The Vampire Voss rd-1

by Колин Глисон

  Do it.

  He must have gasped, for she moved toward him. “What is it?”

  “No.” He reacted without thought, turning away to hide the flame in his eyes and the swelling in his mouth. His cock shifted, filling. He imagined her naked, filling his hands with her. Tasting her.

  It blazed on him, taking his breath and his voice. Pounded. Squeezed.

  “Vo—my lord,” her voice was panicked. “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, forcing the lie from between clenched teeth with lungs that wouldn’t move.

  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. There was nothing but white-hot, searing agony blazing through his body, seizing his mind. Take, take, take.

  It wasn’t the need to feed, to drink. It was her. All of her.

  He felt her hand on his back, through the two layers of clothing against his Mark. Spinning away, he stumbled into the chair and table. He heard it fall and the clink of glasses and bottle. The smell of whiskey and wine, of Angelica and the layers of men before them in this room filled his nose, suffocating him.

  Now, now, now.

  She had her hands on him, she was half sobbing and shaking him, trying to get him to look at her and he knew, somehow, that if she saw his face, his eyes…

  Her image filled his mind as his hands grasped the wooden planks of the floor. The pain. The pain was…impossible. Nothing like it.

  Have to stop it.

  His fangs thrust long and sharp. His cock hard and throbbing. His eyes hot and burning.

  He knew. How to stop it.

  He knew how to turn the agony into red pleasure.

  His lungs worked again, deep and harsh. The floor was there beneath his knees, so close he could see the mouse dung, the dirt filling the cracks, a button, a thread caught on the splinter beneath his palm.

  “My lord,” she cried again, penetrating his concentration. “Voss.”

  She tugged at his shoulders, and he nearly snarled in response. His arms trembled with effort.

  He had to stop it.

  Angelica pulled at his shoulder, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath. “Voss,” she said again, using his Christian name in an effort to get through to him. What was wrong? “Where’s the pain?”

  What sort of fit was this? The whiskey had dulled her senses, slowed her mind, but she pushed through it, sliding her hands over his shoulders, trying to tug him up.

  At last, he moved, rolling aside, a forearm covering his face as he staggered to his feet, still half turned. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell if he was still in pain—

  “Angelica,” he muttered, and turned, reaching for her.

  She went into his arms and they closed around her. Tight, strong, comforting. His coat smelled like him, and she could feel his heart racing beneath the shirt under her cheek. His body overwhelmed her with its height and power, his face pressed into the top of her head. She felt him vibrating beneath her touch, his foot moving between hers, then his leg pushing into her skirts. His chest rising and falling as if he’d been running. His warmth.

  Too warm. He felt feverish, and she tried to pull back to look up into his face, but he wouldn’t release her, his hands moving to grip the back of her head.

  “Angelica,” he said against her temple. His lips moved there, kissing her hair. His hands tightened, fingers curling up into her loose curls. He drew in a deep breath that she felt shudder throughout his body, as if he were preparing himself for some great feat.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered. “What was it?”

  He muttered something unintelligible, something like Stop.… The next thing she knew, he was kissing her. His full, warm mouth moved along her temple to her cheek, and then suddenly covered her lips. Not gentle, not tentative, but as strong and certain as he was. The world circled and she clung to him, meeting his mouth and feeling the give of her lips against his, the intimate movement as they fit together and shifted and crushed. Hot and slick, his tongue slipped into her mouth and she allowed it, the rush of heat and sensation surprising her.

  This…yes. Yes.

  This was what she’d felt, she’d wanted. This was what his hot eyes had promised, this sort of deep, tingling pleasure that shot into her belly and tightened her nipples and spiraled lower. Lower, to where his leg pressed, hard and strong beneath her skirts. The pressure, the shift there in that most private of places. She swelled and filled and a soft little gasp escaped, just against his mouth.

