Lothaire

“Elizabeth,” he bit out, his voice raw, his expression crazed.

Maybe she could touch him, could satisfy her curiosity, and he wouldn’t even remember. “Can I . . . can I touch you?”

He shuddered, then hissed, “Yes. Touch. Me.”

To test the waters, she brushed a straight length of hair from his face. When he merely moved closer to her, she tentatively laid her palms on his chest, against his freezing skin. Where had he traced to? What snowy land?

He flinched, even as his muscles leapt to her touch. “Elizabeth,” he rasped brokenly, “you scald me.” She was about to drop her hands when he ordered, “More.”

“O-okay.” She fanned her fingers over his chest, inching her hands out until they lay over his rigid pecs, his flat nipples.

She didn’t understand this man, this evil vampire with his anguished eyes. He still hadn’t placed his hands on her. Because he feared to? “If I lose control . . .” he’d warned her.

But she sensed that she calmed him, that she affected him physically—and mentally.

Sure enough, his agitation began to ease, his lids going heavy.

Ellie was just as affected. She grew enthralled with the ridges flexing beneath her fingertips, begging to be explored.

When she sifted her nails through the golden hair on his chest, his hooded eyes closed.

“Is this better?” Her voice was embarrassingly throaty. But she’d been aching for contact for half a decade— how could she not appreciate a man like him?

All tousled hair and bulging muscles.

Seeming to wake, he gave her a hate-filled look. He swiped her hands away with a muttered curse, then strode toward the kitchen.

Since he didn’t trace, she figured he wanted her to follow him.

She stared with reluctant awe at the sculpted planes of his back, the way they tapered down to those narrow hips. . . .

Even his walk is sexy. Lothaire walked like she imagined a powerful king would.

In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, leaning on the door as he withdrew a pitcher of blood. It looked like a cream pourer in his big hands.

He turned up the carafe, gulping its contents while Ellie sank into a chair, staring in fascination.

She saw him glance at her out of the corner of his eye, knew he noted her breaths shallowing, her cheeks flushing.

Now that she’d touched him, she was even more attracted to him. Flying-into-a-lightbulb attracted.

Maybe he was a tad less intimidating without his fancy tailored clothing and expensive boots? And his chugging out of a pitcher at the fridge was so normal, so masculine, she couldn’t help but respond.

Even when a line of blood ran from the corner of his lips.

Vampire. Blood. Still, she couldn’t look away. How can this sight be wetting my whistle?

When he finished, he ran his forearm over his mouth, over the stubble on his chin. “Look your fill? Grope your fill? Don’t worry, I’m accustomed to women of all species lusting after me.”

She felt a flush of embarrassment, but curbed it. Ellie had an expiration date on her life that was closing in fast; she couldn’t waste a minute being embarrassed over anything.

And she resolved not to beat herself up because she was attracted to a deadly, vampiric maniac that she yearned to kill.

Ellie tilted her head in a considering manner, saying honestly, “Well, at least you’re pretty on the outside.” At his expression, she said, “Oh, come on. In all of your endless life, no one’s ever insinuated that you’re ugly on the inside?”

* * *

Those weaker than Lothaire didn’t make a habit of insulting him. Of course, she wanted to die. “You won’t provoke me into killing you,” he said, adding, “this evening. But court my wrath, and I’ll punish you in other ways.”

His wrath was at the ready, his mood foul. Though he’d slept for hours, the only memories he’d dreamed—or experienced firsthand—were his own, something that hadn’t happened in ages.

Which meant he’d reaped no new information about the ring’s whereabouts.

If he couldn’t access Declan Chase’s memories, he’d be forced to set off searching for the ring all over again.

When he’d first taken his uncle’s advice and drunk “live” immortal blood from the flesh, Lothaire had accepted the risk: madness.

But he’d convinced himself that his mind was too strong to be overly afflicted. Perhaps he’d grow more fiendish, his conscience further eroded.

He’d never expected the sleep-tracing and the rages, the times when he couldn’t hear an enemy sneaking up on him because of the thundering of his heart.

He’d never expected to lose his strategic abilities. In the past, he’d easily contrived multiperson, decades- long plots, foreseeing each player’s move as if they were chessboard pawns.

Now mere puzzle solutions eluded him. He could rarely sleep. When he did, he couldn’t filter through his dreams to get to the information he needed.

Also strange? He hadn’t experienced Elizabeth’s memories at all. She was his latest take, so why hadn’t he seen hers?

The only good that had come from his rest was that his injuries had healed completely. At his age, he could go weeks between feedings, but regeneration had left him starved.

He poured more of the cool blood into a glass—glug, glug. He would leisurely drink it in front of the mortal, just to fuck with her.

But she didn’t comment on his breakfast, only said, “I didn’t find anything in here that I’d care to eat.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll feed my new pet.”

“Pet?” Her eyes glittered. “I never knew I could hate someone as deeply as I do you.”

“I often help others discover the outer limits of their hatred. It’s a talent of mine.” Musing on his own perplexing situation, he said, “It must confuse you to desire a male you despise.”

“No, I figured out what’s happening.”

“I’m unwillingly intrigued. Tell me what your little mortal brain fie-gered out,” he said, imitating her drawl.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve always liked men. Before prison I had boyfriends enough, went parking every weekend.”

Jealousy flared inside him, though he’d be damned if he knew why. Elizabeth wasn’t his.

As if remembering a former boyfriend, she gazed past Lothaire. Her eyes gone languid, she twirled a lock of hair, running it over her plump bottom lip.

That hair. Those lips—

“Miss me some parking,” she absently murmured, a blush spreading along her high cheekbones. “Hot, hectic . . . parking.” Just when he was about to smash something, she met his gaze. “In the last five years, I’ve seen a total of nine men. Think about that for a second. Then you’ll understand how even you can look good.”

“Even I?” His tone was scoffing. “My natural attributes would have nothing to do with that?” He gestured at himself, indicating his faultless physique.

He’d grown to be perfectly wrought.

Exactly as promised.