by J. R. Ward
"Yes, you can," he said softly. "But that's not the point."
"Did you have sex with her?" she asked.
His eyebrows flickered. "Last night?"
She nodded. "When you feed, do you make love to her?"
"No. And let me answer your next question. I'm not sleeping with anyone but you right now."
Right now, she thought.
Beth looked down at her hands, feeling stupidly hurt.
"Let me feed you," he murmured. "Please."
Oh, grow up, she told herself. They were adults. They were tremendous in bed together, and that was more than she'd ever had from a man before. Was she really going to walk away just because she was going to lose him?
Besides, even if he promised her a rosy future, a man like him wasn't going to stick around. He was a fighter who ran with a pack of guys just like himself. Home-and-hearth stuff would be boring as hell to him.
She had him now. She wanted him now.
Beth tilted forward in her chair, opened her mouth, and put her lips around the strawberry, taking it whole. Wrath's nostrils flared as he watched her bite down. When some of the sweet juice escaped and dripped onto her chin, he hissed.
"I want to lick that off," he muttered under his breath. He reached forward and took hold of her jaw. Lifted his napkin.
She put her hand on his. "Use your mouth."
A low sound, from deep inside his chest, cut through the room.
Wrath leaned toward her, tilting his head. She caught a flash of his fangs as his lips opened and his tongue came out. He stroked the juice from her skin and then pulled away.
He stared at her. She looked back at him. The candles flickered.
"Come with me," he said, holding out his hand.
Beth didn't hesitate. She put her palm against his and let herself get drawn up from the table. He took her into the drawing room, over to the picture and through the wall. Down the stone staircase they went, his presence immense in the darkness.
When they got to the bottom landing, he led her into his chamber, and she looked at the bed. It had been made, the pillows neatly lined up against the headboard, the satin sheets smooth as still water. Her body flushed as she remembered what it had felt like to have him on top of her, moving inside of her.
They were headed there again, she thought. And she couldn't wait.
A deep growl made her look over her shoulder. Wrath's gaze was leveled on her as if she were a target.
He'd read her thoughts. He knew what she wanted. And he was prepared to deliver.
He walked up to her, and she heard the door shut and lock. She looked around, wondering if there was someone else in the room. There wasn't.
His hand went to her neck, and he angled her head back with his thumb. "I've wanted to kiss you all night long."
She braced herself for a hard one, ready for all he could give her, except that when his lips came down on hers they were languorous. She could feel the passion in the taut lines of his body, but he clearly refused to be hurried. When he lifted his head, he smiled at her.
She was totally used to the fangs, she thought.
"We're going to take this slow tonight," he said.
But she stopped him before he kissed her again. "Wait. I have something I have to… Do you have any condoms?"
He frowned. "No. Why?"
"Why? Ever hear of safe sex?"
"I don't carry those kinds of diseases, and you can't give me anything."
"How do you know?"
"Vampires are not susceptible to human viruses."
"So you can have sex all you want? Without worrying about anything?"
When he nodded, she found herself feeling a little ill. God, how many women he must have—
"And you're not fertile," he said.
"How do you know that?"
"Trust me. We'd both know if you were. Besides, you won't have your first needing for another five years or so after the change. And even when you're in it, conception isn't guaranteed because—"
"Hold on. What's this needing thing?"
"Females are fertile only every ten years or so. Which is a blessing."
"Why?"
He cleared his throat. Actually seemed a little embarrassed. "It's a dangerous time. All males respond on some level if they're in the vicinity of a female in her need. They can't help themselves. Fights can break out. And the female, she, ah… the cravings are intense. Or so I've heard."
"You don't have children?"
He shook his head. Then frowned. "God."
"What?"
"To think of you going through the needing." His body swayed, as if he'd closed his eyes. "To be the one you used."
Sexual heat came out of him in a rush. She could actually feel a hot gust move the air.
"How long does it last?" she asked in a husky voice.
"Two days. If the female is… serviced well and fed properly, she rebounds quickly."
"And the man?"
"The male's totally used up when it's over. Milked dry. Drained of blood, too. It takes longer for him to recover, but I've never heard one complain. Ever." There was a pause. "I'd love to be the one who relieves you."
Abruptly, he stepped back. She felt a cold draft as his mood changed and the shifting heat dissipated.
"But that will be some other male's duty. And privilege."
His cell phone started ringing.
As he tore it out of his inner pocket with a snarl, she felt for whoever it was.
"What?" There was a pause.
She headed for the bathroom to give him some privacy. And because she needed a little herself. The images in her head were enough to make her dizzy. Two days. Of nothing but him?
When she came back out. Wrath was sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, brooding. He'd taken off his jacket, and his shoulders looked very wide in that black shirt. As she approached, she caught a glimpse of a handgun under the coat and shivered a little.
He looked up as she sat beside him. She wished she could read him better and blamed the dark lenses. Reaching out to his face, she stroked the harsh cut of his cheek, the strong length of his jaw. His mouth opened slightly, as if her touch made him short of breath.
