Darkness Unleashed

by Alexandra Ivy

  Dragging his lips over the heated skin of her cheeks, he nuzzled the hollow just below her ear, his fingers trailing a determined path down the sleek line of her waist. She shivered in response, her heart pounding so loudly that Jagr didn’t need to be a vampire to hear it.

  He used her telltale responses to guide his touch, intent on her pleasure even as his hips began to pump forward as her strokes became more assured, forceful.

  Oh…hell.

  In over a thousand years, nothing had ever felt so good.

  Reaching the edge of her panties, Jagr ripped the fragile silk away, well beyond subtle.

  He wanted to explore the damp heat he could already sense. He wanted to feel her tremble in need. He wanted to hear those tiny cries of pleasure as he made her come.

  Allowing his hand to slide over the curve of her thigh, Jagr gently parted her legs to allow his fingers access to her most tender flesh.

  Growling low in his throat, he parted her folds and discovered her moist and eager for his touch.

  “Holy crap,” she muttered, her fingers unwittingly tightening on his erection.

  Not that he intended to protest. Instead, he muttered soft words of encouragement as he caressed her with a growing urgency.

  His fangs ached, his hunger roaring through him, but Jagr ignored the burning need to take her blood. The blissful pressure clenching his lower body was swiftly reaching the point of no return. He was fiercely determined to ensure her pleasure before claiming his own.

  Dipping his head lower, Jagr sucked the tip of her nipple in his mouth, using his tongue to tease and torment her as his finger dipped into her slick channel. She whimpered softly, her hand stroking him with greater speed in response to his persistent caress.

  She was close.

  So close.

  Her breath halted, her back arching, and with a soft cry she shuddered in completion, her last lingering tug of his erection causing him to shout as the sensations gathered and the world exploded in pleasure.

  Folding her close, Jagr had to smile.

  Maybe Regan hadn’t been wrong when she claimed she smelled lightning.

  The gods knew he’d just been struck.

  Floating on a little cloud of paradise, Regan made no effort to struggle as Jagr swept her off her feet and waded into the chilled water that ran through the back of the cavern. Not even when he gently but thoroughly scrubbed her with the expensive soap and shampoo he’d obviously brought from Chicago.

  For the first time in her existence, she felt…deliciously pampered.

  Just like a normal woman who was being spoiled by her current lover.

  Lover.

  Regan shivered. Yes…lovers.

  Oh, she wasn’t stupid (okay, that might be debatable), but she understood the basic principles of intercourse, and the fact she was still technically a virgin. Who could watch Pay Per View and not have waaaay too much info?

  Still, it had been…

  Wow.

  Yeah, that about summed it up.

  And while a part of her wanted to blame her bout of insanity on mere pity for a creature who had suffered such agony, she couldn’t make it stick. Not when she’d wanted to have her way with the gorgeous vamp since his orgasmic bite in that hotel room.

  There, she’d admitted it, if only to herself.

  She might not understand why a vampire who was arrogant, aggravating, and only with her because he’d been commanded by his mighty Anasso to protect her, could make her entire body quiver whenever he was near, but there it was.

  And obviously the quiver factor didn’t disappear even after a mind-blowing climax.

  With every sweep of his hands, tiny jolts of awareness tingled through her, stirring the wondrous lethargy that held her captive.

  “You’re very quiet,” he murmured.

  “And no one’s allowed to be the strong silent type except you?” she demanded, keeping her eyes closed. One glance at the impossibly beautiful face and she would be flat on her back, begging for mercy.

  A woman had to have some pride, didn’t she?

  He chuckled softly. “You’re certainly strong enough, but you haven’t struck me as being particularly silent.”

  Her breath caught as his hand outlined the curve of her hip. “I spent thirty years forced to keep my mouth shut while Culligan blathered for hours on end. From now on, I intend to say what I want to say, when I want to say it, and as often as I want to say it.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  Unable to resist, she opened her eyes to meet his coolly amused gaze.

