by J. R. Ward
Searching for his face, she found it. But there was no grounding to be had. She could not see the features, could not find him in the male body she was up against.
Instantly, his visage became nothing but anonymous planes and angles. And his body was not that of Tohrment, the Brother who had attempted to save her, but some stranger.
There was no turning back, however, no undoing the spin of the wheel she had unleashed.
His grip, his arms, his body tightened up even more until she was crushed against him. And as she stiffened, he brought his head downward, a chuffing growl emanating from that deep rib cage of his, a dark, rich scent nearly permeating her sense of fear.
There was another hiss, followed by a razor-thin scratch that started at her collarbone and rose e’er higher.
Panic o’ertook her.
His presence, his hold on her, the fact that she couldn’t see properly, everything about the experience shifted her back into the past, and she started to struggle.
Which was when he struck.
Violently.
No’One cried out and attempted to push away, but his fangs were already in deep, the pain sweet like a bee sting. And then the sucking, the powerful sucking that was accompanied by a wild trembling in his body.
Something hard protruded from his hips. Pressed into her belly.
Using all her strength, she tried again to get free, but her efforts were a countervailing breeze in the face of a hurricane gale.
And then… his pelvis began to move against her, gyrating, that arousal of his pushing at her robe, searching for a way inside as he took deeply from her, groans of satisfaction rising up in the air between them.
He did not even feel her fright, so consumed was he.
And her conscious mind could not regrasp the fact that she had wanted this from him.
Staring up toward the ceiling, she recalled other times she had fought to no avail, and prayed, as she had before, for this to pass soon.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, what had she done…
The body against Tohr’s yielded everything there was to give, blood, breath, and flesh. And goddamn them both, but he took, took hard and ravenously, drinking deep, and wanting more than just the vein.
He wanted the core of this female.
He wanted in her as he drank from her.
And this was true even as he was acutely aware that this was not his Wellsie. Her hair didn’t feel the same—No’One’s fell in smooth lengths, not thick curls. Her blood didn’t taste the same—the rich flavor against his tongue and the tang at the back of his throat were altogether different. And her body was thinner and more delicate, not robust and powerful.
But he still wanted her.
His godforsaken cock was roaring without excuse—ready to take and take and… own, as well. At least sexually.
Shit, this fireball of want and need was nothing like the pale anemic feeding he’d had with the Chosen Selena. This was what it should be, this abandonment, this shedding of the civilized skin to reveal the animal at the marrow.
And goddamn him, he went with it.
Repositioning No’One, he let his hold around her waist go downward until he was gripping her lower back, and then her hip… and then her ass.
Abruptly, he pushed her into the glass cupboards, the panes on the doors rattling. He didn’t mean to be rough, but it was impossible to fight the need. And worse, in the recesses of his mind, he didn’t want to.
Lifting his head, he let out a roar that stung even his own ears, and then he bit her again, his control snapping at the feast of his starved senses.
The second bite was higher and closer to her jaw, and his sucking became even more intense, her nourishment speeding to the fibers of his muscles, strengthening him, restoring him, making him physically whole once more.
The sucking… fuck him, the sucking…
When he finally lifted his head, he was drunk on her, his mind spinning for different reasons than from blood hunger. Next would be the sex, and he actually looked around for a bed.
Except… they were in the butler’s pantry? What the hell?
Christ, he couldn’t even remember how all this had happened.
He was sure, however, that he didn’t want her bleeding out, so he dropped his head to her throat. Elongating his tongue, he stroked up the column he had nailed twice, feeling velvet and tasting her and smelling her—
The scent that entered his nostrils was not a commercial perfume.
And it was not a female’s lush arousal, as he had sensed in the beginning.
She was terrified.
“No’One?” he said, as he felt her trembling for the first time.
With a hoarse cry, she began to sob, and in his shock, he went momentarily numb. Then, as sensation returned, he felt all too clearly her nails clawing into the backs of his upper arms, her delicate body trying to get free.
He let her go immediately—
No’One slammed into the corner cupboard and then went for the door, jerking at the knob, rattling it so forcibly the opaque glass was liable to break.
“Hold on, I’ll let you—”
The instant he sprang the lock she took off, flying through the kitchen and out the other side as if she were running for her dear life.
“Shit!” He tore after her. “No’One!”
He didn’t care who heard him as he called her name again, his voice echoing up through the dining room’s high ceiling as he blew past the long table and then shot into the foyer.
As she ripped across the depiction of the apple tree in the floor, he recalled the memory of her that night they had tried to bring her home to her father’s, her nightgown streaming behind her, turning her into a ghost as she ran across the moonlit meadow.
Now her robe streamed behind as she headed for the stairs.
Tohr’s panic was running so high he dematerialized in pursuit, reassuming form halfway up and yet still not in front of her. Continuing to chase her on foot, he followed her past Wrath’s study, and down the hall to the right.
The second she got to the bedroom she stayed in, she threw herself inside and slammed the door.