"I want to see your eyes," she said.
He pulled back a little. "No."
"Why not?"
"Why do you care what they look like?"
She frowned. "You can be hard to read with those glasses on. And right now I wouldn't mind knowing what you're thinking."
Or feeling, even more important.
Finally, he shrugged. "Suit yourself."
When he made no move to take off the lenses, she reached up to the temple pieces and slid the sunglasses from his face. His eyelids were down, his lashes dark against his skin. He didn't open his eyes.
"Won't you show me?"
His jaw tightened.
She looked at the glasses. When she lifted them to the candlelight, she could barely see through them at all, they were so dark.
"You're blind, aren't you?" she said softly.
His lips curled back, but not in a smile. "Worried that I can't take care of you now?"
She wasn't surprised by the hostility. She imagined a man like him would hate any weakness he had.
"No, I'm not worried about that at all. But I would still like to see your eyes."
With a flash of movement, Wrath dragged her across his lap, holding her off balance so it was only the strength of his arms that kept her from hitting the floor. His mouth was set in a grim line.
Slowly, he lifted his lids.
Beth gasped.
His irises were the most extraordinary color. A luminescent pale green, so pale they were almost white. Framed by his thick, dark lashes, set deeply beneath his brows, his eyes gleamed like they were lit from inside his skull, all but popping out of his face like lightbulbs.
Then she noticed his pupils. They were all wrong. Tiny, unfocused pinpricks of black.
She caressed his face. "Y
our eyes are beautiful."
"Useless."
"Beautiful."
She watched as he scanned her face. He was straining, as if trying to get his vision to work.
"Have they always been like this?" she whispered.
"I was born visually impaired. My sight got worse after my transition and will probably degenerate even more as I age."
"So you can see something?"
"Yeah." His hand lifted to her hair. When waves of it landed on her shoulder, she realized he was picking the pins out of her chignon. "I know I like your hair down, for instance. And I know you are very beautiful."
His fingers traced the contours of her face, then brushed lightly down her neck to her collarbone. They kept going, marking a path between her breasts.
Her heart pounded. Her thoughts slowed down. The world receded until there was only Wrath.
"Sight is seriously overrated, though," he murmured, flattening his palm over her sternum. The weight was heavy. Warm. A foretaste of what his body would feel like pressing hers down into the mattress. "Touch, taste, smell, hearing. The other four senses are just as important."
He leaned forward, nuzzled her neck, and she felt a soft scratching. His fangs, she thought. Running up her throat.
She wanted him to bite her.
Wrath breathed in deeply. "You have a perfume to your skin that makes me hard. Instantly. All I have to do is smell you."
She arched in his arms, rubbing herself against his thighs, thrusting her breasts up. Her head fell back, and she let out a little moan.
"God, I love that sound," he said, moving his hand up to the base of her throat. "Make it for me again, Beth."
He sucked her neck. She obliged.
"That's it," he groaned. "Sweet heaven, that is so it."
His fingers started traveling again, this time over to the tie on her dress. He loosened the bow.
"I wouldn't let Fritz change the sheets."
"What?" she mumbled.
"On the bed. After you left. I wanted to smell you when I lay down in them."
The front of her dress slid open, and cool air hit her skin as his hand drifted up her rib cage. When he got to her bra, he drew a circle around the edges of one lace cup, gradually working his way inward until he brushed against her nipple.
Her body jerked, and she grabbed onto his shoulder. His muscles were rock solid from holding her off balance. She looked up into his fearsome, magnificent face.
His eyes literally glowed, the irises throwing off light that cast her breasts in shadows. The promise of raw, pounding sex and his ferocious hunger for her were obvious in the grinding of his jaw. The heat coming off his tremendous body. The tension in his legs and chest.
But he was utterly in control of himself. And her.
"You know, I've been too greedy with you," he said, bringing his head down to her collarbone. He bit her lightly, not breaking her skin. Then his tongue licked over the spot, stroking, satin smooth. He moved lower, to her breastbone. "I really haven't taken you properly yet."
"I'm not so sure about that," she said roughly.
He laughed with a deep rumble, his breath warm and moist over her skin. He kissed up the top of her breast, and then he took her nipple into his mouth, through the lace. She arched again, feeling like a dam had broken between her legs.
His head lifted, a smile of anticipation pulling at his mouth.
He gently slid the bra strap down and peeled the lace away. Her nipple puckered even more for him, and she watched as his dark head went down to her pale skin. His tongue, glossy and pink, came out of his mouth and licked her.
As her thighs parted without any demand from him, he laughed again, a thick, male sound of satisfaction.
His hand slipped in between the folds of her dress, brushing against her hip, moving slowly over to her lower belly. He found the edge of her panties and slid his forefinger underneath the lace. Just a little.
He moved that fingertip back and forth, a sensuous tickle inches from where she wanted it to be. Needed it to be.
"More," she demanded. "I want more."
"And you'll get it." His whole hand disappeared under the black lace. She cried out as he came into contact with her hot, wet core. "But Beth?"
