The Vampire Narcise

Even in the faulty light, she saw his expression settle into one cold and hard. “There can be no betrayal, for there’s no love between us.”

Frustration and pain reared inside her and her vision tinged red. “There’s never any love with a Dracule. Lust and the moment of pleasure, yes, always…but love?” she scoffed. “Never.”

“I loved you.” He spoke so quietly his words were nearly lost by the sound of a passing carriage…yet they rang hard and cold and angry.

“You used me, Giordan. I believed you were trying to build my trust, that you truly cared about me. You did everything so perfectly when all along, you had other interests. It took me some time, but I finally realized why you never wanted Cezar to know we were…were friends. Lovers. Because you didn’t want to ruin your chances with him. He was the bigger prize, wasn’t he?”

She hardly comprehended what she was saying, just that she’d waited so long to spew her hatred and agony at him. She wanted him to understand what he’d done to her. She wanted to inflict the same pain on him, but she didn’t know how, other than words. “Of course you would want him. He was the one with the power, with all of the money and control. I was merely a way to get to him.”

“You believe that?” he said, his words choked and low. His hand whipped out and his fingers closed around the front of her gown. “You truly believe that I wanted Cezar? Even after this?” He gave her a rough jerk and she flew up against him.

His mouth covered hers, hard and warm and angry, and Narcise closed her eyes at the familiar taste of Giordan, the demanding press of his lips, sliding against hers…roughly forcing her mouth open to take the sweep and slide of his tongue.

Her hands settled on the front of his shoulders, fingers curling around the top of his wool coat, the edges of his curls brushing their tips. She kissed him back, keeping the kiss one of ferocity and fury instead of tender and sensual, trying to remind herself how much she loathed him…how well she’d despised him…even as their lips mashed together, sliding and caressing in all the sleek, sensual heat.

She pressed herself against him, angry, wanting him to want her as much as she’d wanted him…then. Wanting him to feel the rise of desire—and hope—only to have it torn away.

Her breasts shoved into his chest, his arms closed tightly around her as one hand caught the back of her neck and held her immobile. He delved deep, matching her now with temper, his tongue hot and slick and strong, his mouth firm and knowing. A rolling, expanding heat filled her, turning her damp and soft, in spite of the undercurrent of violence, and she closed her eyes, trying to keep hold of her hatred.

Narcise bit deliberately at his lip, her teeth sharp and fierce as she nipped, then pulled sharply, drawing blood. Her fangs had come forth and when she eased back, his red eyes glowed down at her, the tips of his fangs showing beneath well-kissed lips, now bloodied and gleaming with a red mark.

He was breathing heavily, his irises blazing around steady dark centers, and she lunged forward to taste his lips again. The bit of warm, coppery blood settled over her lips and tongue, shooting desire down, deep into her core. Giordan. Narcise sucked on his lip, drawing the blood, and realized that little sample was not enough.

She tore at the collar of his coat, baring the side of his neck, and pulled away from his lips. Just below his ear, she viciously sank her fangs in—hating him and wanting him at the same time. Giordan jolted against her with a low cry, and the surge of blood flooded her mouth, exploding as if released from a dam. She sighed in relief, sucking in the clean, warm lifeblood.

Desire and memories filled her, his scent and taste became her world: his strong shoulders and powerful body, the soft silk of his curling hair, the hot erection swelling against her beneath layers of clothing…it was Giordan, after so long, after such pain and deep betrayal…

And yet it was not him. Not the same.

Never the same.

He was shuddering against her, his arms tight but trembling, his body sagging somehow back against the half wall along the sewage canal. She found warm skin beneath his shirt as she tore it from his breeches, her fingers brushing the dust of hair on his belly, the smooth muscles that shuddered at her touch. When Narcise pulled away to look up at him, he bent to capture her mouth again—roughly and with some deep, driving anger, his fingers curled deep into her braid, gripping her head. She tasted heat and blood, felt his fingers tightening against her, his fangs scraping against her lips. He seemed to want to punish her.

It was a battle—their mouths, their bodies, there on the street, now in a shadowy corner: lips, hands, teeth, tongue. Hot, sleek, pounding.

He covered her breast with one rough hand, sliding his palm over her curves as she leaned against him, still angry, still hating him, but unable to stop. Unwilling to.

Narcise twisted her face away and caught against one of his fangs. Her lips split and now her own blood mingled with his, in the air and on her tongue.

Giordan stilled, his chest moving with rough heaves against her, and she saw desperate hunger in his eyes. She licked her lips, watching him, tasting the blood—their blood, together—warm and rich and potent.

“Do it,” she taunted softly, holding his gaze, her breathing unsteady. “Taste me. Take me, Giordan.”

He shoved her away, suddenly, his mouth flat and hard, streaked with blood. His eyes furious and filled with revulsion, burning her, as he dragged the back of a hand over his mouth.

Narcise took a breath to steady herself, her insides twisting at the ugliness in his eyes…yet her heart was pounding from desire as much as from anger. At herself and at him. She trembled with pain and lust as they glared at each other.

“See,” she managed to say, licking the last bit of blood from her lips. “Lust and pleasure, even in the face of such hatred. I could have lifted my skirts right here, but I’d still loathe you afterward.”

“Narcise—” he began, his bruised lips hardly moving.

But with the pleasure and the familiarity, she’d fallen back into those horrible memories, the black, dark days of his betrayal…the pain was fresh and raw once again.

“By the Devil’s dark soul, yes, I hate you. I saw you. With Cezar. It’s hard to miss the expression of erotic pleasure on a man’s face—the Fates know I’ve seen enough of that.” She swallowed, her throat dry and scratchy. “I believed you. I believed in you. You destroyed me.” Her voice broke a little at the end and she swallowed again hard, angry at her show of weakness. “And I’ll hate you forever for it.”

There was a long silence as they stared at each other. Loathing and dark emotion vibrated between them as they faced each other on the dark and busy street.

“Forever is a very long time,” he said at last, his voice a mere rumble.

“And we’ll both be alive for it, won’t we? Goodbye, Giordan,” she said, and walked off, her knees trembling, her insides twisting. She squeezed her eyes closed against threatening tears.

She suspected that he would follow her again, and when she got to the end of the street, she looked back covertly.

But he was walking away, his hair and the tops of his shoulders dusted with moonlight as he strode off.

18

Giordan hardly made it around the corner before his belly rebelled.

By God, he hadn’t even fed on her, but it didn’t seem to matter. His body was reacting to the unfamiliar and fierce show of violence and hatred he’d just lived. As he sagged against a brick wall, emptying his stomach, he prayed that Narcise wouldn’t see or hear him.

When he finally finished, still trembling with the force of it all, he swiped the back of a hand over his mouth as he walked off into the night.

Wrung out from more than simply the evacuation of the contents of his stomach, aware that Narcise hadn’t finished off the bite on the side of his neck so that it still oozed a bit of blood, Giordan found himself back at Rubey’s, where he’d been going when he first saw Narcise leaving. He’d been briefly at Rubey’s private residence earlier, where he’d been keeping his own rooms for the last few months. She’d told him the news from Woodmore