  “If you don’t like it, you can always…”

  Regan didn’t even try to avoid the starkly possessive kiss that stole her words.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he muttered against her lips. “Besides, I know how to silence you when I want.”

  “Arrogant jackass.”

  “Always.”

  With one last burning kiss, he rinsed off the lingering soap, and hauled her out of the water. Then leaving her to dry off with his discarded shirt, he pulled on the faded jeans, a clean black T-shirt (that stretched with oh-my-God results over his wide chest), and a pair of heavy biker boots before disappearing into the outer cave.

  Regan had barely managed to wipe off the dampness and pull on her bra and panties when he returned, his brows pulled into a frown as he held out the bags of her new clothing.

  “I took half the store and there isn’t one decent shirt in there.”

  Well, so much for the considerate lover who had bathed her with such tender care, she wryly acknowledged.

  Yanking the bags from his hands, Regan pulled on a pair of hip hugging jeans, then dug through the mound of shirts to pull out a pretty yellow knit top with a scooped neckline and lace about the hem that barely reached her belly button.

  Pulling it over her head, she smoothed it down and regarded him with a challenging smile.

  “What’s wrong with my shirts?”

  He scowled as his gaze studied the tiny top that clung to her curves.

  “They’ve all been chopped off at the waist and cut so low you might as well not even bother with them.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, the dark ages of keeping women covered from head to toe are long over, chief.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

  He folded his arms over his chest, appearing big and dangerous and…Christ, so heartstoppingly beautiful it made her mouth water.

  Damn vampire.

  “I…” His words came to an abrupt halt at the same moment that Regan froze—an unmistakable scent floating through the air. “Were,” he growled, turning with impossible grace to flow into the outer cave.

  “Salvatore,” Regan clarified, her hackles rising as she followed with less grace and a great deal more stomping.

  Stepping into the large cave, Regan ignored Jagr’s attempt to keep her hidden behind his massive form, instead moving so she could have an uninterrupted view as Salvatore Giuliani boldly stepped through the entrance.

  As always, the King of Weres was elegantly attired in a designer suit, this one in a slate gray with a matching silk tie and pale ivory shirt. His thick black hair was pulled into a tail at the nape of his neck, and his sensuous Latin features were a polished bronze. It was his golden eyes, however, that caught and held attention. They were eyes that held a ruthless intelligence and lethal willingness to do whatever necessary to achieve his goal.

  Including tossing her aside like a piece of non-recyclable trash.

  Strolling arrogantly into the cave, Salvatore deliberately sniffed the air, the wicked glint in his eyes revealing his awareness of their earlier passion.

  “Am I intruding?” he mocked, his voice accented with a hint of Italian. His lips twitched as Jagr regarded him in a frigid silence, his gaze shifting to Regan. “Ah, Regan. As exquisite as ever.”

  Regan didn’t hesitate.

  “You son of a bitch,” she rasped, launching herself across
the cave with a speed that caught both men off guard. Slamming into the startled Were, she knocked him flat on his back and perched on top of his chest, glaring into the too handsome face. “You let Culligan get away.”

  The golden eyes glowed, but it was pure male arousal rather than anger that stirred his inner wolf.

  “Cristo, you are magnificent. Such a pity you can’t bear me an heir. You would have been a worthy mate.” His smile was slow, seductive. “Of course, that doesn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy each other’s company. You haven’t lived until you’ve been bedded by a pureblood…”

  Her eyes narrowed in disgust. “Even think about it and I’ll castrate you.”

  His husky laugh echoed through the cave as he gave a mighty shove and rolled Regan beneath him. Now on top, he smiled into her startled eyes.

  “Oh, I’m thinking about it.”

  He didn’t think about it long.

  The cold blast of fury was the only warning before Jagr had Salvatore by the throat, and was shoving him against the wall of the cave.

