Now lust seethed inside him.
“Whoa! Your eyes are getting even . . . weirder.”
Most of the time, he had difficulty discerning his victims’ memories from his own. When he slept, he uncontrollably traced to strange locales, as if sleepwalking. With increasing frequency, he’d been overwhelmed by rages.
One beckoned even now. “I want Saroya to rise,” he told the human.
“Can’t you take
“She’s no more a demon than I am! Saroya the Soul Reaper is the goddess of death and blood, the Vampire Horde’s ancient deity.”
“V-vampires?” Elizabeth whispered as she unsteadily stood. “Are you . . . you’re not a
He bared his fangs.
“You . . . you drink from people? Bite them?”
He enunciated, “Delightedly.” Though not without express purpose, not any longer. His last prey had been calculated—Declan Chase, his jailer. The man would know where the Ring of Sums had been taken. Lothaire needed only to sleep to experience Chase’s memories in dreams. . . .
Elizabeth put her hands to her knees, panting her breaths. “No sun. That’s why the curtains are drawn so tight. A
His gaze locked on it, hunger racking him. He’d been injured repeatedly. Surely that was the only reason why he wanted so badly to sample her.
Not because the scent of her blood was exquisite . . . making his cock swell in his pants and his fangs sharpen. He ran his tongue over one, savoring the spike of his own blood.
Elizabeth cried, “Look at you!”
He hadn’t allowed himself a taste of her before. Her blood would serve no purpose, might put him over the edge. But gods, its call was irresistible.
“You’re not gonna bite me! Come near me with those fangs of yourn, and I’m gonna knock ’em out—”
He was behind her in an instant, one arm looped around her waist. With his free hand, he fisted the length of her shining hair and yanked her head to the side. Her pulse fluttered before his eyes.
How many times had he hungered for flesh but denied himself?
Yet never had his fangs throbbed like this, dripping to penetrate her. . . .
“Don’t touch me!” She thrashed, digging her nails into his arm, but he enjoyed his enemies’ struggles. Always had.
He raked a fang down the golden skin of her neck, cutting a shallow length, blood gently pooling.
Voice gone hoarse, he said, “I’ll like it more if you fight. You’ll like it more if you don’t.”
Scores of women—and men—had enjoyed his bloodtaking. It made
Mortals seemed particularly susceptible. Many came in his arms.
Would Elizabeth? The idea made him harden even more. He dipped his head, mouth closing over the fine wound. When his tongue touched a drop of blood, his body jerked as if lightning-struck.
A searing current seemed to electrify every vein in his body. . . .
“Wh-what are you doing to me?”
He licked the seam again and again, wanting to roar when she began trembling, her resistance easing.
She leaned into him, her back pressed against his aching shaft. When he snatched her tighter still and ground it against her, she moaned.
Yes, mortals liked his bloodtaking, but she was
“Oh! Ohhhh, no. . . . Oh, please!” Her voice was throaty, her breaths shallow.
Yet just when he’d widened his jaw to pierce her neck for more, she began fighting again. “No, not now!”
Lothaire tore his mouth away, saw her face go even paler.
She swayed on her feet. “Not
Saroya was rising! “Don’t fight her, girl!” he commanded, yanking Elizabeth upright.
“No, no, no—” Her lids slid shut.
He caught her against him, turning her in his arms. “Saroya,
After a long moment, her eyes opened, narrowed; then her palm shot up to crack across his cheek. “How dare you leave me to rot in prison, you filth! I’ll play with your spleen before the night is through.”
“Saroya,” he grated, barely keeping his rage in check. Inhale, exhale. “Ah, my flower. I’ve missed you too.”
6
When Saroya drew back her hand to strike Lothaire’s smirking face again, his expression turned deadly. “Once was forgiven, goddess, but twice would prove unwise.”
Her hand faltered. Lothaire was a notorious killer, and as long as she was trapped in this mortal shell, Saroya was vulnerable.
Though her spirit would continue on after this human’s death, just as it always did,
Galling.
“Release me, Lothaire.”
Without a word, he did. She took a step back, surveying him for the first time in years.
Of course he’d changed little, frozen for all time into this immortal form. He was at least six and a half feet tall, lean but muscled. His features were flawless, gold stubble covering his wide, masculine jaw and strong cleft chin. His pale collar-length hair was thick and straight—now stained with blood. “You killed? Without waiting for me?”
“To effect your escape from prison, yes.”
Finally out of that hellhole!
She scanned her surroundings, finding them scarcely better. The area was decorated with a subtle flair, rich colors and fabrics of obvious expense, but it was uncluttered—aside from a pile of smashed marble and various shattered vases.
Saroya preferred flashy ornamentation, the elegance of a tomb filled with sacrifices to her, piled high with flesh trophies and bones.
Shimmering black silk against blood-spattered granite.
“Where have you taken me?” she asked in a pained tone.
“New York,” he answered. “To one of our homes.”
“I assume we have many.”
“We own mansions, villas, châteaus. Any dwelling you desire will be yours.”
As if she needed him to tell her that. She glanced down at her arm, at a drying track of red. “Did you
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You know I can’t lie, Saroya.” Natural-born vampires were physically incapable of it. Whenever a lie arose, a vampire would feel the
