Blood Possession

by Tessa Dawn

  Closed his eyes.

  Moaned…a guttural cross between a purr and a snarl, crazy-making in its glory, magnificent in its raw, uninhibited hunger.

  He was pure, primal perfection.

  Everything she had ever imagined a dream lover could be and more. And in this state, it actually hurt to look at him. She reached up to touch his striking face, to trace his harshly perfect mouth.

  Slowly licking his lips, he drew her finger into its warmth, and then he nicked the tip with his fangs—on purpose.

  She gasped and drew back her hand, but her heart raced with arousal…and anticipation.

  There was nothing playful left in his eyes now—just a stark, animal hunger: a need so primitive that it practically radiated from his pores.

  Brooke swallowed hard and watched as Napolean’s fangs extended from the crown of his mouth, his arousal grew to an impossible length, and his eyes began to glow a deep, coral red.

  She held herself still, mesmerized by his power, absorbed in rapt fascination by his…splendor.

  And then he buried his face between her breasts once again and took torturous turns pleasuring one, then the other, until he finally began to work his way down her ribs to her waist…then lower still…

  His tongue took its first taste of her core, and she screamed and bucked beneath him, her body rising off the bed. He held her down with primitive male satisfaction, anchoring her hips to the mattress with arms as strong as a vise as he gratified her with his mouth.

  After the third orgasm, Brooke began to weep.

  Real…inexhaustible…tears.

  He had managed to bring her to climax again and again, producing a greater need for release each successive time, until at last, he had stirred a hunger so fierce that nothing would slake it but the joining of their bodies.

  It was beyond teasing.

  It was pure, unadulterated torture.

  When, at last, she couldn’t stand it any longer, she clutched his arms and dug her nails into his skin. “Why are you doing this?” she whimpered, beginning to feel foolish.

  “Doing what?” he asked in a spirited, husky tone, his eyes boring into hers with deep, feral hunger.

  “You know what,” she whispered. “Teasing me…denying me.” She groaned against his chest.

  Napolean growled deep in his throat, and then he slowly rose up over her body until he was suspended directly above her. “I’m not trying to torture you, Iubita mea. I only want—”

  His voice cut off.

  Brooke held his face in her hands and stared into his luminous eyes. “You want what, Napolean? Tell me now because I’ll never survive this torture.”

  He shook his head, and then he rose up to kneel above her. He lifted her legs, placed them gently over his shoulders, and then, while massaging the backs of her thighs, he gradually pulled her forward until the head of his shaft pressed hard against her core.

  Brooke’s heart stopped beating as she measured his warmth and his size. He was hard as a spear and slick with the first drops of pleasure. She held her breath then…waiting. When nothing happened, she whispered, “What! What is it?”

  The look in his eyes told her he was teetering on the edge of control. “You are mine,” he ground out between gritted teeth. “Say it.”

  She felt the large, blunt head of his shaft prodding against her core, vying for entry, and she could hardly gather her thoughts, let alone speak. Napolean looked positively possessed with lust and passion.

  And love…

  Was that really possible?

  Her heart opened completely then, and she knew her body would follow. “I’m yours,” she whispered.

  His hips ground against her in a harsh circle, and he slid inside, stretching her a glorious several inches before stopping once again. His powerful thighs trembled from the exertion it took to restrain his invasion. “Say it louder, Brooke.” He bit down on his bottom lip. “Mean it.” There was a harsh, almost guttural desperation in his voice, and all at once, she understood…

  This man had a lived a solitary existence for longer than she could conceive of.

  Forever.

  He had carried the weight of his people on his shoulders in stoic silence, and he had seen to everyone’s needs but his own, always putting the concerns of others first. He had protected the Vampyr from both outward and inward threats, leading his subjects through radical changes in time, place, and ideology…without anyone there to stand at his side.

  Or return the favor.

  His power was so immense that all who knew him feared him, making it virtually impossible for him to freely express his wants and needs.

  To openly share his life.

  This was the first time Napolean had ever had a place of refuge or a haven of pleasure, and he needed to know that it belonged to him…

  And him, alone.