  “Touch her again, dog, and they’ll be finding your body parts from here to New Orleans,” he informed Salvatore in artic tones.

  The golden eyes blazed. “Release me, vampire, or you’ll have a war on your hands Styx does not want.”

  Indifferent to the threat, Jagr leaned forward, whispering something too low for Regan to catch before abruptly stepping back and releasing his death-hold on the Were.

  Salvatore growled low in his throat, but oddly didn’t attack. Instead, he smoothed his hands down his Gucci suit and ensured his tie was still immaculate.

  “Have I mentioned how much I hate vampires?” he purred with sweet venom.

  Regan rose to her feet, wondering what the hell Jagr had whispered in Salvatore’s ear.

  “Why are you here?” Jagr demanded. “I called you to Hannibal to take care of your rabid curs, not to socialize.”

  Salvatore met the ancient vampire’s glare without flinching. “I’m here because there’s no proof there are any curs in the area, despite the fact my men have searched for hours. A suspicious Were might begin to conjecture that this is a trap.”

  “I don’t need a trap to kill a Were, king or not.”

  Regan shivered, feeling as if she were standing in the middle of a brewing thunderstorm.

  Not surprising.

  Salvatore was throwing off the natural heat of a furious pureblood, while Jagr’s power was a frigid blast.

  Just like a hot- and cold-weather front clashing together.

  “Christ, I’m choking on the testosterone in here,” she muttered, shifting to stand between the two men. About as smart as stepping between a rabid wolf and feral tiger, but nothing would get done while the two played “who has the biggest balls” game. She regarded Salvatore with an annoyed glare. “You didn’t find the curs because they’re being concealed by a witch’s spell.”

  “Have you actually seen any of them?” the Were demanded, his gaze tracking Jagr as the vamp pressed his large body against Regan’s back and wrapped a possessive arm about her waist.

  Regan swallowed a sigh. It always looked so sexy in the movies to have two men snarling and snapping over a woman. Now she just wanted to punch them both in the nose.

  “One attacked us last night,” she said.

  Salvatore stiffened in surprise. “A moment.”

  Turning toward the entrance of the cave, the Were gave a low whistle. Immediately, two curs entered the cave. One a huge, hulking cur with a shaved head and pit bull face. The other smaller, leaner with short blond hair and a startling intelligent expression.

  In tandem they fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the hard ground.

  “Yes, your majesty?” The bald-headed cur spoke for the groveling pair. “How may we serve?”

  Regan gagged as she turned toward Salvatore. “Oh, you’ve got to be freaking kidding me. I thought Culligan was full of himself.”

  A smile curved the Were’s lips. Smug bastard.

  “Hess has lived among the hunting grounds north of here. It’s possible he will recognize your attacker if you can describe him.”

  “I can do better than that if you have a pencil and paper,” she said.

  Salvatore snapped his fingers. “Max, go back down to the Humvee and find what the lady needs.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Jumping to his feet, the young man charged out of the cave at full speed. Regan shook her head.

  “You really get off on the whole royalty thing, don’t you?”

  “It’s good to be King.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  His smile softened to a wicked invitation. “But not as good as it is to be the King’s…”

  Jagr tightened his arm around Regan’s waist, his power making the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end.

  “Careful, dog,” he hissed.

  “Feeling a little territorial, vamp?” Salvatore mocked.

  “Regicidal.”

  Chapter 9

  A tense silence descended as the two predators huffed and puffed and did all the stupid things males did when they weren’t allowed to kill one another.

  Regan rubbed her hands over her arms, shivering at the painful prickles that brushed over her skin. Holy crap. Things could go nuclear in a hurry, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  At last the gathering storm was broken by the return of Max, who had barely broken a sweat despite his swift run up and down the high bluff.

  “Thank God,” Regan muttered, struggling free of Jagr’s arm to snatch the notebook and pencil from the cur.

