The Eternal Kiss: Vampire Tales of Blood and Desire

His face was the color of raw putty as he struggled beneath her, surprising her with his human strength despite the injury, but she held him with ease.

“Quit moving around.” Moth smiled sweetly. “You don’t want to hurt yourself now, do you?” She’d just broken the guy’s kneecap, and she knew she was being a cow but … what the hell. He deserved it.

Even without the use of her legs—even with the broken silver cuffs still circling her wrists—Moth was stronger than him. Despite the difference in their sizes, she pushed down on his arms and lay on top of him with her knees resting between his legs. If she pressed her knees in just the right way, Jace was going to be in a lot more pain than he already was.

“So,” she said, with a wicked smile. “Does your father know you do this kind of thing?”

He took shallow breaths. “Of course he does. He trained me.”

“And how old are you?”

“How old are you?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Eighteen.”

“That’s when you were turned. How old are you? Really.”

Moth pursed her lips and thought about playing with him some more. But what did she have to lose? “I’m twenty-eight.”

Jace looked surprised. “You’ve been a vamp for ten years? No way.”

“You’re saying I look younger? Aw, thanks.” She fluttered her eyelashes.

Grimacing as he shifted position beneath her, he sucked in a breath. “No, I mean you seem younger. You act it.”

Moth gave him the benefit of her silver stare. “Sometimes. So, c’mon. Your turn.”

“I’m nineteen.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Ooh, I love a younger man …”

“Get off me, freak.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Moth dug her knees in. Hard.

Jace’s eyes rolled with pain and, if it was possible, his face became even paler. “Bitch,” he gasped.

“Says the guy who drugged me—and I don’t know how the hell you managed that —tied me up in chains and handcuffs made of blessed silver, and then threatened to dust me with Daddy’s crossbow.”

“So … what? You’re going to bite me now, is that it?”

“Would you like me to?” Moth could smell his fear. It was intoxicating, and she was already trying to fight the bloodlust rising in her gut. She could feel the panicked drumbeat of his heart as their bodies pressed together. Just because she had an aversion to the taste of blood—especially the fresh stuff—didn’t mean she wouldn’t do what she had to do. Not when it came to survival.

She studied Jace’s pain-wracked face. This wasn’t survival, it was revenge, but didn’t she deserve a little of that? She wouldn’t drain him, of course. She would only take a little. Just a taste …

Moth slid her hands down his solid arms and grabbed his wrists, forcing them above his head. He was powerless. He could wriggle beneath her, but with the busted kneecap he only had one leg that was working, and he was probably in too much pain to do too much damage with it.

His blond spikes had wilted, and sweat ran freely down his neck and onto the carpet. She stared into his dark eyes—his brown eyes—and did something she hadn’t done for a very long time. Oh, the days she’d spent dreaming of Theo and those full lips. But there was something about Jace’s thinner mouth that drew her to him. Even though he was beaten and in pain, the grim determination that pulled it into a tight line spoke of the sort of man he was going to become.

Moth licked her lips and leaned in close.

Jace’s eyes widened as she captured him in her gaze, willing him to hold still, just for a moment, while she pressed her lips to his and delivered the softest of kisses. He tasted of fear and rage, desire and pain, and it was truly delicious. Filled with regret and growing bloodlust, Moth pulled away—she had to get out of there. But first she had to find that damn funeral urn.

Before she could move away, Jace’s uninjured leg suddenly swung around, clamping down on her chained legs and holding her in place as he pushed his lips back against hers.

Moth’s brain registered a fleeting moment of WTF? as he deepened the kiss. Wasn’t he supposed to be transfixed by her silver eyes? She still hadn’t fully mastered the art of compulsion, but she had some ability. And then she purposely switched off that part of her mind—the part that was afraid—as she enjoyed the moment; it had been too long since she’d been kissed like this. Too long since she had been held and touched.

Moth finally opened her eyes and pulled away. She looked down into his face and he stared back, a dark challenge hidden in the depths of his eyes. His lips quirked in a half-smile, and the movement sent a drop of blood running down his chin.

Before she could control the impulse, Moth darted forward and caught the shining crimson bead on the tip of her tongue. It tasted harsh and tangy, and she shuddered with a mixture of desire and disgust as she swallowed it. She licked her lips and tried to push down the wave of guilt that washed over her. Crazy to feel that way, just for nicking him with her teeth. It had been an accident—heat of the moment.

“If you’d let go of my hands, I could wipe the rest of the blood away.” Jace’s tone was neutral, all signs of pain and panic appeared to have gone. He’d regained his control, just as she had lost hers.

Moth gazed at the new blood welling from the cut on his bottom lip. She released his arms and pushed away from him, rolling to one side and dragging herself across the room and against the wall nearest the door. Her newly acquired leather jacket was hanging from a hook against the dark wood. She grabbed it and tugged it down, ripping the bronze coat hook from its moorings. Wrapping the material around her hands, she gripped the thick silver chains encasing her legs and pulled.

The metal was heavy and tough—even without the so-called “blessing” (which Moth was beginning to suspect was actually some kind of magical warding)—but she was fast regaining her strength.

The chains snapped, the miniature padlocks shattering into pieces and scattering around her on the carpet.

Jace lay exactly where she’d left him. His injured leg was bent at a strange angle and Moth began to wonder if she should leave him there like that. She shook her head. What the hell was she thinking? She was going soft, forgetting what he’d done to her in the first place. One kiss and she’d completely lost her head.

Flipping onto her feet, she shrugged into the jacket and tried to ignore the faint burning sensation around each wrist. Moth approached the would-be vampire hunter and nudged him with the toe of her boot.

“Okay, Van Helsing. Where does your father keep his trophies?”

He coughed and propped himself up on his elbows. He tried to hide a wince as he attempted to lift himself into a sitting position. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, I don’t have time for this. You cost me …” She glanced at the clock on the bedside table and almost gasped. “Two freaking hours?! What the hell did you plug me with?” She narrowed her eyes. “Forget that. What time will Daddy be home?”

Jace glared at her. “He’s never home before dawn.”

Moth felt the tension in her gut ease. “So … The trophy room?”

“He doesn’t take scalps, if that’s what you mean.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ashes, Jace. Where does he keep the ashes?”

“He doesn’t.”

“Yeah, right. Tell me, or I’ll rip the place apart after I take out your other knee.” She gave him an evil grin. “How do you fancy a wheelchair for the next three months?”

Moth was amazed to see his fingers twitch in the direction of the unloaded crossbow. She brought her heavy boot down on it with a satisfying crunch.

“Tick-tock, Jace.”

“Fine. There’s no trophy room.” He raised his hand as he saw Moth about to reply. “There really isn’t. Dad keeps some funeral urns in the kitchen.”