  “I’m yours, Napolean.” Her voice was thick with conviction.

  He blinked several times in quick succession, and she knew he was fighting to hold back tears.

  “Forever and always until the end of time,” she added in a whisper. And then she reached haphazardly into his mind, blindly trying to draw information from his memory in a desperate attempt to find a way to tell him what she felt in his native tongue: “Regele meu frumos si neinfricat.”

  She hoped she had said it right: My fearless, beautiful king.

  Napolean dropped his head and surged forward, driving deep into her welcoming heat. A low moan escaped his throat as his shoulders tightened, his head fell back, and he began to thrust in a soulful rhythm.

  Brooke cried out as the heavenly sensation enveloped her. At the overwhelming satisfaction of being filled so deeply by so much raw power. And then, Napolean nuzzled her neck; his lips found her pulse; and his mouth formed a tight seal directly above her carotid artery.

  Brooke braced herself.

  She knew what was coming next.

  The one thing she had feared the most—and anticipated the most—ever since she had learned what Napolean was.

  Ever since she had learned what it meant to be his destiny.

  The bite didn’t come.

  At least not how she expected.

  To Brooke’s surprise, he released the seal—almost as if he had changed his mind— and began to kiss her sweetly … reverently … along her vein, descending ever so slowly toward her collarbone.

  Then lower still.

  Until he paused, perched just above her left breast, raised his head, and met her impassioned gaze with a fierce, feral hunger of his own.

  Their eyes locked in something so primal—so ancient and fundamental—that it robbed her of breath.

  And then he bit her.

  Not in the throat.

  Not in the carotid artery.

  But right through the soft flesh of her breast—penetrating her heart in one swift, almost serpentine motion.

  The orgasm that tore through Brooke’s body was positively mind-numbing. She was certain every male and female in Dark Moon Vale heard her scream, and she prayed that Napolean had used his nearly celestial power—as she suspected—to keep the baby sleeping.

  She tried hard to be quiet, but she just couldn’t suppress her pleasure.

  The climax wouldn’t stop.

  As long as Napolean’s mouth tugged at her heart, her body continued to shatter into a million pieces. It contracted and released in powerful waves of ecstasy. It vibrated—almost violently—as if there were a million bolts of electricity pulsating through her core…all at once.

  She writhed and bucked and cried out. She ripped at the sheets, pulled his hair, and scored his back with her fingernails, but he still continued to drink…taking long, drugging pulls like a man possessed until, at last, he had taken his fill.

  Until it was crystal clear to Brooke that he was not, in fact, human but a powerful, dominant male—an amazing preternatural being—claiming every aspect of the female he called his own. Demanding nothing less than her absolute surrender.
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  “Yes, yes…yes,” she whimpered as tears of release poured down her cheeks. “Oh gods, yes…”

  Napolean reacted voraciously to her cries of pleasure: He retracted his fangs, drew her hips into a fierce, iron hold, and began to pump furiously—almost feverishly—into her body. The crimson essence of her heart stained his beautiful mouth as he panted and groaned, and then he threw back his glorious head and shouted his release as his powerful seed pumped over and over inside of her.

  They both collapsed in exhaustion. And utter contentment.

  Taking Brooke with him, Napolean rolled onto his back and held her tightly against his chest. Whispering soft words of endearment in her ear, he raised his free arm to his mouth and scored his wrist with his fangs, causing blood to trickle out in a steady rivulet.

  “The heart is the sweetest of all delicacies,” he purred, “but I’m afraid you may have lost too much blood.” He placed his wrist to her mouth and gently stroked her hair with his other hand. “Drink, my love. Replenish your body with the strongest blood of our race.”

  Brooke knew that she should have been revolted.

  That whatever part of her had once been human should have rebelled at the thought of drinking blood, but the feel of him, the smell of him, the power of him was just too addictive.

  She wanted it all, and she wanted it forever.

