The Warlord Wants Forever

Wroth hid his shocked expression. Kristoff would've normally called for him to be chained in an open field until the sun burned him to ash.

'Continue as you were, but if your eyes turn, know that we will destroy you.' He was still staring at the shredded garment marked by a Valkyrie's blood.

Wroth recovered enough to say, 'I was coming to Oblak tonight to tell you that Ivo was spotted in New Orleans. He's looking for someone—and I suspect it could be Myst. I need to—'

'We'll take care of it,' Murdoch interrupted sharply. 'For God's sake, you stay here and…enjoy… everything.'

'Find out as much as you can from her.' Kristoff eyed him shrewdly as he stood to leave. 'And you will tell us if the memories follow the blood.'

A short, quick nod. As Wroth left the room, stunned from the events, he heard Kristoff say, 'Now which one of you will volunteer to accompany Murdoch to New Orleans where this coven full of Valkyrie is located?' Wroth heard every chair scrape the floor as they shot to their feet.

Like a cat licking her wounds, Myst sat in the large bath, replaying the fight.

Since she'd pulled her punches, she wondered if she could've won, wondered if she'd truly been bested. But then she flexed the fingers of the fist he'd caught. They were sore. They were not broken. He'd held back as well.

She sighed, unable to work up the outrage that should be exploding within her or even concern over the possible threat downstairs. Wroth would take care of it. He was strong. She shrugged, her mind easily returning to tonight's stunning developments. Now her sisters knew her chain was gone and that she'd been claimed by a vampire.

What they couldn't know was how much she'd loved it. His bite had turned her inside out, made her toes curl. Even now she shivered to think of it, knowing something was woefully wrong with her for craving it. It might be twisted, but she yearned for him to do it to her again. And again.

In addition to that, Wroth had taken her as no other had before. Though she acted as if she'd had tons of lovers, she'd actually had only a couple of steady partners. She'd dated a wonderful warlock for centuries, but it was long-distance—in those days, it took a half a year to reach each other—and they'd parted ways amicably. She'd only slept with two others, both long-term, and they'd been fun and enjoyable. But she'd seen a lot, and knew a lot, and she knew Wroth moved and used his body on hers—in hers—in a way that was nothing short of divine. And she believed it would only get better. She shivered again, unable to imagine how she could feel more pleasure without dying. Then there was a very compelling fact…

He'd unchained her where none other could.

Did that mean he was supposed to have it? To have her? Was he supposed to possess her, to command her like a genie with a bottle? She'd always pitied the plight of genies until once when she'd freed one from a young berserker. Instead of thanks, the chit had laid into her, screaming, 'To each her own, lightning whore!'

After Myst dried off, she dressed in an emerald-green, understated nightgown that said neither 'do me' nor 'don't do me.' She lay back in his bed, realizing she was just so relaxed about everything. Strange, but she felt so at home here in this cold, bare mansion.

Less than half an hour later he returned and showered. There'd been no threat? Probably his brother visiting just in time to see Wroth looking like she'd fought him for her life. He should see when she didn't pull her punches.

When Wroth joined her, she wondered if he was going to make love to her again. Their time in the field had only set a fire for her—lit a pilot light, so to speak, as it had never been lit before. She was sore, but if he commanded her not to hurt again…yet he only clasped her into his arms to rest on his chest. She saw he was hard, but he made no advance.

Finally, he curled a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. He drew her hair back to reveal his bites. He let her hair fall, then stared at the ceiling, rumbling the words, 'I regret hurting you. The number of bites, the lack of care before…'

She knew what he meant by the latter—he regretted not taking time to prepare her body and ease into her. When she thought about how he'd learned to do this, or thought about the first time he'd ever realized that he would even need to, she felt a scorching flare of…jealousy—so strong it rocked her. Jealous? When he could never want another but her for the rest of his life?

'I can't believe I lost control like that. I am unused to being blooded. I am unused to being a husband. But I vow to you that things will be different—I will be gentler.'

That statement was the first thing to threaten her lackadaisical mood since she'd returned here. She didn't want their sex to be different. Their sex. Great Freya, was she thinking about keeping him? She would get used to his size, and then she would demand that he be anything but gentle. She couldn't have ordered up a better match for her in bed and she'd be damned if she let him hold back all that magnificent strength.

He was everything she could ever dream of physically. His scars alone…she stifled a moan but her claws were curling. He was a warrior, with a warrior's mentality, which she appreciated. None of her lovers before had been warriors. No, they'd been the warlock, an immortal sultan and an architect. Perhaps that was why she was so attracted to Wroth.

She and Wroth were kindred.

'Speak to me,' he commanded, then immediately amended, 'Will you not speak to me?'

'I want my chain back. I want to choose.' If he gave it to her, she would stay awhile. Her sisters had already seen her screwing a vampire—she might as well enjoy the pleasure for a time.

He moved to his side, pressing her to hers as well. There they lay, gazes locked. Dawn was nearing and she didn't want this to end for some reason. He put his hand on her shoulder and stroked her. His palm was rough from hardships and the grip of his sword, and she relished the feel of it. 'I can't lose you. The very thought makes me crazed. I can't even allow myself to imagine you leaving me.' His hand squeezed her now.

'Are you so certain I would?'

'Yes. I am,' he rasped. His tone wasn't blaming, but more like he was explaining something regrettable but inevitable.

She didn't deny it, because he was probably right. He called himself her husband, but she didn't recognize him as such. She didn't recognize him as the one whose arms she would forever run to get within. She might stay for a time, but in the end she would always go.

Chapter Nine

The harsh light of day. Or night, Myst mused. The harsh light of waking was upon her.

Instead of the shame and disgust she should be feeling, she was treated to big, warm hands massaging her back until she was a boneless heap of bliss. She moaned, her mind dimly registering that vampire lovers might be vastly misunderstood. Perhaps she was in the know and enjoying early-adapter status.

'I have to go meet with my brother for a couple of hours. Can you content yourself here?'

'Uh-huh,' she mumbled.

'Don't leave.'

Huh? She wasn't going anywhere. She was too at home and relaxed here.

He bent down to murmur in her ear. 'I've left clothes laid out. Will you dress for me, milaya?' And then he disappeared.

Strangely lazy, it took her another hour before she finally got up. She raised an eyebrow at what he'd set out for her—a stiff satin bustier fringed with transparent lace that just covered her nipples, intricate garters, fishnet hose and thong—all in jet black. She shivered. General Wroth had a wicked streak.

He wanted her to dress for him, and she didn't have a problem with that—she was pleased that someone would finally enjoy her fabulous silks and lace. And it made a huge difference that he'd asked when he could have