  Angelica closed her eyes and flattened her hands against his chest, her fingers just over the tops of his shoulders, sliding beneath his coat. The chair bumped behind her legs. She half stumbled, half fell into it, lost in the whirl of sensation. The whiskey and Voss were a potent combination, but she knew what she wanted.

  He moved away, surprising her, leaving her in the chair and she sat up, dizzy and confused, and then felt his hands on her. He was standing behind the chair now, his palms sliding down the sides of her face…warm, strong, deliberate.

  She tipped her head onto the back of the chair, and found that she looked up at him and the smoke-blackened ceiling. She saw the underside of his chin, long and curving and just becoming dark gold with stubble. A hint of his nose, and the tips of his thick hair, gilded by the low lamplight. He stood behind her, his hands easing to her shoulders, his fingers curving under her chin, his thumbs on the sides of her neck, his face, too, turned to the ceiling.

  “Voss,” she murmured, wondering why he’d moved away. The kissing had been delicious…but she wanted more. She was cold and bereft and curious about what lay beneath his shirt.

  His fingers tightened over her skin and she felt each one of them imprinting on her throat, then they slid down…down over her collarbones and the hollow of her throat…into the bodice of her gown. Angelica gasped and tensed, but she found herself arching her shoulders back, the base of her skull resting on the top of the chair as she pushed up into his elegant hands.

  He gave a soft, surprised laugh and bent to her temple, his lips warm and moist, intermingling with her hair as his fingers slipped down inside her corset and shift. They curved around her breasts, the corset tightening around her from behind, a gust of cooler air slipping over her encased flesh. Angelica closed her eyes against the revolving room and let herself feel.

  One thumb shifted, brushing over a tight nipple and she gasped and her eyes flew open, but his other hand moved and he gently squeezed her breasts. His fingers, long and sure, slid and caressed, and his thumbs…they moved around and over the very tops of her nipples. Her body tightened beneath his touch, tightened so hard it was nearly painful…yet she couldn’t deny the ripples of pleasure that streaked down to her belly, over and over again until she realized she was moaning and sighing there in the chair.

  “Voss,” she muttered, reaching up to close her hands around his wrists, pressing them against her breasts, wanting something else…something more.…

  His mouth was hot against her cheek and she felt him change, something shift. He muttered something she couldn’t understand, something like a curse.

  Then, a soft groan, his fingers tightening too much over her flesh, and then swiftly he moved again, yanking free. Suddenly he loomed in front of the chair, over her, dark and wild, his knee shoving into the seat next to her hip.

  She looked up at him, saw his beautiful face dark and taut with pain. His hair, rich golden-brown, falling in his face, his lips parted, his eyes…burning.

  Glowing.

  Angelica gasped, but he surged down, gathering her close, burying his face in her neck, pulling her up by the shoulders with desperate hands. His mouth was hot and insistent, his lips hard, drawing on her flesh in that sensitive spot that made her shift and shudder as waves and ripples of sensation flooded her limbs. She clutched at him, feeling the strength of his leg next to hers, crowding her into the chair, let herself spiral into the lull of intense pleasure and then suddenly…pain.

  She froze, tightening and bowing beneath him,
her hands landing futilely on his powerful shoulders as she tried to twist away.

  Like a prick, a smooth slide, and then the burst of heat.… Hot liquid surged from her skin, exploded from her vein. She felt him sigh and settle against her even as she froze, unable to move as he drank from her. A scream strangled in the back of her throat.

  No.

  She pushed at him, even as the warmth drained from her, tears filling her eyes, horror paralyzing her. Betrayal. Fear.

  Not Voss was all she could think. No. Dimly she let herself go and prayed he wouldn’t kill her.

  9

  A Trust Is Betrayed

  Voss hardly knew what he was doing until his incisors slid into her sweet, warm skin. And then…a burst of heat and pleasure like the shock of lightning. She flooded his mouth, filled him when he swallowed, and his body loosened.

  The agony in his shoulder eased, and he could breathe again. He could almost think.

  Relief. Oh, Luce, oh, God, relief.