He got to the wooden panels just in time to hear the lock turn.
As her blood raced through his system, giving him the power he had been missing, and the appetite for food he hadn’t had, and the clearest head that had plugged into his spine for ages, he remembered everything he hadn’t during the time he’d been at her throat.
She had given herself willingly, generously, and he had taken too much, too fast, in a dark room where he could have been anyone but the one she had agreed to feed.
He’d scared her. Or worse.
Pivoting, he put his back to her door and let his knees loosen until his ass caught the floor. “Fuck me… fucking hell…”
Goddamn him.
Oh, wait, that had already happened.
TWENTY-THREE
Just before closing time at the Iron Mask, Xhex was in her office and shaking her head at Big Rob. On her desk between them were three more packets of that cocaine with the death symbol on it. “Are you kidding me with this shit?”
“Pulled it off a guy ten minutes ago.”
“Did you keep him?”
“Within the bounds of what’s legal. Told him I was processing paperwork. Didn’t exactly mention to him that he was free to go—fortunately, he’s so drunk he’s not worried about his civil rights.”
“Let me go talk to him.”
“He’s where you like them.”
She headed out and hung a left. The interrogation room was at the far end of the hall, and it didn’t have a lock on the door—last thing they needed was trouble with the CPD. Make that more trouble: Given what went down under this roof every night, the police were known to nose around from time to time.
Opening the door, she cursed under her breath. The guy sitting at the table was slumped over onto himself, his chin down on his chest, his arms hanging loose, his knees out to th
e sides. He was dressed like an old-fashioned dandy in steam-punk style, sporting a black slim-fit suit and a white shirt with a high lace collar—and naturally, something was off about the threads. The fabric, for one thing. The fact that none of it was handmade, for another. The buttons… But that was what happened when humans who liked to pretend dipped their toes in historical waters. They got shit wrong every time.
Shutting the door quietly, she walked over to him in silence, curled up a fist… and slammed it on the table to wake him up.
Oh, look, he had a little cane to complete his outfit. And a cape.
As the guy flipped backward and teetered on two chair legs, she caught the ebony walking stick on the fly and let gravity decide what to do with the human—
How. Cute. In his open mouth, two porcelain fang-like projections had been glued onto his canines. Guess that made him feel even more Frank Langella.
She sat down just as he landed flat on his back, and she studied the silver skull at the top of the cane while he dragged himself off the floor, righted his dumb-ass costume as well as the chair, and parked it once again. As he smoothed his jet-black hair, the roots showed mouse brown.
“Yes, we’re letting you go,” she said before he asked. “And as long as you tell me what I want to know, I won’t get our friends down at the CPD involved.”
“Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”
At least he didn’t pretend to have an English accent. “Where’d you get the coke?” She put a hand up as he opened his yap. “Before you tell me it was your friend’s and you’re just keeping it for him, or that you borrowed the coat and it was in the pockets, the police aren’t going to believe that bullshit any more than I do—but I guarantee they’ll get to hear the lie.”
There was a long silence during which she stared at him. He’d even put in red contacts to make his irises appear to be glowing.
She wondered if he’d ever tried to dematerialize through a wall.
She was ready to help him give it a go.
“I made the buy on the corner of Trade and Eighth. About three hours ago. I don’t know the guy’s name, but he’s usually there every night between eleven and twelve.”
“Does he only sell the shit marked with that symbol?”
“Nah.” The guy seemed to relax, his Jersey accent growing stronger. “He’ll move just about anything. Back in the spring, I sometimes couldn’t get the coke. But, I don’t know, last month or so he’s had it every time. It’s what I like.”
Was the Dracula routine his rebellion against GTL? she wondered.
“What name does it go by?” she said.
“Dagger. It fits who I am.” As he motioned down his getup, his red-stoned pinkie ring caught the light. “I’m a vampire.”
“Reallllly. I thought they didn’t exist.”
“Oh, we’re very real.” He gave her the once-over, his eyes going Lothario. “I could introduce you to some people. Bring you into the coven.”
“Isn’t that for witches?”
“I have three wives, you know.”
“Sounds crowded at your house.”
“I’m looking for a fourth.”
“Nice offer, but I’m married.” As she said the words, her chest ached. “Happily, I might add.”
She wasn’t sure for whose benefit that was tacked on. God, John—
The knock on the door was soft. “Yeah,” she said over her shoulder.
“You got a visitor.”
The instant the reply hit her ears, her body flared to life, and abruptly she was ready to usher this trick-or-treat motherfucker out the door headfirst.
John was early tonight, which was fine with her.
“We’re done,” she announced, getting to her feet.
The human rose up, his nostrils flaring. “God, your perfume is… amazing.”
“Don’t bring that shit into my house again, or next time we’re not going to do any talking. Clear?”
Opening up the door, she got hit with her mate’s bonding scent: Those dark spices were barreling down the hall…
And there he was, at the other end, standing tall outside her office.
