by Laura Wright
“It’s hot,” she said, touching the metal again.
“Yes.”
“I thought it’d be cold. Metal is supposed to be cold.”
He chuckled softly. “It’s a lesson in quick judgment. A cautionary moral.”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover?” she said.
“Exactly.”
She turned around to face him, bracing herself for the heat of his stare, the strength of his presence. But he was no longer behind her. For a second, she wondered if he’d been there at all. Then he called out to her from another room, “Hungry, love?”
She followed his voice, past the hot caramel metal and down a dark hallway. Warm yellow light grew brighter and wider, and she seemed to step inside it, or through it, into a shockingly spacious bedroom suite.
Oh, gods, this was bad.
Petra desperately wanted to take in every inch, every color, fabric, chair, lamp, fireplace, and headboard, but her gaze refused to part with the six-foot-three-inch hard-bodied male who stood in the very center of it all.
Clearly he’d just come from the shower. His black hair was wet and slicked back from his sharp-angled face, making his dark eyes and heavy mouth pop. A white towel was wrapped loosely around his hips, and a few remaining droplets of water glistened on his broad chest and ripped abdominals. It was probably the worst thing for a female trying to pretend she wasn’t hungry for more than blood to see.
She swallowed the saliva that was pooling in her mouth. Pressed back on the tips of her fangs with her tongue as they started to descend.
His eyes flashed with heat. “Do I have time to throw on some clothes?”
“No.” The word was out of her mouth before she could bite it back.
He grinned. Then brought his wrist to his mouth and bit down.
Just the action made her moan, made her knees soften, made her insides turn to liquid.
His eyes lifted to meet hers. “Apologies, love. Maybe you would’ve liked to bite.”
In that moment, it was as if Petra were two beings: the emotionally injured female who wanted so desperately to be cared for and loved but knew she’d never find it here, and the hunter, the vampire, the starved veana in swell who wanted to drink the blood of this male until he begged her to stop.
“Lie down,” she said, her tone almost foreign to her own ears.
Dark brows lifted over darker eyes.
“On the bed,” she continued. “Back to the sheets.”
Syn’s nostrils flared. “Is this feeding time or something else?”
“This is why I’m here,” she said, moving toward him, stalking him like prey. “The only reason I’m here.”
When she stood before him, she took his wrist, cradled it in her hands. She brought it to her mouth and lapped at the blood. One slow stroke with her tongue across his skin. She heard his sharp intake of breath. Oh, gods, the taste was heavenly.
“And I must lie down why?” he asked in a guttural voice.
She looked up and grinned. “I don’t want you to get dizzy.”
“Dizzy?” He chuckled, low and sensually. “Crikey, veana. You underestimate my stamina if you think one feed from my wrist will render me heady.”
Her grin widened. “I’m not just going to feed from your wrist.”
His smile evaporated.
She pushed him back on the bed, upsetting his towel. He didn’t seem to notice—his eyes were locked on her. But Petra noticed. Her gaze flickered to the heavy muscle between his legs. It was surrounded by dark hair, pulsing with thick veins and standing straight up like steel, only the head still covered by the white cotton. Her fangs dropped low and she crawled onto the bed after him. Blood dripped from his wrist and she wanted it.
Gods help her, she wanted everything he had on display.
In her mouth, inside her sex.
She shook her head, tried to think clearly through her fog of feral desire. But it was useless. Hunger ruled every part of her. Only feeding would satiate her now.
She knelt beside him, took his wrist once again and thrust her fangs deep into his vein. She heard him curse, then moan, then curse again. Blood rushed into her mouth, cascaded like the most delectable waterfall down her throat. She gripped him tightly, suckled his skin, pulled and gorged like he was her lifeline, and goddamn it, maybe he was. Maybe that was exactly what he was.
