new wound.
“Let me go!” She thrashed against his hold.
Elizabeth had nearly robbed him of his coveted Bride, had disobeyed his orders—twice—and had
Yet
When she continued to flail, his grip tightened until a cry was wrenched from her lips, and she stilled.
Inhale. Exhale. Saroya was in his keeping, safe for now. Disaster averted.
After long moments, he found his wrath ebbing, the haze dissipating somewhat. He eased his grip but kept her close to him. “Are you done?” he snapped.
Expression mulish, she muttered, “For a spell.”
But in the wake of his anger, the pain of his injuries lessened, drowned out by an excruciating awareness of her. He gazed down into her striking eyes with bemusement.
The feeling was almost . . . hypnotic.
She permeated all his senses. His Bride’s body was giving off an unbearable heat as it trembled against him. Her rapid heartbeat was a siren’s call to him, flaunting its coursing rush. A vein in her neck pulsed invitingly.
Pain? He felt none.
His gaze fell on the silky spill of her hair flowing loose past her shoulders. Dark brown waves made the color of those eyes stand out: smoky gray, framed with thick black lashes.
She’d grown prettier in the intervening years. Curvier. Her hips rounded enticingly, her high breasts straining against that threadbare top.
He rubbed his tongue over a fang as he recalled the first night he’d seen Saroya. She’d been in the woods at a makeshift altar, covered in blood beneath the light of the full moon.
One look at her, and his heart had awakened from its long slumber. Breath had filled his lungs. His shaft had stiffened with a swift heat, demanding its first release in millennia.
He hardened now, remembering how he’d licked her victim’s blood from her sweet skin as he’d stroked himself. She’d stood passive against him—a giving female, the softness to his strength—as he’d shuddered and spilled his seed upon the leaves. . . .
Whatever Elizabeth saw in his expression made her suck in a breath, her cheeks pinkening. “What do you want from me?”
His gaze fell on her neck, his fangs throbbing for that tender flesh.
No, not
Especially not with a worthless mortal, a female normally beneath his notice.
He released Elizabeth, shoving her away from him. Lothaire would slake himself with his Bride alone.
When would she rise?
Saroya had explained much of how the possession worked with Elizabeth. Neither female knew what the other was thinking, though Saroya believed the girl could sense her intentions at times—just as Saroya could perceive changes in Elizabeth.
The goddess found it difficult to rise unless Elizabeth was weakened in some manner, physically or emotionally, or when she slept.
The more Saroya herself slept, the more readily she could regain control of the body.
Yet once the girl began shoving her way back to the fore, Saroya would be overwhelmed with dizziness, blurred vision, and a feeling of movement within the body, a shifting inside.
Lothaire had asked her, “Why can’t you stay in control?”
With her gray eyes glittering, Saroya had hissed, “The mortal’s too strong.”
Now, as then, it appalled him that his Bride was subject to the whims of a human—a situation all too similar to his mother’s.
Until she rose, he’d have to deal with Elizabeth. “Sit,” he commanded her.
Chin raised, she remained standing.
His brows drew together. So few ever disobeyed him, especially not on the heels of his rage.
Lothaire had stayed alive this long by using his ability to predict his adversaries’ moves. He knew how they would behave, oftentimes before they did. His life was an endless chess match, a calculated march taking him ever closer to his Endgame—of kingdoms seized and retribution delivered.
Yet this female continued to prove
“Sit now. Or I’ll return with chains for you to sit shackled.”
She swallowed but didn’t move.
He almost found it a pity that she’d be gone so soon. Breaking her would have been amusing sport. “Very well.” He traced to one of his many hideaways, this one a strategic keep in the Ural Mountains, to retrieve a set of manacles.
Though immortals with untold strength and abilities routinely quaked before him, a powerless human who was not even a quarter of a century old was defying him.
Multiple factions—demonarchies, Horde vampires, Valkyries, Furies, Lykae—hunted him, seeking revenge, or, better yet, his death. As soon as they found out he had a Bride in his possession, they’d target Saroya as well.
Thousands of years spent plotting would soon come to fruition—his Endgame finally achieved—as long as he didn’t get distracted in these final weeks.
He considered the Endgame his master because he served it alone, thinking of nothing else. . . .
No, he wouldn’t allow Elizabeth to alter his course.
He returned with the manacles. The girl had only gotten a few steps away when she froze at the clinking sound.
Ellie slowly turned to him, eyes widening at the sight of the chains in his hands.
When he’d disappeared, she’d thought to escape. Now she trudged to the couch and sank down on it, inwardly pleading,
“Do you fear me, human?” He fingered the links.
Of course she did! He had supernatural powers, he’d just killed, and for some reason this maniac had fixated on her.
But Ellie usually had a good sense about people, and she suspected he would respect mettle. So she answered honestly, “Right ’bout now, I’m pretty scared.” Her accent had grown more pronounced, a mountain twang that thickened whenever her emotions ran high. “But I reckon I’ll work through it.”
“And you fear these shackles?” His every movement spelled menace.
He raised his brows. “I don’t?”
“What if
Surely he’d want to make love to his
After an endless moment, Lothaire let the shackles drop to the floor. The concession didn’t feel like a victory