  Vividly aware of the tension sizzling between the males, Regan moved to perch on a flat rock. Christ, the air in the cave was so thick she could barely breathe. And it didn’t help that the two curs had moved to flank Salvatore as if preparing for a battle. Why didn’t they just wave a red flag in front of the ancient, lethal vampire?

  Morons.

  Clearing her mind, Regan forced herself to concentrate on the memory of the cur that had attacked them. What was the point in fretting over Jagr and Salvatore? If they wanted to rip each other apart, then so be it.

  She wasn’t about to play Super Nanny.

  Sliding the pencil across the paper, Regan lost herself in her sketch. She was no Picasso (well, who was?), but over the years she’d discovered the trick of capturing an image with the minimum of strokes.

  She had completed the basic outline of the cur’s face and was working on the narrow goatee when she felt Jagr move to stand at her side, his power carefully muted.

  “That’s perfect,” he murmured, a hint of surprise in his voice. “You have a true talent.”

  Regan shrugged. “Not talent, just practice. There’s not a lot to do in a cramped cage besides watch TV, read, and sketch.” With a few more strokes of her pencil, Regan was satisfied and held out the notebook toward Salvatore. “Here.”

  Salvatore moved forward with the hulking Hess at his side.

  “Do you recognize him?” the Were demanded of his companion.

  The cur snarled in recognition, his eyes glowing. “Duncan.”

  Salvatore frowned. “What do you know of him?”

  “He’s a disciple of Caine.”

  Shock rippled over the Were’s handsome face. “Cristo.”

  “Who’s this Caine?” Jagr demanded.

  Salvatore snapped his teeth, his thoughts obviously distracted. “Internal Were business.”

  “It becomes my business when one of your hounds nearly barbeques me,” Jagr snapped. “Why are they trying to kill Regan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jagr stepped toward Salvatore, his body coiled to attack, his fangs glinting in the dark.

  “Don’t try me, Were.”

  Regan shivered, but Salvatore merely arched an arrogant brow. Courage or stupidity?

  Impossible to say.

  “You can flash all the fang you want, vamp, I have no explanation for why the c
urs would be in Hannibal, or why they would have an interest in Regan.”

  “Then what the hell do you know?”

  Salvatore gritted his teeth, but obviously aware that Jagr was preparing to beat the truth out of him (with as much pain as possible), he abruptly turned to pace across the cave.

  “I’ve had reports that a cur by the name of Caine has been gathering curs into a secret society.”

  Regan swallowed a ridiculous urge to laugh. “Like the Masons?”

  Salvatore continued to pace. “From what little information I’ve been able to gather, it’s more like a fatwa.”

  “A holy war?” she demanded.

  “A handful of curs have convinced themselves that the Weres are deliberately diluting their powers.”

  She shook her head. Being raised in a silver cage with only occasional encounters with other demons, she was remarkably ignorant of her people. Something that had never bothered her until a bunch of mangy curs decided to steal Culligan.

  “Which powers?” she demanded.

  Salvatore shrugged. “Their strength, their ability to control their shifts, their lack of immortality. Nonsense, of course. A cur might take on greater strength and a prolonged existence, but in the end they’re merely a human infected by our bite. They are not resurrected to become a full demon as vampires are.”

  So the curs got a glimpse of glory, only to fall short. Kind of like her.

  A mutant with no real place in the demon-world.

  Who wouldn’t want revenge? Especially if it meant dethroning the smug, overbearing, GQ-addicted King of Weres?

  Of course, Caine of the curs couldn’t be very smart if he thought for a moment a ragtag pack would have any chance against any pureblood, let alone one of Salvatore’s power. And why Duncan would imply they were somehow interested in her…

  Her breath tangled in her throat. “Oh.”

  Jagr flowed to her side, as if sensing the outrageous suspicion that flowed through her mind.

  “What is it, little one?”

  “I…” With a shake of her head, Regan turned to meet Salvatore’s searching gaze. “The curs believe a Were could offer them the powers they want?”