As the hot metallic liquid moved down her throat, catching every inch of her insides, heating them, cooling them, her outside tingled with arousal. She remembered when he’d drunk from her in the tree house. This was the same. The sensuality, the need to be close, the desire to feel him inside her as she thrust her fangs deep.
Was this how it was going to be every time she needed blood? Would she be able to curb this desire? Would she be able to remember who this male was? What he was? And gods, what he was not?
Feeling his vein close, Petra pulled her fangs out and lifted her head. She licked at his wound and watched it heal instantly. It never ceased to amaze her how the power of a Pureblood veana could heal a male.
She lifted her head, found him watching her. His eyes were nearly black, and his own fangs were resting sharply against his lower lip.
“Dizzy yet?” she asked him.
“Not from the blood loss, love,” he uttered darkly.
Her hunger barely satiated, Petra dropped his wrist and leaned in close. She wanted his neck. She loved that vein. The blood from that vein was always the sweetest.
Before she struck, she caught his gaze. It was threaded with desire. But unemotional desire. Detached lust.
She hated it.
And yet her fangs and her belly and the balas all pushed her onward. They didn’t need this male to have emotion or care. They just needed his blood.
“This won’t last, veana,” he whispered suddenly.
Her lips parted, fangs completely descended, she nodded. “I know. Until the balas is born—”
“No. That’s not what I mean. I mean I won’t last. Feeding you.” A soft growl rumbled in his throat. “I need to feed too, or I’ll be an empty husk of shite in a few days.”
Petra shivered at his words. Not with repulsion or irritation or dread, but with awareness. As if her body were separate from her mind. As if it knew on a very basic level what it was meant to do with a male vampire who requested blood.
She’d felt the beginnings of it in the tree house so many months ago.
Now it was a driving force.
“I could take animal blood,” he said. “But you’re vampire. How does animal blood sound to you?”
She must’ve made a face because he laughed and said, “Yes. Exactly. I will need a female’s blood, Petra.”
Her entire lower half went tight and tingly. How was it that just his words, a suggestion, a request, could send her body up in flames? It was so dangerous, how ready and willing her body was to give this male what he wanted. What he required.
“Yes, Synjon,” she said, her breasts tightening at the very thought of his fangs inside her again. “After I take my fill, you can—”
He exploded. “Bloody hell! Never!” He jerked away from her, his eyes going completely black.
“What? You just said . . .”
“I’m not drinking from you.”
It was ice water on a blazing fire, quick and painful. The heat inside her drained out, and she flashed him her fangs. “Something wrong with my blood, paven?”
He didn’t answer.
“Are you kidding me with this?” she hissed. “I’m sitting here, offering myself—”
“There are females available for the task,” he interrupted. “You wouldn’t be right—”
She reached out and slapped him across the face. Hard. Then gasped at her action—her reaction. Stunned, shaking her head, nostrils flaring, she started to scramble off the bed.
“Oh, my gods,” she muttered, embarrassed, sickened. “I’m so sorry.”
“Goddamn it, Petra.” In one easy movement, Syn picked her u
p and placed her on top of him, her legs straddling his hips.
She refused to look at him. She was such an idiot. She got her feet under her and tried to get away again, but he held her backside firmly in his hands.
“Listen to me, veana. I cannot feed from you.”
Oh, my gods, this was torture. “I know, okay? You’ve already made that clear. So why are you keeping me here?” She struggled to get free again, but his grip was like steel. “I’m done.”
“No, you’re not. You want the vein in my neck, and bloody hell, I want you to take it.”
For the first time since he’d placed her on top of him, Petra realized that she wasn’t just straddling his hips—her sex was resting on his cock. His hard, nearly uncovered cock.
Heat surged into her lower half, and she squeezed the muscles in her pussy. She couldn’t help herself. It was such a goddamn tease. She wanted him inside her. Deep. Like he’d been before. Like she remembered. All the way to her womb. Until she lost her breath.
“Take it, Petra,” he commanded, his fingers gripping her tightly.
