care about being a mother. I was wrong. About this, about so many things.
“So instead I get to be the meal plan for a bunch of vampires? Whoopee. Do I get weekly transfusions?”
I felt the now-familiar flare of anger at the thought, but I tamped it down. “You won’t need them. The Source provides blood for those who are unbonded, but the amount is minimal, the occasion is surrounded by ritual, and you won’t be called upon to serve more than once a month.” The moment I said it, I knew it was a bad choice of words.
“Serve?” she said. “Like a waitress with a hearty meal?”
She was doing her best to anger me, and she was succeeding. “No. Like someone with a higher calling.”
“Feeding blood to vampires is a higher calling?”
“Giving life to the Fallen is a higher calling. And the term is
“I don’t care what the term is, you’re vampires.”
I ground my teeth. She really did have an extraordinary ability to get under my skin, when I’d managed to be impervious to everything and everyone for so long. She was bringing me back to life, and reanimating the dead was always painful.
“Fine,” I said. “We’re vampires. Get over it.”
“What did you do in the past when the Source died? Did one of you have to quick find a willing sacrifice?”
Beneath her hostility I could sense a real concern, and I decided to answer her. “Azazel has been the only one married to the Source. The Source has never died suddenly—it was always natural causes and there was plenty of warning. The healers . . .” I wasn’t sure how I was going to phrase this, but Allie filched the image out of my mind.
“They take blood from her at regular intervals and store it,” she supplied. “How charming. So how long does Azazel get to mourn? How long before Sarah is replaced by some nubile young thing?”
“He has always had enough time to grieve. With Sarah it will be a problem. I don’t know how long it will take him to recover from her loss.”
“He’s had enough practice,” she said, her voice brutal. “So why me? And don’t give me that crap about being bonded mates—you and I both know that’s impossible. We don’t even like each other.”
I resisted the impulse to smile. She was putting so much effort into keeping me at a distance. She didn’t want me anywhere near her. She didn’t want me pushing her down among the pure white sheets, moving down her sweet, gorgeous body, tasting her, my hands on her thighs, my mouth—
“Don’t do that!” she said, shaken. She was searching for some way to stop me, some kind of insult. “After two nights ago, I thought you didn’t believe in foreplay.”
“Was I too fast for you?” I said, unruffled. “It seemed to me you were right there along with me. Are you telling me you didn’t like it?”
“Of course not!” she snapped. “I’m just saying that women like to be wooed, slowly and respectfully.”
I laughed. “So those orgasms were faked? You’re able to control your body that well? I must admit I’m impressed. And clearly my information was incorrect—it said you only climaxed by yourself. Which, by the way, is considered a sin by some scholars, but which we embrace enthusiastically.”
She was blushing, and I couldn’t resist her. “Come to bed with me,” I said, rising and holding out my hand.
She just looked at me, mutinous. “So you can feed on my wrist? You may as well do it here.”
“No.” Again I felt that little growl that seemed to come from nowhere. The growl I knew she sensed, and which frightened her. I struggled to control it. “I won’t take your blood. If I did, it would be from an artery, not a vein.”
“Ew,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “What if you screw up your anatomy lessons?”
“I can hear the difference,” I said. “But it’s not going to happen.”
“Why won’t you take my blood? If I’m your supposed mate, what’s stopping you? Everyone else will be having a go at me.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
She looked at me, long and hard, and the conclusions she was jumping to were a mishmash in her brain. “Fine,” she said, rising. “You can sleep on the couch.” And she started for the bedroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I WASN’T GOING TO SLAM THE DOOR, I was going to close it quietly and forcefully, indicating dignified displeasure, but he was already there, his hand yanking it open. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”
“All right,” I said. “I will.” I started past him, but he caught me, spinning me around and pulling me against him, his strong arms imprisoning me.
I didn’t like being controlled. At least, not really. There was a tiny little shiver of erotic reaction as my body was clamped against his, and for a brief moment I took that pleasure, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I looked up at him, so close, so damnably, deliciously close.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and bent his head and kissed me.
So, okay, I liked kissing him. I know I should have stayed still, and I tried, I really did. But he cupped my chin, his long fingers gently stroking my face, and his mouth was soft, damp, and really, how could I resist? Because the brutal truth was, I felt more for him than I’d felt for anyone in my entire life. He was mine, even if I was afraid he still wanted to wiggle out of it. He was mine.
