly, he was aware of the avid gazes following his slow, elegant stride and the whispers of excitement that rippled through the room, but his attention was focused on the scent of sweet peaches.

  At last leaving behind the gawking crowd, Victor made his way along the dimly lit corridor, bypassing the various salons and antechambers until he reached the narrow door leading onto the back terrace.

  Stepping into the chilled night air, Victor paused, his senses instinctively searching the garden and shadowed mews for any hint of danger. At the same moment his gaze was busily savoring the sight of Juliet leaning against the stone railing.

  As a vampire, Victor had no need for the moonlight to reveal the pure, delicate lines of her profile or the fire in her curls that were currently pulled into a knot at the back of her head. He did, however, fully appreciate the wash of silver light that shimmered over alabaster skin and added a hint of mystery to the pale emerald eyes.

  His gaze lowered to her gown, which was a delicate white lace over a gold sheath and cut in Grecian lines to emphasize the tempting mounds of her breasts. Then slowly his gaze lifted, lingering on the long, bare curve of her throat.

  Victor’s fangs ached with a swift, brutal hunger.

  Bloody hell. He had been too long without a woman.

  With an effort, Victor resisted the urge to charge across the terrace and crush the female into his arms. Although she was not a practicing witch, and her imp blood was diluted, she did possess her own share of powers. Including the ability to resist his attempts to glamour her.

  If he was going to lure her to his bed, it was going to take skill and patience.

  For some ridiculous reason the knowledge sent a tingle of anticipation down his spine.

  Madness.

  Strolling forward, Victor allowed his gaze to boldly travel over her tense body, a faint smile curving his lips.

  “Did you think you could hide from me, sweet Juliet?” he murmured.

  The emerald eyes flashed with annoyance, but she couldn’t disguise the fluttering beat of her heart or the potent scent of her awareness.

  Miss Juliet Lawrence might wish him in hell, but she desired him.

  “Actually, I was attempting to avoid the sudden influx of vermin, my lord,” she drawled in overly sweet tones.

  “Victor,” he corrected, not halting until he had her firmly trapped against the stone railing, his fierce gaze sweeping over her flushed face.

  “I thought you were in Venice.” She tilted her chin, her expression defiant. “What are you doing here?”

  “At the moment I am enjoying the very fine view,” he husked, his gaze never wavering from her wide eyes.


  “I mean, what are you doing in London?”

  “I should think it obvious. ’Tis hunting season.”

  Her brows pulled together. “You are mistaken, my lord, hunting season ended weeks ago.”

  His fingers lifted to trace the tender curve of her neck, his mouth watering.

  “That all depends on the prey.”

  She shivered, pressing against the railing in a futile attempt to escape his lingering touch.

  “So you are here for the Marriage Mart?”

  “I am.”

  “You have developed a taste for tender young debutantes?” she mocked. “I thought you preferred a more well-seasoned meal.”

  His lips twitched at the bite in her tone. “There is no need for you to be jealous of my . . .”

  “Harem?”

  “Companions.” His fingers lingered at the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, his senses drowning in the scent of peaches. “You need only say the word and there would be no others.”

  “How many times must I tell you that I will never be a vampire’s blood-whore?” she rasped, her eyes flashing with fury.

  Victor laughed. “Such crude language from such beautiful lips. Does it help you to deny your body’s hunger for my touch to pretend I am a monster?”

  “There is no pretense. You are a monster.”

  His lips twisted. He could hardly deny her claim.

  He was a ruthless predator who killed without mercy and was willing to use whatever violence necessary to maintain control of his clan.

  That did not mean, however, that he was incapable of appreciating a woman who stirred his most primitive needs. His gaze lowered to the soft thrust of her breasts, a shudder shaking through his body as the heat of her wrapped around him.

  No. It was more than mere appreciation.

  Having her in his bed, tasting the potent power of her blood . . . it was rapidly becoming a necessity.

  He groaned, his fingers following the enticing line of her bodice, his body hard with need.

  “And yet your heart thunders and your knees tremble when I am near,” he husked. “You cannot hide your reaction to me.”

  She trembled. “Disgust.”

  “Desire.” He lowered his head, his lips brushing over her bare shoulder. “It perfumes the very air.”

  “My lord, stop this at once,” she demanded, even as her hands lifted to clutch at his shoulders.

  It had been like this from the beginning.

  Two years ago Juliet had walked into a London ballroom on the arm of Lord Hawthorne and every other woman had faded to meaningless shadows. Victor had known in that moment he had to have her. And it had not taken his heightened senses to know she was equally aroused.

  Not that she was willing to admit as much.

  No, for her own inexplicable reason, she was determined to keep him at a distance.

  He growled as his arms wrapped around her tiny waist, hauling her hard against his body.

  “Come into the gardens with me.”

  “If it is time for your dinner then I suggest you find one of your concubines to slake your hunger.”

  “I do not hunger for my dinner.” His lips traced a path down her collarbone before skimming up the curve of her throat. “Such exquisite skin.”

  He felt her tremble in need, her hands pressed against his shoulders. “And I do not share my body any more readily than my blood.”

  Pulling back, Victor regarded her with a brooding gaze. “I traveled to Venice to put you from my mind, but it was an impossible task. You haunt me, little one, and that is unacceptable.”

  “What is unacceptable? The fact that I am the one woman capable of resisting your seduction, or the knowledge that you could make a fortune if only I would cooperate?”

  It was a familiar accusation.