Her eyes found his and held.
“Drain me.”
She bit her lip. “So you can go find that female to feed from?” she whispered. Christ, she sounded like a meek little mouse, not like a Pureblood vampire with razor-sharp fangs and impossible strength.
Synjon’s eyes filled with heat, and he sat up quickly, catching her when she jerked backward. When they were face-to-face, he gripped her ass in his palms. “I cannot feed from you,” he said through gritted teeth, “because it would take from the balas.”
Her head tilted to one side as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “What?”
“I won’t steal blood from the balas.”
She stared at him. His eyes were so intelligent, hard, filled with passion, and she realized just what he was saying. And what it meant. He did truly care about her child. The idea equally worried and enchanted her, and before she knew what she was doing, she buried her hands in his hair, pulled his head back, and bit his neck. Hard.
“Fuck,” he groaned, gripping her, his fingers pressing into her lower back.
Blood poured into Petra’s mouth, and she drank greedily. Gods, if she could just have his cock inside her while she fed. If he could pump slowly in and out as the blood ran down her throat.
But she couldn’t have that.
He cared about the balas, not about her.
His hands raked down her hips and cupped her ass, drawing a moan from her throat in between swallows. His cock pressed against the seam of her covered pussy, begging for access. And while she continued to drink, she ground herself against him until they were both breathing hard.
“Petra,” he uttered in the sexiest voice she’d ever heard.
Her belly more than full, she eased her fangs out of his vein, then licked the wound until it closed. When she lifted her head and locked eyes with the paven who’d just fed her, she nearly gasped. It wasn’t the Synjon she’d known in the past few days. This one with his curled lip and glowing eyes was still ultrasexual and sharp as a polished blade, but his expression also revealed vulnerability.
Vulnerability that he was attempting to mask.
But Petra could see it was there.
What did it mean? How was it possible? His emotions were gone. Vulnerability was the very root of emotion, wasn’t it?
And then, as if the expression behind his eyes weren’t enough, he brought his hand between her legs and touched her. Lightly, gently, he ran his fingers up and down the seam of the jeans covering her pussy. She stared at him, knowing he felt just how hot and wet she was.
It was too much. The power he had, the desperation she felt. In that moment, with his hands on her body and his eyes claiming her soul, she knew she’d do whatever he asked of her. Anything. Anything to continue to feel this way.
She pushed away from him, scrambled off the bed, and ran out of the room. Her body was on fire, her breasts ached, and juices ran from her cunt like honey from a jar. She knew she was acting irrationally, but she had to get away from him before she melted into a puddle.
She hurried down the hallway, through the living area and into her bedroom. Breathing heavily, her cheeks flaming from his blood, she slammed the door behind her and went into the bathroom. Thank gods it had a lock. She leaned forward and cranked on the water in the shower, then dropped back against the door and slipped her hand into the waistband of her jeans.
She didn’t know if he’d followed her. She didn’t care. All that mattered in that moment was coming, and coming hard. She pushed past her underwear, wished she could rip it off, and found her wet slit.
“Ahhh,” she whispered, turning her head so her cheek rested against the cool wood. “Gods, yes.”
She sent her other hand too, and while one opened her lips wide, the other circled her swollen clit. What she wouldn’t give for Syn’s long, rock-hard cock inside her right now.
Just the thought had her moaning, juices running down her thighs. She stopped the circle movement and started working the ridge of her clit, up and down until her mind went blank.
She heard something on the other side of the door. A knock or a scratch. She couldn’t tell. She didn’t care.
“Getting wet, Petra?”
His voice. That sexy growl carried, even over the onslaught of the shower water hitting the tiles.
“I scent you,” he called. “Through the wood. Fuck, I followed you down the bloody hall like a dog in heat.”
She pulled herself wider, flicked her clit so lightly she groaned with irritation at herself. What was she doing? Prolonging it? Drawing it out as he talked her through her climax?