Her John.
As his head came around toward her, he dipped his chin and smiled, his eyes looking a little evil. Which meant he was more than ready for her.
“You’re beautiful,” the faker breathed as he stepped forward.
She was about to brush him off when John caught sight of the horny little fucker.
This did not go over well.
Her bonded male came prowling down the hall, his shitkickers loud enough to drown out the bass beat from the club proper.
Her buddy with the caps and the cape was still focused on her, but that didn’t last. As he got a load of the nearly three-hundred-pound, jacked-up force of nature riding up on him, he actually shrank into himself and took cover behind Xhex.
Manly. Yup. Real stud material.
John stopped at the door and blocked all escape, those beautiful blues of his downright vicious as he glared over her shoulder at the human.
God, she wanted to fuck him, she thought.
With a casual wave, she provided introductions. “This is my husband, John. John, this was just leaving. Do you want to escort it out, honey?”
Before the faker could respond, John bared his fangs and let out a hiss. It was the only sound he could make besides a whistle, but it was better than words—
“Oh, man,” Xhex muttered as she stepped aside sharply.
The wannabe had just pissed himself.
John was more than happy to take out the garbage. Dumb-ass human, looking at his female like that? The bastard was lucky John was so sexed up. Otherwise he’d have taken the time to break a leg or an arm just to make a point.
Clamping a hold on the nape of the guy’s neck, he frog-marched the leering son of a bitch over to the rear exit, kicked open the door, and dragged him into the back parking lot.
Some version of, “Oh, God, please don’t hurt me,” was coming out of that mouth, and with good goddamn reason. Only the thinnest veil of common sense was keeping John from murder.
As there was no way to command the guy to look at him, John spun the POS around, grabbed him by the shoulders, and lifted him up until his cute patent leather black shoes hung in the breeze.
Meeting eyes that had some kind of ridiculous fake red color over them, John willed the poser into a trance, and wiped clean the memories of those fangs that had been flashed. Then… well, it was tempting to implant a little ditty about how vampires really did exist and were coming after him.
Good dose of induced paranoia would put a quick end to this charade the fucker was living.
Then again, it wasn’t worth the effort. Especially not when he could be inside his female right now.
With a final shake, he let the guy go, sending him off at a dead run. Fucker was scrawny; exercise would do him good.
As John turned back to the club, he saw Xhex’s Ducati parked flush against the building under a security light, and damn… He imagined her straddling all that power, lying low on the engine, gunning the bike around a dead man’s curve.…
He stalked over to the door and found it open, with her standing in it.
“I thought you were going to tear his throat out,” she drawled.
She was totally aroused.
As John came up to her, he didn’t stop until her breasts were against his chest, and she didn’t budge in the slightest—which naturally juiced him even more. God, she was hot to begin with, but this self-imposed separation they were rocking was making him even more desperate to be with her.
“You want to come in my office,” she said on a growl. “Or do it out here?”
When he just nodded like the dumb handle he was, she laughed. “How about inside so we don’t scare the children.”
Yeah, for most humans, sex didn’t involve drawing blood.
As she led the way, he watched her hips sway and wondered if in fact it was anatomically possibl
e for a person’s tongue to drag on the floor.
The instant they were locked in together, he was all over her, kissing her hard as his hands made fast work of shoving up her shirt. As her fingers speared into his hair, he bent down and sent up a prayer of thanks that she never bothered with a bra.
With her nipple in his sucking mouth and one hand between her legs from the back, he laid her out on top of the paperwork on her desk. Next move was to peel off her leathers, and then he was sprung and penetrating her.
Fast, furious fucking, the kind that rearranged furniture and probably called attention to itself, was always the opening gambit. Second time was slower. Third time was that sensuous crap that got shot with a blurry lens in movies.
It was your typical way of handling a banquet: gorge to take the edge off; concentrate on favorites; finish off with a delicate aperitif—
They came at the same time, he bending over her, she wrapping her long legs up around his hips, both of them holding on as tight as they could.
In the midst of the jerking releases, he happened to lift his head and look up. Across the way, there was a file cabinet, and an extra chair… and for some reason, he noticed for the first time that the wall was made of concrete blocks and painted black.
Same stuff that he’d stared at for the last couple months. And none of it had registered.
Now, though, the fact that it was not her home or his hit him hard.
She hadn’t invited him back to her place on the river since they’d had that first all-out session after their separation.
She hadn’t come to the mansion, either.
Closing his eyes, he tried to reconnect with what his body was still up to, but all he got were vague sensations of pulsing below his belt. Popping his lids, he wanted to look at her face, but she had arched back and all he could see was the point of her chin. And some time cards. For her bouncers.
Who could be right outside the door, listening to them.
Shit… this was seedy.
He was having an illicit affair… with his own mate.
In the beginning, it had been so exciting, like they were dating in a way they hadn’t done when they’d first gotten together. And he’d assumed it would always be that fun.