She was barely conscious. Completely consumed by his touch. "Umm?"
"Do you want to know what you taste like?" he said against her breast.
One long finger dipped into her body. As if he wanted her to know he wasn't talking about her mouth.
She gripped his back through his silk shirt, scoring him with her nails.
"Peaches," he said, shifting her body, moving downward with his mouth, kissing the skin of her stomach. "Like eating peaches. Silky flesh on my lips and tongue as I suck. Smooth and sweet down the back of my throat when I swallow."
She moaned, close to orgasm and far, far away from sanity.
With a quick motion, he scooped her up and carried her over to the bed. As he laid her down, he parted her legs with his head and put his mouth over the black lace between her thighs.
She gasped and pushed her hands into his hair, only to get tangled up. He yanked away the leather tie. Black waves fell down across her belly, like the flutter of a hawk's wings.
"Just like peaches," he said, stripping off her panties. "And I love peaches."
That eerie, beautiful illumination from his eyes washed over her body. And then he lowered his head again.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-seven
Havers went down into his lab and paced around, loafers slapping against the white linoleum tile. After two trips around the room, he came to rest in front of his workstation. He stroked the graceful enameled neck of his microscope. Looked up at the fleets of glass beakers and the battalions of vials on the shelves overhead. He heard the humming of refrigerators, the droning purr of the ventilation unit in the ceiling. Caught the lingering, medicinal specter of Lysol disinfectant.
The scientific environment reminded him of his intellectual pursuits.
Of the pride he took in the strength of his mind.
He considered himself civilized. Capable of shelving his emotions. Good at responding logically to stimuli. But this hatred, this anger was not something he could sit with. The feeling was too violent, too energizing.
Plans spun in his head, plans involving bloodshed.
Except who was he kidding? If he raised so much as a Swiss army knife at Wrath, he was the one who'd be left bleeding.
He needed someone who knew how to kill. Someone who could get close to the warrior.
When the solution came to him, it was obvious. He knew just whom to go to and where to find him.
Havers turned to the door, satisfaction bringing a smile to his lips.
But when he caught his reflection in the mirror over the deep-bellied lab sink, he froze. His shifty eyes were too bright, too eager. The nasty grin was one he'd never worn before. The fevered flush on his face was in anticipation of a vile result.
He didn't recognize himself in the mask of vengeance.
He hated the way he looked.
"Oh, God."
How could he even think such things? He was a physician. A healer. He'd devoted himself to saving lives, not taking them.
Marissa had said it was over. She'd broken the covenant. She wasn't going to see Wrath again.
Yet didn't she still deserve to be avenged for the way she'd been treated?
And now was the time to strike. The approach to Wrath was uncluttered by the threat that Marissa might get caught in the crossfire.
Havers felt a shudder go through him, and he assumed it was horror at the magnitude of what he was considering. But then his body lurched, and he had to reach out to steady himself. Vertigo threw the world around him into a blender, and he tumbled over to a chair.
Wrenching free the knot of his bow tie, he struggled to breathe.
The blood, he thought. The transfusion.
It wasn't working.
In
despair, he fell from the chair to his knees. Brought to the ground by his failure, he closed his eyes and let himself sink into blackness.
Wrath rolled onto his side and took Beth with him, keeping them joined. With his erection still twitching inside of her, he brushed her hair back. It was damp with her delicate sweat.
Mine.
As he kissed her lips, he noted with satisfaction that she was still breathing hard.
He'd made love to her properly, he thought. Slow and deliberate.
"Will you stay?" he asked.
She laughed huskily. "I'm not sure I can walk right now. So, yeah, I think lying here is a good option."
He pressed his lips to her forehead. "I'll return just before dawn."
As he withdrew from the warm cocoon of her body, she looked up. "Where are you going?"
"I'm meeting with my brothers and then we're going out."
He left the bed and went to the closet, dressing in his leathers, pulling his holster onto his shoulders. He slipped in a dagger on each side and grabbed his jacket.
"Fritz will be here," he said. "If you need anything, pick up the phone and dial star forty. It'll ring upstairs."
She wrapped a sheet around herself and rose from the bed.
"Wrath." She touched his arm. "Stay."
He dipped down for a quick kiss. "I'm coming back."
"Are you going to fight?"
"Yes."
"But how can you? You're…" She stopped.
"And I've been blind for three hundred years."
Her breath sucked in. "You're that old?"
He had to laugh. "Yeah."
"Well, I've got to say you're holding up just fine." Her smile faded. "How long will I live?"
A shot of cold dread hit him, stealing a couple of heartbeats from his chest.
What if she didn't make it through the transition?
Wrath felt his stomach lurch. He, who was all chummy with the Grim Reaper, suddenly got cracked in the gut with some base mortal fear.
But she was going to make it, right? Right?
He realized he was looking at the ceiling, and wondered who the hell he was talking to. The Scribe Virgin?
"Wrath?"
He yanked Beth against him, holding her tight, as if he could physically bar her from her fate if it was a bad one.