  As if she had done it a thousand times before, Brooke latched onto Napolean’s wrist, formed a seal with her lips, and drank. As renewed vigor coursed through her body, she gently closed her eyes…and drifted off to sleep.

  twenty-five

  Kagen Silivasi swept his hands through his dark brown hair and stared at the date and time on the stainless-steel clock: Sunday, 12:05 p.m. His youngest brother, Nachari, rested peacefully beneath the starched white linens of the adjustable hospital bed—in fact, Nachari looked almost too tranquil, too lifeless—and Kagen had the overwhelming urge to check his vital signs…again.

  But he already knew what they would say.

  Heart rate, steady. Blood pressure, good. Respirations—even.

  They would be the exact same as they had been five minutes ago.

  And five minutes before that…

  He rose from his bedside chair and began pacing.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Kagen,” Marquis grumbled from the back of the room. He copped a lean against the far wall—for all intents and purposes, he looked calm and relaxed—but Kagen knew his eldest brother was a powder keg ready to go off at the slightest provocation.

  “I’ve got too much energy,” Kagen argued. “I can’t just sit here.”

  Nathaniel Silivasi, who was seated on the opposite side of Nachari’s bed, shifted impatiently in his chair. He crossed and uncrossed his legs at least three times as if he couldn’t get comfortable. “Both of you need to go and get some air,” he suggested.

  “And leave Nachari here alone?” Kagen asked. His voice was sharp with irritation, his own temper far too fragile. “And what if he wakes up?” he snarled. “I don’t think so, brother.” Needing something to do with his hands, he headed toward the porcelain sink in the corner of the room.

  Nathaniel refused to be baited. “It was just a suggestion.”

  “Yeah, well,” Marquis said, “when we want some advice, we’ll ask for it.”

  Kagen washed and dried his hands, tossing the crumpled paper towel into the wastebasket. He leaned casually against the counter and stared at Nathaniel, who rested his elbows on his knees and intertwined his fingers in order to form a chin rest. Kagen thought his twin looked tired: His dark, shadowy eyes—as deep as the night and just as troubled—were heavy with concern. And fatigue.

  “So, this is how we’re going to play this?” Nathaniel asked, speaking to no one in particular.

  “Play what?” Marquis snapped.

  Nathaniel met Marquis’s steely gaze. “Deal with this … tragedy.”

  The room fell silent.

  “By tearing into each other…because there’s no one else to go after,” Nathaniel added.

  Marquis pushed off the wall and walked to the foot of the bed; he covered the ground in two even strides. “I’m not the Master Healer—the one who said he could bring him back. Give me someone to kill, and I’ll handle it. Unfortunately, Nachari needs a doctor.”

  Kagen’s fangs shot from his mouth with deadly intent. He felt his normally dark brown eyes flash with heat, and he knew they were glowing a deep, crimson red. “What the hell is your problem, Marquis?” He came within mere inches of the Ancient Master Warrior’s face, his muscles twitching in anticipation as they stood nose to nose. “That’s a hell of thing for you to say to me!”

  Nathaniel jumped up from his chair. “Whoa…whoa…my brothers…”

  Marquis held up his hand and took a step back, a rare sign of retreat—and respect—offered in the heat of the moment. “Forgive me, Kagen.” He grabbed two fistfuls of his own hair and tugged in frustration. “I don’t know what I’m saying.” The words had barely left his mouth when he pounded an iron fist into the back wall of the room, sending drywall and metal splintering in all directions.

  The clinic was a fortified stone structure—a virtual fortress excavated from solid rock—covered in drywall and plaster only to give the appearance of being a normal, aesthetically pleasing building. Knowing that the sons of Jadon were directly connected to the earth through their powerful emotions—that an intense bout of anger, rage…or grief…could set off anything from an earthquake to a flood—the clinic had been carefully constructed out of the side of the red cliffs in an effort to contain the intense fluctuations of energy.

  Marquis’s fist was broken and bleeding as he drew it back—only to slam it home again.

  Nathaniel moved swiftly…but carefully. He placed one firm hand on Marquis’s shoulder and another on his straining bicep to stop him from slamming it home a third time. He opened his mouth to speak, and then he closed it. Apparently, he knew better than to say anything that might further set Marquis off. No doubt, he had no desire to trade places with the wall.