I softened against him, and he released my wrists, knowing I wasn’t going to hit him. I slid my arms around his waist, pulling him closer, and rose on my toes so that I could reach him better, so that I could press my breasts against his hard chest, so I could sink into the heat of him.
He picked me up effortlessly. Yes, I knew he was supernaturally strong, but I still loved it, loved feeling delicate and weightless when I’d always felt clumsy. He thought I was luscious. I knew that, even as my doubts tried to discount it. He thought my soft, rounded body was irresistibly erotic. And I felt my blood heat, flowing through me like a river of pleasure; I wanted his touch, wanted his mouth on me, wanted everything.
He carried me into the bedroom. The light was muted through the bank of windows, and the awful stench was gone. Instead it smelled like cinnamon and spice, like Raziel’s warm flesh and something underneath it, something hot and rich. He set me down on the bed, and this time I didn’t try to jump up again, didn’t try to argue or to fight, with his hands on me, unfastening the white tunic and pulling it over my head. He kissed my mouth, he kissed the swell of my breasts above the lacy bra, he let his tongue dance across my lace-covered nipple before fastening his mouth on it. I let out a quiet moan of delight.
I’d never known my breasts were so sensitive. When other men had touched them it seemed simply part of the process, but when Raziel put his mouth on me—
He lifted his head, and his eyes were dark and glittery. “Stop thinking about other men,” he said, his voice close to a growl. I wondered if I was supposed to be afraid of him.
“No,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”
I caught the strain of guilt and regret. He’d thrown me away from Tamlel, and I’d been knocked unconscious. I said nothing. His deep sorrow over what had been an accident was enough to assure me that I was safe. Whatever rage lived inside him, and I could feel it simmering, it would never be turned on me. He pushed me back on the bed and I went, letting my eyes drift closed as he pulled the loose white pants off. He took the underwear as well, a little sooner than I was comfortable with, and flicked off the bra with a practiced hand. Well, of course he was practiced—he’d had thousands of years—
“They’ve only had bras for the last hundred years,” he murmured against my skin, and his voice was thick with longing.
“Stop reading my mind,” I protested, though my languorous voice was far from harsh.
“It’s half the fun,” he said, and I felt his mouth on my stomach, moving downward. I knew where he was going, and I knew I shouldn’t mind. He thought he’d be doing something nice for me, when in actuality it had always left me unmoved. I sort of hated having him go to all that effort when I didn’t particularly like it, but I didn’t want to discourage him—
“You’ll like it,” he said, his long hands on my thighs, parting them, and he put his mouth on me, his tongue, and while I was telling myself to humor him the first shiver of reaction hit me by surprise.
I squeaked, and I could sense his amusement, but he didn’t stop what he was doing, thank God, and I reached down and threaded my fingers through his hair, caressing him as he let his tongue flick across my clitoris. I let out a low, mewling noise, arching my hips, and his hands were there as well, long fingers sliding inside me, a gently thrusting promise of things to come, as his tongue worked its wicked magic. And then he used his teeth, gently, and I exploded.
Oh, he was a very bad man. He wouldn’t let me savor the first rush of climax; instead he had to draw it out, to keep touching me, licking me, biting me, so that wave after wave swept over me and my body went rigid, every nerve ending spiking, and I think I must have cried out, begging him to let me alone, begging him not to stop, begging him . . .
I collapsed against the bed, breathless, trying to control the sobs that were in my throat. He wiped his mouth on the sheet and moved up beside me, still fully dressed, and I wanted to put my hands on him, strip the clothing away, but for the moment I couldn’t move.
He laughed, a soft, enticing sound. “That’s all right. I know how to undress myself.” He stripped off the black T-shirt, then reached for his jeans.
He was so fucking beautiful. But then, angels were supposed to be, weren’t they? Long, graceful limbs, beautiful pale skin stretched over taut muscles.
He was already erect, and I wanted to touch him, wanted my mouth on him where I’d never put my mouth on anyone.
The last stray shudders were finally ebbing away, but I still felt weak, exhausted, strangely on the edge of
