by Nina Mason
He pushed up her skirt. Underneath, she wore one of her new pairs of sexy panties. Sheer black lace with ruffles across the butt. He ran his fingers over the crotch, brushing her swollen clit with his thumb. She gasped in response to the sudden sharp pleasure.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I’ll die if I don’t feel you inside me right now.”
His eyes flashed and his mouth hitched up in a crooked grin. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”
He stripped off her panties, positioned himself between her legs, and, with one hard push, buried himself inside her. Yes! She groaned loudly, not caring who heard. In fact, if somebody did, all the better. He felt so amazing she damn near exploded around him right then.
As he started to move, she wrapped her legs around him and lifted her hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, taking him deeper than seemed possible. Still, it wasn’t enough. She groaned and writhed as her body melted into his.
“Leith,” she gasped, “Oh, baby. Oh, God.”
She still felt and sounded strange to her own ears, but at this point, she didn’t care. His powerful thrusts were pushing her to heights she’d only dreamed about. As she shattered around him, she felt him break, heard him cry out, and felt the pulsations of his release deep in her womb.
When the spasms ceased, he came down on her, chest heaving and hair damp with sweat. His herbal scent taunted her nostrils, calling the hunger that still burned in her belly. She felt delirious, dizzy, and detached. She was no longer herself. Something wild had taken her over. Her senses were unnaturally sharp. She could hear his pulse pounding in her ears, smell his blood pumping through his veins.
Not knowing what she was about to do, she turned her head and opened her jaws. She bit down, sinking teeth into skin and muscle. His body jerked as he cried out in pain and surprise. Blood pulsed over her tongue, tasting of salty silver. She swallowed and sucked, sucked and swallowed. As her craving abated, her desire reignited with an explosive burst.
Leith, still hard inside her, started moving again. Pleasure sizzled through her blood-stream. Sparks shot across her skin. Every hair on her body stood on end. She let go of his neck and wrapped her legs around his thrusting hips, driving against him. They fell over the edge together and plummeted to earth in an atomic explosion of bliss.
What had just happened?
Still breathing hard, he pushed himself up, sat on her pelvis, and clapped a hand over the bleeding wound on his neck. “I’m so sorry,” he said, looking half-penitent, half-mortified. “I think I may have given you a wee bit too much soup.”
She narrowed her eyes, struggling to decipher his meaning. “I don’t understand.”
“You just drank my blood,” he said, blinking at her. “After biting into my neck with your wee fangs.”
She ran her tongue across her top teeth. Sure enough, her canines were elongated and razor sharp. She pushed up on her elbows, gaping at him. “What in the name of Tinker Bell was in that soup?”
“Blood,” he said. “Mine.”
“You turned me?”
“It would seem that I have…though not intentionally, I promise you.”
She dropped back on the pillows and closed her eyes, her mind spinning. She tried to let the revelation soak in a little at a time. Was it the blood, and not pregnancy, that had made her feel so strange and stopped her period?
As disappointment chomped down on her heart, tears sprang into her eyes. She tried to bite them back, but they refused to be dammed.
He gathered her into his arms and held her against him. “Are you upset with me?”
“No,” she said between sobs. “I wanted you to turn me.”
There was no other way for them to be together forever and ever.
“Then why are you crying?”
“I’m not sure,” she lied. “I guess I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed.”
She knew exactly why she was crying. She did not, however, understand her reaction. She should be happy. Or at least, relieved. Having a child was a big responsibility. So why did she feel as if someone had just cut her heart out?
* * * *
Leith honestly hadn’t meant to turn her. He’d realized only in hindsight that adding the blood in the soup to what he’d already given her might bring on the change. At the same time, he didn’t regret his error. She didn’t seem upset about being turned and her new status introduced the possibility of lifelong commitment.
That she might also have his bairn in her belly seemed too much to hope for. It would be enough to break the curse and keep her alive. His only lament was she’d taken his blood while they were making the beast with two backs. Already subpar, he now felt even worse. Luckily, they were nearing the caravan park, having landed on Lewis twenty minutes ago.