“I would’ve gladly taken care of that problem, love. All you had to do was ask.”
Panting, she pressed down on her clit.
“Are your eyes closed, veana?”
Moaning, she slipped the fingers that were holding her sex open deep into her pussy.
“Do you see me on my knees before you?” he called. “Do you see my fangs descend? Do you see them bracket your swollen clit as I lick you? My strokes so quick, you lose your breath . . .”
Light flashed on the backs of Petra’s eyelids and she cried out.
“Do you see my tongue sliding all the way down the ridge of your clit? Do you feel it thrusting up inside your cunt, fucking your drenched pussy until you come? All the way down my dry throat.”
Impaled on her fingers, her thumb pressing hard on her clit, Petra screamed. She didn’t mean to. But the feeling, the shock to her system, the words, his voice, it all sent her rocketing out of her body and into the heavens. Convulsing, moaning, she pressed back against the door and just let the waves of climax roll over her.
11
Standing on the other side of the door, his hand wrapped around his cock, Synjon stroked himself in time to the breathy moans of Petra coming down from climax.
It wasn’t what he wanted, how and where he wanted it, but hearing her, scenting her—verbally fucking her—had made him absolutely mad with desire.
He wanted.
Her.
In a way he didn’t understand.
Couldn’t quantify.
Fuck, what was happening to him? he wondered as he let his head fall forward against the wood, his hand moving quicker now. Getting off was a purely physical act. No connection, no intense desire for anything more than a body to move against. And yet . . .
He groaned, feeling the early shocks of climax.
“I hear you,” Petra called through the door.
His dick swelled just from her voice.
“I scent you too,” she said.
“Good,” he muttered. She should know. She should know how physically insane she was making him.
“It makes me hungry.”
Come leaked from the head of his cock. “For blood?” he asked through a throaty groan.
“No.”
“Oh, bloody hell, woman . . .” His strokes quickened.
“For you,” she fairly whispered. “In my mouth.”
That was all it took. Just that simple yet erotic admission for his body to shake and his dick to explode. He cursed and sucked in air as he stroked the come from his cock.
With the last few groans of release, he rubbed his forehead on the door. Back and forth. What were they doing? And what the hell had he allowed inside his home—the very place he was supposed to be welcoming a captive?
“Syn . . .”
Her voice was breathy and pained. Hunger raged within him, and he knew that if she opened the door he was going to pounce, thrust his fangs into her throat like he wanted to thrust his cock into her sex. Even now, the urge to knock down the wood that stood between them and take what his body felt belonged to it was dangerously strong.
He needed to get away from her for a while. Return to being the nonemotional bastard who cared about one thing and one thing only.
Vengeance.
“I’ll be back when it’s dark,” he told her, pushing away from the door.
“Maybe I should go shopping alone,” she said. “Or another night. Maybe you need to find blood—”
He cut her off. Couldn’t hear anymore. Not about blood. Not right now.
“Just be ready, love,” he said, then left the room and closed the door behind him.
* * *
The Order was not gathered at their long table in the reality of sand when Dillon found them. Instead, all nine were in a remote mountain credenti in Colorado. Teaching and preaching, Dillon called it. It was something the Order of old liked to do to keep track of the Pures and Impures inside the credenti walls. Some credentis really dug the visits, especially if they were Impure heavy. Sebastian, the Impure credenti member with the movie-star looks who’d been chosen after all three of Gray’s Impure Resistance buddies refused the position, was an interesting guy. He had a great backstory and worked well as a go-between with the Order, and Dillon was pretty sure Feeyan and the rest of them liked him a whole helluva lot better than they liked her.
And with what she was about to reveal, that moderate amount of dislike was about to get upgraded to full-blown loathing.
Seated in a large chair between two massive pine trees, Feeyan turned away from the ten or so credenti members and their discussion on cold-weather agriculture and looked up expectantly at Dillon.