The Warlord Wants Forever

When Myst stumbled away, Wroth reached for her, but Regin raised her sword against him, piercing several inches into his chest muscle. He didn't fight back—he could hardly feel it—and he had vowed not to harm her family.

He was euphoric. There stood his Bride, putting her chin up as she pulled her shirt closed. Claimed. He stifled an evil grin. With witnesses. She could never go back now. She was his.

His heart pumped madly for her, his blood rushing inside him—and her luscious blood as well. She'd enjoyed his bite, lightning had streaked the sky each time that she came—he'd seen her pleasure. He could give her lightning each time he drank, without fear of turning, without fear of hurting her. No more checking his eyes each sunset.

They could sustain each other. He'd never known greater satisfaction.

Now if he could just get her witch of a sister to cease stabbing him.

'You just had sex with a vampire,' Lucia said. 'Myst, where is your mind? You know the repercussions. You'll be shunned by the Lore, mistrusted.'

Regin added in a deadened tone, 'When Furie rises…'

Whatever that statement meant, it made Myst's brows suddenly draw together. She appeared shocked by everything, as if her sisters' arrival had splashed ice water over her, waking her from a dream. He needed to get her home, away from them.

Suddenly Regin gasped and stared at Myst in horror. 'Oh sweetheart,' she whispered, 'where's your chain?'

'Quickly,' Wroth snapped to Myst as he reached for her, 'take my hand.' Myst obeyed, diving forward to take it. He traced them just as Regin leapt for Myst's legs and an arrow sang for him, hitting him in the shoulder but not staying within him as he disappeared.

Back at Blachmount, he set Myst on the edge of the bed. 'Stay here,' he ordered, then returned for the goddamned bag he'd gone to get in the first place. Just as he arrived in her room, Regin and Lucia bolted up the stairs. 'Give her the chain back, leech!'

'I've claimed her. She's my wife now,' he said simply, then traced with an ease he'd never had, covering the distance as if an afterthought.

Back home, he tossed her things to the side, then took her shoulders. 'Rest, milaya. Take a hot bath and relax here until I return.' She didn't respond, and he didn't want to leave her unsteady from tracing and reeling from the events of the night, but he needed to let Kristoff know that Ivo was in the New World. They needed to hunt him down and destroy him.

As Wroth gazed down at his Bride he wondered how Ivo could not be searching for her.

He brushed her hair from her face, trying to get her eyes to meet his. 'Make yourself comfortable here. Your clothes are here. This is your home now.'

When she nodded absently, her pupils were huge, her eyes stark, and he knew he couldn't leave her like this. He would warm her with a bath then put her in bed.

He ran water, undressed her and set her in it. She sat silently as he scrubbed the dirt and grass from her alabaster skin and held a cloth to her neck, to the bites that marred her.

Suddenly, she turned to him and placed her hands on his face. 'Wroth, you said you would vow never to hurt my family?'

'Yes. I make it again.'

'I believe you. You could've traced and attacked Regin and Lucia tonight and you didn't. But please, if you take more memories from this night, don't give others our weaknesses. Don't allow others to hurt them either.'

Was his first loyalty to his king or to her? She was his Bride, and as he stared into her eyes, he realized that that meant she was his family. Wroth's family had always come first, and nothing had changed except that he'd now added to it.

'If I learn of other factions I will relate that information. But never about your kind.'

She pulled him to her and kissed him softly with trembling lips. 'Thank you,' she whispered against him, then she gave him a shaky smile that made his turned heart do things he never remembered from being a human before.

Her shoulders tensed just as he heard voices sounding from downstairs.

Trespassers in his home. His fangs sharpened. That someone would dare enter his home when he had his Bride within it…'Myst, finish up, then go to the bedroom and wait for me. If anyone comes in that door but me, run faster than you've ever run and escape them.'

He traced downstairs, feeling his muscles tensing, his hands itching to kill. He was strong from her immortal blood, taken directly from her flesh, as powerful as he'd ever imagined, and he would use it to protect her. His fangs were sharp as razors—

'Wroth, I pity the being who wishes to harm your Bride,' Kristoff intoned from his seat at a long table in the great room. Murdoch and a couple of elders sat with him and all their eyebrows rose at his appearance.

As he struggled for control, he imagined how they saw him. His clothing was filthy, his shirt stabbed and shot through, and God help him, Myst's delicious blood marked his skin and clothing. He was fairly certain that she'd gotten in a few sucker punches at his face as well.

'I would not wish to attend you in such a condition. I'll go wash and change—'

'No, we know you are eager to get back to her for the remains of the night.' Kristoff appeared proud. 'Congratulations, Wroth. You've now been blooded and claimed your Bride.' He studied him. 'Recently. Though it appears as if she didn't acquiesce to you.'

Wroth stood, uncomfortable, reminding himself that she'd kicked him like she would spur a horse when he'd stopped.

'I'd like to meet her.'

'She is resting.'

'I suppose she would be. In fact, we'd wonder if she wasn't.' A couple of snickers. Wroth shot them a look and they quieted. 'And you drank her blood this night?'

His eyes narrowed. How had he thought this would escape Kristoff's notice?

'Did you take her flesh as you did so?'

He could do nothing but admit to the most heinous crime among their order. Shoulders back, he said, 'I did.'

'Take off your shirt.'

Murdoch caught his glance, tensing to fight, but Kristoff waved him down, saying, 'Stand down, Murdoch, no one's dying tonight.'

Perhaps Kristoff would only flail his skin from his back. Wroth removed the shirt, hoping. For the first time in his life, he had his wife waiting for him and for the first time he truly cared if he lived or died.

'Toss it on the table.'

Frowning, he did. The elders' eyes widened, their hands going white on the table. Kristoff had scented Myst's blood, and now the others did as well.

'And what was it like, Wroth?' Murdoch asked, his voice hoarse.

Wroth didn't answer. Then Kristoff raised his eyebrow in a silent order.

After a moment, Wroth grated, 'There is no description strong enough.'

'And how did she feel about your bite?' Kristoff asked.

He didn't want them to know how she reacted to that, how it had made her come with an intensity that had staggered him.

Kristoff's stare was unflinching. 'You resist answering your king on the heels of confessing to our most reviled crime?'

This was his Bride they spoke of. He wanted to lie, to say he wasn't sure, didn't know, and he couldn't. Answering this wouldn't be breaking his vow to her, and if Kristoff ordered him killed, he couldn't protect Myst from Ivo. Though it disgusted him, he bit out, 'She found extreme pleasure from it.'

Kristoff appeared pleased. Or even relieved. 'Do you think I should forgive Wroth his transgression? For which one of us could have resisted the temptation when she was our Bride and her exquisite blood called?'