The time was right around nine p.m. It was still light out, but the full moon shone big, low, and golden in the southerly sky. They’d resumed their original places: Tom at the wheel, he in the passenger seat playing navigator, and Gwyndolen on the bench seat behind, where she could take a nap if need be.
He stole a glance at her around the seatback. She was looking out the window at the moon wearing a dreamy expression. She looked so radiant and brave. And so beautiful his chest hurt to look at her.
The blood she’d taken would not sustain her for long. Luckily, they could easily share a full-grown man, provided they limited their intake to four or five ounces each. Granted, it was a bit of a risk with a newborn—especially if she was eating for two—but not impossible.
Returning his attention to the open map, he traced the route with the flashlight beam. By his calculations, they should pass the turn-off any second. He shot a glance out the window, watching for the sign. There it was, coming up fast on the left.
Hebridean Caravan Park.
“There, Tom.” He jabbed a finger at the windscreen. “That’s the turn-off.”
Tom made the turn onto a dark and rutted gravel road. Nothing was visible outside the beam of the headlamps. The van bounced, pitched, squeaked, and rattled along until they reached a lighted sign marking the entrance to the caravan park. Following Leith’s instructions, Tom steered into a thicket of trees, where he brought the van to a stop out of sight of the campers and killed the engine. Leith hopped out, slammed his door, and opened Gwyndolen’s. As he helped her down, he pulled her into his arms, gave her a quick kiss, and said, “Just stay close, do as I say, and try not to wig out, eh?”
Leith took her hand and led the way out of the thicket and across to the campground. A short distance ahead, rows of tents of varying shapes and sizes were pitched along a fence. Just beyond were the caravans.
He could see people around campfires, could hear the murmur of voices over the crackling wood. A small dog yipped somewhere. He drew in a breath through his nose, dissecting the scents on the breeze. Woodsmoke, charred meat, whisky, and blood, with undernotes of pine and ocean.
A square stucco building with a steep roof stood across a dirt road from the campsites. The toilets, presumably. He looked around for the trashcans. One or the other would be ideal spots to lay in wait. Soon enough, the prey would come to him.
While both sites were rather unromantic, he could hardly pounce on some poor bugger asleep in his tent. The campsites were too close together and too many folks were still about. Someone might see or hear, and he couldn’t wipe the memories of an entire camp full of people.
The thought brought to mind that morning at Gladsmuir when the rebels made a surprise attack on the English camp. Most of Cumberland’s men were still in their tents; many were still in their cots. The siege was the polar opposite of the slaughter at Culloden. If only they had completed the march to Nairn.
He shook his head to drive the useless thought away. He wasn’t here to stage an ambush; he was here to tap a vein. He couldn’t risk being caught and detained. There would not be another full moon for a month, and Glorianna’s potion would not last until then. They must, therefore, reach Callani
sh by midnight tonight. Gwyndolen’s life depended upon it. He would, therefore, do everything in his power to keep her alive. Even if it meant stalking prey in a less-than-ideal location.
“Come on,” he whispered, deciding the restroom was the lesser of evils.
Senses on high alert, he crept around to the door for the gents. Gwyndolen stayed tight on his heels. Pausing to listen, he heard no one inside. As he moved to enter, she seized his arm and pulled him back.
“What are you doing? I can’t go in there.”
He suppressed the urge to laugh. “Would you rather we fed from a lass?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “Or waited by the rubbish bins?”
“No, but—”
Pulling out of her grip, he slipped through the door. Sudden light flooded the space, blinding him with the brightness. The lights must be attached to one of those motion sensors. The place reeked of piss, mildew, and some ghastly deodorizer. He grabbed Gwyndolen’s wrist and pulled her toward the toilets on the far end.
Unfortunately, only one of the stalls had a door that latched. He stepped inside and pulled her in behind him. The space was tight with the two of them, but he could see no other way. He sat on the toilet, pulled her down on his lap, and slipped his arms around her waist.