  Juliet’s ability to sense the magical properties of objects, as well as people, was a rare talent that would be priceless to any vampire, and Victor had never hidden his desire for such a power. Why should he? Never again would he have to fear an enemy attempting to plot his early demise with a hidden spell. Or even accidentally stumbling into a trap. Juliet would always be able to warn him of the looming danger.

  And, of course, there was the indisputable knowledge that her talent was worth a fortune.

  The black-market trade for magical artifacts was a profitable, cutthroat business that kept any number of demons and humans living in luxury. Including the mage, Lord Hawthorne.

  Bastard.

  He caught and held her accusing gaze. “My wealth is more than sufficient, although I have never made it a secret that I covet your talent. A vampire’s one weakness has always been magic. With you at my side I would be all but invincible.”

  Her chin tilted. “Which is only one of many reasons that I will never allow myself to be bound to you.”

  He narrowed his gaze in sudden annoyance. “And yet you willingly offer yourself to Hawthorne. An arrogant ass—”

  “You should recognize an arrogant ass easily enough. You need only look in a mirror,” she rudely interrupted, her chin stuck at a stubborn angle. “Ah, but wait. You have no reflection, do you, vampire?”

  “And a mage,” Victor hissed, ignoring her insult.

  “My mother was a witch.”

  “An unfortunate circumstance I am willing to overlook.”

  The emerald eyes flashed with fury as Juliet thrust her way past him, headed across the terrace.

  “How vastly considerate of you, my lord.”

  With blinding speed he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and jerking her back against his chest. Growling deep in his throat, Victor buried his face in the curve of her neck.

  “I can be much more than merely considerate, sweet Juliet. I will give you whatever you desire . . .” His body stiffened in shock. “Bloody hell, why do you smell of gargoyle?”

  Juliet resisted the urge to struggle against Victor’s restraining arms.

  Despite the fact that she appeared to be a mere debutante among humans, she was in fact over a century old, and she had learned long ago that battling against a predator only inflamed his instincts.

  And the Marquis DeRosa was very much a predator.

  A beautiful, exotic, sensually lethal predator.

  Holding herself rigid, she pretended indifference to the thrilling pleasure of his unyielding arms wrapped around her and the brush of his lips against her skin. Not that she was foolish enough to believe Victor was unaware of her thundering heart and the searing excitement that coiled through the pit of her stomach. The aggravating demon was always swift to pounce on her uncontrollable reaction to his potent masculinity.

  “For God’s sake, stop sniffing me,” she gritted. “It is rude.”

  He nipped at her neck, his fangs scraping her sensitive skin.

  “Tell me where you came into contact with a gargoyle.”

  She closed her eyes, fiercely attempting to ignore the jolt of need searing through her.

  She had desired Victor from the moment she had caught sight of him across a crowded ballroom. Utterly and desperately. But she was not a fool.

  Women who were stupid enough to fall victim to a vampire’s seduction were doomed to become mere ruins of their former selves.

  “I am not your property, Marquis DeRosa, and I do not have to tell you anything,” she hissed.

  “Property? No. But you are mine and if you refuse to tell me, then I will simply ask the Guild—”

  With a sudden gasp, Juliet was turning in his arms, her expression one of horror.

  “No.”

  His brows lowered, the silver eyes studying her with an unnerving intensity.

  “You have not allowed that foolishly soft heart of yours to put you in danger, have you?”

  “Of course not.”

  He cupped her chin in a slender hand, his handsome features tightening with a dangerous impatience.

  “Juliet.”

  She blew out a resigned sigh. The cla
n chief rarely exposed his formidable power in her presence, but when he did, she was wise enough to avoid trouble.

  “A few months ago I discovered a gargoyle in Justin’s attics.”

  “Did you?” The silver eyes narrowed. “Hawthorne must have an object of great worth to go to the expense and bother of negotiating with the Guild to provide protection for his mansion.”

  “This particular gargoyle does not happen to belong to the Guild.”

  “Impossible. He would not be allowed to hire out his services unless he was a member.”

  Juliet grimaced. When she had first stumbled across the gargoyle, she hadn’t known what to think of the odd little creature.

  Like most other gargoyles, Levet possessed grotesque features and a thick gray hide that turned to stone during the day. He also had a long tail he kept faithfully polished and a thick French accent.

  Unlike most of his terrifying brethren, however, Levet was barely knee high, with delicate fairy wings that shimmered with brilliant blues and crimsons and were veined with gold. Even worse, his magic was unpredictable at best and inclined to cause more trouble than it was worth.

  As a result the poor thing had been banished from his Guild and treated as little more than a leper among the demon world.

  Juliet better than most understood the pain of never truly belonging.

  Which no doubt explained why Levet had so swiftly earned a place in her wary heart. She would do whatever was necessary to protect him.

  “Levet did not hire out his services. If you must know, he was refused entry into the Guild because he is . . .”

  A raven brow arched as she hesitated. “Yes?”

  “He is unusually tiny and considered deformed by his brethren,” she snapped. “Are you satisfied?”

  “A deformed gargoyle?”

  “Do not mock him.”

  The silver eyes shimmered with a wicked amusement. “I am not so clumsy as to insult your friend. My enjoyment is at the thought of Hawthorne’s reaction to a miniature gargoyle cowering in his attics.”

  “My household is none of your concern, DeRosa.” A deep male voice echoed through the darkness as Lord Hawthorne climbed the steps from the garden. “Neither is my apprentice.”