  He breathed Angelica, tasted her, touched and smelled the deepest, most intimate essence of her.

  She convulsed beneath him, twitched in that way they did, and he felt the shock and horror as it shuttled through her. His eyes closed and he tasted, gulped the thick ambrosia and felt the resistance leave her. She sagged.

  He trembled.

  Stop.

  No.

  Enough.

  The pain was gone, now that he’d given in, but because he’d begun, he wanted more. Not to feed…but all. He needed her, all of her. His vision still blazed red, his hands shook as they imprinted on her skin…but he turned his head away. Pulled free.

  Somehow, somehow he released her, stumbled back, swiping at his mouth as if he were a child.

  Blood streaked the back of his hand, the smell filled his nose, and he looked at her, fighting the pull, the tempting urge that threatened to draw him back.

  Their eyes met: hers dull with shock and pain.

  Voss wiped his mouth again, swallowed the last bit of her that remained on his tongue. He trembled, his knees weak. But he could breathe.

  Blood streamed from the four bites on her shoulder, in that delicate, soft spot just above her collarbone. It trailed in two crooked lines down into the pink bodice of her gown.

  Voss struggled to clear his thoughts, but the blood—the smell—it filled his mind. Her taste, the soft, smooth flesh under his.

  He turned away. The pain in his Mark had eased, but he wanted more.

  Silence, and then soft gasping sounds drew his attention. Her unsteady breath, not quite sobs. Holding on to the other chair, Voss turned back to see Angelica unmoving. Sitting, ravaged, her hair yanked to one side, cascading over her unwounded shoulder.

  Blood, pumping from the punctures, glistening crimson and beckoning him.

  He swallowed. Saliva pooled in his mouth, his cock still throbbed, filling his trousers. He closed his eyes for strength.

  He had to…finish.

  She reared back, flailing, when he reached for her, but he was too strong and he pulled her out of the chair, yanking her upright, ignoring her struggles.

  He must.

  She strangled out a scream, kicking, wild, but he trapped her between his legs and the chair, grabbed her head and forced it to the side. Her body heaved against his, soft mewling sobs, and her fingers trembled as they pressed into his shoulders.

  He bent to the wounds, holding his breath, forcing himself to think of…something…other than the taste of her blood, the salty citrus of her skin, the feel of her curvy, womanly body struggling against his. The raging of his cock, straining to find her center.

  Finish it.

  With a deep groan of effort, he fit his mouth over the bites and slipped his tongue over the sleek skin, hot with blood and marred by the punctures. He was holding her too hard, his fingers biting into her skull and her shoulder as he slicked healing saliva over her wounds.

  And then, with great effort, he thrust her from him, down into the chair and turned away.

  Done.

  Voss staggered away, wishing for the whiskey or the wine. Hardly aware of his surroundings, he fumbled with the latch on the door, vaguely remembering to leave the red string inside when he opened it—keep her safe—and then he stumbled out of the chamber.

  Out, to freedom.

  Angelica sat in the chair, unmoving, long after Voss staggered from the chamber.

  She wasn’t certain if she was afraid he would return…or afraid that he wouldn’t.

  The wounds on her neck had ceased to bleed, and although they pounded gently as if to remind her they were still there, she felt no real pain or discomfort. The last vestiges of pleasure and the effects of the whiskey had long fled her body, leaving her with the ugly realization.

  Voss was a vampir.

  Some time later, when the sounds beyond the walls of this small, filthy chamber grew louder and more raucous, she stood and moved to the door through which he’d disappeared. Even through the fog of shock and horror, she knew that beyond this door, in the corridor, was a place no lady should ever be.

  Yet another violation he’d visited upon her reputation. It would be God’s miracle if she came out of this alive, and without being ruined.

  Tears, hot and angry more than pained, rolled from her eyes as she pulled at the latch. She wasn’t going to wait for him to return and do whatever he wished. She’d take her chances out there.