“I sincerely apologize for the lack of ambiance,” he whispered into her hair.
“Actually, I’m finding all this kind of exciting,” she whispered back.
He shushed her when the scuff of a shoe sounded on the pavement outside. As the target moved into range, Leith listened to every noise: soles striking tile with the squeak of rubber, an echoing belch, the rasp of a zipper, piss streaming on porcelain.
Leith flushed the toilet. Beneath him, water whooshed. “Get up,” he whispered near her ear, “and stay here and out of sight.”
She got off him and stepped to the side, letting him pass out of the stall. He went to the sink and turned on the faucet, hoping the man would wash his hands. It still amazed him how many didn’t bother after handling their pricks.
The thought of those contaminated hands then touching the door handle made him grateful he rarely urinated. He wasn’t a germ-a-phobe; he hated those freaks as much as the ones who endangered others by ignoring basic hygiene.
He watched the man in the mirror while working the harsh pink borax into lather. The target, to Leith’s great vexation, zipped up and walked out.
Shaking his head, he returned to the stall.
“What happened?” She looked concerned.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “The eejit left before I could get close enough to pounce.”
“What do we do now?”
“Wait for another donor.”
He checked his iPhone for the time before sitting down on the toilet. It was almost ten o’clock. When Gwyndolen stepped up to him, he seized her by the hips, pulled her belly against his cheek and said, “Hello? Is anybody in there?”
She gaped at him. “Do you think there might be?”
“Aye, judging by your mood swings.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
He scowled at her. “Mind? Why would I mind? I’m the prick who put it in there.”
Hugging his head, she held him against her belly. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
The words filled him up. “Tell me as often as you like.” He kissed her stomach. “I’ll never tire of hearing it.”
She got quiet for a minute, then, “If I am pregnant, will it hurt the baby to cross the vale?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, “but we can ask Tom to be sure. Shifting, however, is out of the question. If you are on the nest, you’ll have to wait till the bairn is born to learn the fee-faw.”
His heart was so full he could hardly breathe. They were sitting in the toilets in a crappy campground in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, and he felt so happy he could dance a bloody jig. Not that he planned to do any such thing on these Petri-dish floors.
Gwyndolen came down on his lap and pressed her mouth against his. The world fell away. He forgot everything—the bathroom, the hunger, and the curse. Nothing existed apart from the feel of her in his arms, the weight of her on his cock, and the need of her pulsing hot through his veins.
The roar of a motorcycle right outside brought him back to the toilets with a jolt. He broke out of the kiss. If the biker had friends, he’d stay put. The engine sputtered into silence. The thud of heavy boots grew louder. Leith urged Gwyndolen off his lap and stood, willing his cock to calm down. If the biker had stopped to relieve himself on his way somewhere else, he’d make the perfect target. Nobody would know where he was or miss him before he returned to his senses.
Leith kissed her cheek and whispered for her to wait where she was for his signal. He had something bold in mind. Bold and risky. He just prayed his plan wouldn’t provoke the biker. Not that he couldn’t handle himself. As the son of a Highland laird, he’d been trained in the martial arts and feats—a tradition dating back to the days when champions, not armies, settled disputes between clans. He could wield a broadsword like nobody’s business, kill a man with one well-placed thrust of his dirk, and more than hold his own with a rapier or quarterstaff.
Aye, his fighting skills were a bit rusty at present, but they’d come back when the need arose. At least he hoped they would.
Fingers on the latch, Leith listened as the man clomped across the tile. The footsteps didn’t stop at the urinals. Leith’s disappointed hopes rallied. This could be even better. None of the other doors latched, and a man with his pants around his ankles was as helpless as a haggis. Plus, he’d have the element of surprise on his side.
As the biker passed the stall, Leith peeked through the crack in the door. The target was a big, strapping lad with long, greasy hair, a scraggly beard, and an earlobe full of hoops. A red bandana covered the top of the man’s hair. Otherwise, the biker wore faded jeans and a sleeveless black-leather jacket that showed off muscular, heavily inked arms.