  Kagen couldn’t let the subject go that easily. “Do you really blame me for this, Marquis?”

  Marquis growled. He shrugged free of Nathaniel’s grip and went back to leaning casually against the wall, ignoring the steady droplets of blood that fell from his broken hand onto the sanitary tile floor. Despite the casual pose, he looked like a tightly packed stick of dynamite, all lit up with sizzling fire, burning on a finite fuse, and destined to explode.

  “Do you?” Kagen asked again.

  Marquis waved his good hand in a dismissive gesture. “No.”

  Kagen wasn’t convinced. “Brother, I have to know if—”

  “No.” Marquis’s eyes met Kagen’s in an apologetic stare. They were pained with frustration and ripe with regret. “I should have never said that.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “If anything, I blame myself.” He let out a deep breath. “Hell, Kagen. I just want to kill someone. But not you—never you.”

  Nathaniel seemed to relax a bit. He took his seat and stared at the quiet body lying so peacefully on the bed. “What the fuck went wrong?” The question was rhetorical.

  Kagen returned to Nachari’s side. He sat down on the bed, reached for his wrist, and began to take his pulse…again. He had to do something. “I don’t know, but whatever it is…it’s really, really wrong. He looks so serene, but he’s not at peace.”

  “Do you think the dark lord somehow…got him?” Marquis asked, his voice betraying his dread.

  Nathaniel whistled low beneath his breath and shuddered. “I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it, but did you guys see Napolean’s face Friday night?”

  They both nodded.

  “He felt something. He sensed something—I’m sure of it. And whatever it was, it was too awful to speak of.”

  Kagen recorded Nachari’s pulse on his chart, wondering why the hell he was bothering with such useless and redundant behavio
rs: Had he totally lost his grip on reality?

  Marquis pumped his fist, testing his broken fingers. “Someone has to go after him.”

  “Go after him?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Yeah,” Marquis answered, “follow him into the spirit world. Maybe if you or I took Niko or Jankiel with us—”

  “Nachari might be a wizard,” Nathaniel interrupted, “but he’s one of the strongest fighters I know—a true warrior in his own right. Whatever happened, if he could have fought his way out of it, he would have.”

  Marquis grumbled. “He is not my equal, Nathaniel. Nor yours.”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “You’re going to die, too, brother?”

  Marquis shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.”

  Nathaniel smiled then, although the light never reached his eyes. He gestured toward the door. “Your wife is right outside that door, Marquis, and your son is home with his nursemaid. Would you leave Ciopori without a mate? Would you allow Nikolai to grow up like Nachari and Shelby did—without a father to teach him?”

  Marquis threw his hands up and sighed. “Then what are we going to do?”

  Nathaniel frowned and looked away. He grasped Nachari’s hand and clutched it in a grip that was probably too tight, but Kagen wasn’t about to say anything. “Where are you, brother?” Nathaniel whispered. “It’s time to come back.”

  Kagen scrubbed a hand over his face. He had to get the hell out of there—he was coming apart.

  Time to come back?

  It was way past time to come back!

  It had been four days now, and while Kagen was working overtime to keep oxygen flowing to Nachari’s brain, to force his lungs to expand and contract with air, he still knew the truth of the matter: Technology—and technology, alone—was all that was keeping Nachari…viable. He wasn’t alive. His spirit no longer inhabited his body. And the moment his family stopped forcing the issue, they would have to face the inevitable.

  “Damnit!” Kagen shouted, jumping up and heading for the door. “I’ve got to get some air.” He tried to ignore the stunned faces of his brothers as he reached for the doorknob. It would be the first time since Nachari…had left his body…that Kagen had left Nachari’s side. And his outburst was certain to betray a deeper truth: As Nachari’s brother—and his doctor—Kagen was losing hope. “I’ll send Katia in behind me,” he murmured, trying to salvage their confidence. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes.” One glance at his brothers’ faces told him he had failed: Nathaniel’s skin was pale, and Marquis’s eyes were stricken with horror.