Roman brushed her long, wavy hair away from her face and she moaned. Stroking her feverish forehead again, he considered calling Zephra, but he knew she would be busy with Marcus. Taking measures into his own hands, he unbuttoned the witch’s black shirt and eased her out of her clothes to make her comfortable and to cool her down. She would be angry at his actions, but he didn’t have a choice.
She murmured again. “Roman.”
Stunned at his name on her lips, he didn’t stop undressing her, but continued to roll, twist, and lift Isabella, until he removed almost all her clothes. She lay exposed to him, in her simple white cotton bra and barely there panties. How utterly Isabella when it came to clothes; she liked plain. Nothing fancy, even though her curves cried out for lace and silk. Studying her long, lean body almost naked for the first time, he trailed his finger over the curves and planes of her delicate frame. Roman wondered how many lovers his witch had taken. The thought of her with anyone pushed him beyond reason and he picked up a handful of her hair, smelling the fresh apple scent.
His erection pressed painfully in his pants. Studying the perfection spread before him like a feast, a wave of selfish desire to claim her rose high and he growled at himself. Standing back, he watched as she rolled on her side and continued to moan in her sleep. Mesmerized by the curve of her hip and expanse of creamy skin, he found it hard to walk away. He folded her clothes, leaving them on the dresser, and strode into the adjoining bathroom to collect a wet facecloth.
Once back in her room, he strolled to the edge of the bed and sat down. As his weight pressed into the mattress, she rolled to face him with her eyes still closed. He dabbed the white cloth over her forehead and she whimpered.
“So good.”
He wondered whether the witch ever considered the cost to him for the bond created between them. Dipping his head, he couldn’t tear his eyes off the pale beauty with her red hair spread out around her like the sunset. Did she realize the picture she created, even sick? He brought the cloth down over her cheeks, her neck—which she arched—and over her rounded breasts. Touching her like this evoked reverence but also torture deep inside him. The wet sheen over her skin told him she needed to be cooled. Roman continued to run the cloth over her curves and hollows. When it dried, he returned to drench it in cold water. He continued this practice for hours, helping to give her sips of water to keep her hydrated.
If Isabella were immortal, none of this would be an issue. He could turn her. He knew her limitations, and no one would be more capable of caring for her through the transition than him. That would be an end of one problem, but opening a viper’s box of others. Besides, he was leaving and wouldn’t be here to assist her. For a new vampire, the change could be terrifying and the surge of power addictive and deadly.
Anyway, it was a non-issue. Isabella would hate him even more than she already did.
Roman stretched his arms and removed his jacket, hanging it inside her closet that contained an array of dark pants, shirts, and a few jackets. A momentary image of her dressed in a blood-red sleeveless dress that caressed her every curve dried his mouth. He stared back at her silky skin and longed to kiss every inch. The desperate need to possess her caused huge arguments with his second-in-command, Lucius, who stood by his side for centuries. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t bedded the witch already. Why? Because throughout all the centuries he existed as a vampire, not once did he respond to a female the way he did with the minx Isabella.
Perhaps Drayton had been right about being a jealous fool.
Watching her chest rise and fall, his eyes naturally wandered to her sweet pulse and he wiped his dry mouth. At first, the witch intrigued him. He spotted her several times, crossing over the borders between their lands. At the time, he followed her for security reasons, but after stalking her, he realized her interest didn’t lie with vampires. He discovered this full-blooded witch was a hunter of monsters and demons. Watching her take her first kill aroused him like nothing before. She took exquisite pride in the attack, ensuring her victim didn’t suffer. He admired a skillful kill.
Weeks went by and he couldn’t stop tracking her. It became an obsession that even having sex didn’t alleviate. Images of the woodland nymph haunted him. When he caught her attempting to fight with a bicho-papão, the monster wrapped his long skeletal hands around her throat so tight, ready to rip her heart out with its savage teeth, leaving him with no choice but to act. Normally, these creatures hunted farther north; she couldn’t possibly know the strength of the beast she fought. For once in his immortal life, he experienced fear. A fear for her life. She wasn’t immortal. Roman intervened at the last moment when her death would be certain otherwise. He slaughtered the beast. But the cause of the witch’s involvement—the child—lay beyond help.
Now—his witch needed him again. She twisted away, arching off the bed, moaning. It took a willpower of titanium not to reach out