Leith waited, listening and calculating. The biker unzipped and settled down to his business with a resounding explosion of trapped gas.
God’s teeth.
Leith walked through the plan of attack in his mind. He’d kick open the door, drag him off the crapper, and call Gwyndolen. It would be indelicate, to say the least, but at least they could both grab an artery and be done with it. He’d take the femoral—no way in hell was he letting her that close to another man’s junk—and she could take the jugular.
The biker stopped grunting.
Leith, presuming the big lad had finished his business, left the stall, moved to the next one, and kicked in the door. The biker looked up, mouth agape, eyes wide. Leith was startled, too. The man hadn’t been taking a dump, he’d been having a wank.
Lechery replaced the man’s surprise as his gaze fell on the bulge in Leith’s crotch. Kicking back on the toilet, he stroked his cock and grinned.
“Like what you see?”
The stall smelled of whisky, nicotine, road grime, and farts, with an undernote of sweaty ballocks.
“That’s not what I’m after.”
Look up, you fucking wanker. Look me in the eye so I can charm you like the snake you are.
“Oh, aye? Well, that’s a real shame.” The guy grinned, revealing a row of rotten brown-black nubs. “’Cause you remind me of the bitch I had me up in Bar-L…and I miss how good it felt to bury myself deep in his tight wee balloon knot.”
Bar-L was the street name for Barlinnie Prison, used mainly for prisoners in transition. Incoming and outgoing, as it were.
The biker stood, prick still in hand, and took a menacing step forward. Leith took a step back, out of revulsion more than alarm. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the motherfucker to meet his stare. If he couldn’t hypnotize the man, he’d have to fight him.
The biker came closer and met his gaze. Finally! Leith gave him his best mesmerizing stare. No response. Leith looked deeper, tried harder. Still nothing.
“I’ll be damned,” the biker said with a black-toothed leer. “You’re trying to fuck with my mind. What are you?—some kind of vampire or something?”
“He’s a faery, you big oaf.”
Panic pulsed hard and hot through Leith’s bloodstream at the sight of Gwyndolen peering over the metal partition.
When the biker looked up at her, Leith took a swing. His knuckles connected with jawbone. The biker’s head jerked back. Recovering, he landed a sledgehammer blow just below Leith’s left eye, setting off an explosion of pain. Ignoring his discomfort, he buried his fist in the biker’s gut.
Bloody hell. This motherfucker was carved out of marble.
The biker laid into him, landing blow after blow deep in Leith’s abdomen. He fought back, gnashing and flailing. One punch cracked the man’s nose, drawing blood, the aroma of which uncaged the beast within.
Leith pounced on the man. The biker flung him off. His back hit the door, knocking the breath from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping.
“I’ve got a steel plate in my skull, you dumbass motherfucker.” The biker grinned down at Leith, displaying his full set of rotting stubs. “From a spill a few years back. So, if you think you’re gonna do to me whatever your kind does, think again, arsehole?”
He was royally fucked, and a quick glance told him Gwyndolen no longer looked down from the next stall. Where the devil had she gone?
Leith didn’t see the gun in the biker’s hand until it discharged. The bang fractured the air. The bullet struck just below his heart, kicking like a horse. Pain ripped through his torso. The air shot out of his lungs. Stunned, he looked down to find a hole in his sweater framed by a spreading circle of blood.
Fuck me.
Losing more blood was the last thing he needed. The biker pulled up his jeans, grabbed Leith by the sweater, and flung him aside. The partition shook under the impact. Chest screaming in agony, Leith clutched the wound. Warm blood poured over his hand. The door slammed into him as the biker exited.
He turned his back to the cool metal wall. He summoned all the strength he had left to hold himself upright. The bullet wouldn’t kill him, but it hurt like the devil. So did his ego. He’d had his arse handed to him by a goddamned human. In front of his lady, no less. Speaking of whom…