  Surely someone would help her call for a hack. Or even send a message for assistance.

  The latch clunked aside. She opened the door to peer out into the corridor and found herself face-to-face with Voss, who stood directly outside.

  Angelica gave a little gasp and reared back.

  His eyes went to her neck, where her hand had flown to cover the marks there. “Stay in there,” was all he said. “I’ve sent for Corvindale.”

  And he shut the door.

  Narcise Moldavi stared out the window of the inn, watching the grooms in the stable yard below. The sun still sat upon the horizon, fat and orange and taunting. So slow to go to bed. It would be more than another hour before they could be on the road again. And until then, she would observe the courtyard, watching for any sign of familiar horses or persons.

  She gripped the shutter and tried not to think about Cezar and what he would do if he found them. Whether he believed she was dead or alive, or had gone willingly or unwillingly, he wouldn’t rest until he found Chas.

  For Chas had humiliated him by taking her—his prized possession. And the last thing Cezar would suffer was being humiliated, by anyone. He’d had enough of that in his youth. And now as a Dracule, he had the means and the power to fight back. Unfortunately he took his fury out on the innocent as well as anyone who’d even done an imagined slight to him.

  She suspected that, despite having been alive for more than a hundred years, Cezar still couldn’t grow beyond the strange, weak boy he’d been.

  Thank the Fates she was away from him now.

  Her fingers tightened and she leaned her cheek against the edge of the wooden shutter. Chas had risked so much for her. How would she ever repay him?

  How could she?

  As if her thoughts had beckoned, the door to the room they’d let opened. Heart pounding, Narcise turned, her muscles bunching and ready. She didn’t relax until she smelled him and recognized his lean, feline form slipping through the opening. Like a shadow, with his Gypsy skin and hair, and ebony eyes, Chas moved and hid in the night as easily as a Dracule.

  “Still watching?” he asked, closing the door. His eyes met hers and she gave a little shiver of pleasure and anticipation.

  What sort of fool was she, a vampire consorting with a vampire hunter?

  A very delighted fool, in fact.

  She nodded and returned his question, and expression, with a smile of which he would only see a hint in the dim light. The single lamp’s low flame flickered in the corner, casting long, sensual golden shadows.

  But he
would understand the message.

  A shout in the courtyard below drew her attention and she turned back, watching with interest as two grooms fought with a high-spirited stallion that apparently didn’t wish to be saddled. Narcise found herself more than a bit sympathetic for the beast.

  Cezar wouldn’t expect her to ever return to England, but even if he did, Chas had assured her that he’d never find them where he was taking her—to a small estate in Wales. He’d recently purchased it anonymously through a man of business. But if Bonaparte did invade, what would happen then?

  She felt Chas move behind her, and then his hand was there, smoothing a long lock of her hair away from her face to behind her shoulder. His other hand slid around to her belly and then angled up to cover one of her breasts.

  As he bent to kiss the side of her neck, in a place that so many others had known, Narcise sighed and reached behind to touch his thick hair. Her breast lifted into his hand and she felt the gentle massage through the man’s shirt she wore.

  As the heat rushed through her body, her breathing rose and her fangs slid free. She was aware of the tightening of her nipples, now being pleasured on both sides by Chas’s long, skillful fingers. He pressed into her from behind, his muscular arms enclosing her, pulling her back against powerful thighs and an unmistakable hardness.

  When she rolled her backside into him, around and against the hard ridge, Chas rumbled a deep laugh into her ear and moved a hand down to press between her legs. The tight riding breeches she wore left little protection from his questing fingers as they slid down and around, cupping her quim. Narcise shifted with a husky little groan, pleasure billowing through her like a tufting cloud. Warm and sleek, she swelled and filled there beneath his hand, her head sagging back against his chest.

  Nothing like the countless other times, with digging fangs and rough hands in darkness.

  This was hot and red and she finally had enough, turning abruptly in his arms. Their mouths met, clashing fiercely and then subsided into gentle, slick kisses.