Think again.
She had tried to seduce him. By some übermale libido logic, she had offered herself, so now she was his. His dark side applauded. Teach her a lesson for tricking you.
Whoa, there, demon dude. Keep your head on straight. Remember you’re a cop first, even if you don’t have a badge anymore. You have a job to do. No time for anything but dead bodies and paperwork.
But that argument wasn’t working anymore. The cold comfort of human logic was losing ground. He simply wanted.
He should never have come. His demon crumpled that thought like a beer can and tossed it aside.
Like a sentimental memory, Constance’s perfume hung in the air. There she was, stretched out on the dark velvet spread, the wealth of her long, dark hair nearly invisible against the inky background. Mac stood at the foot of the bed, looking down on her through the sheer silk of the draperies. She looked as pale as the dead, her faded dress shabby against the opulence of the gold-tasseled pillows.
Don’t you have to save the kid? Figure out how to be human again? Remember what always happens when you get involved with Babes of Doom?
She was so vulnerable. A wave of possessiveness swamped him, heating his already-pounding blood. Human or demon, Mac was all male. Beneath the pull of her beauty, the two sides of his soul were starting to blur. They both ignited with desire.
Mac set the sword down on a nearby table, then removed his shoulder holster and heavy boots, careful to make no noise. He crept to the side of the bed, and parted the curtain with his hands. The clearer view didn’t disappoint. When she had been bitten, her face still had the soft perfection of extreme youth. He had looked at enough women to know how much Constance stood out.
Intense satisfaction rippled through his gut. She was his for the plucking. She had already asked for what he wanted to give her. There was nothing to stop him.
Except himself. Mac was frozen by the tender innocence of her face. His conquering impulses gentled. If he was going to make her his, there would be no victory without surrender. For that, more than brute lust had to come into play. He needed persuasion, too.
He leaned forward, one knee on the bed, and balanced himself above her. She was so small, he was going to have to be careful. Slowly, savoring the moment, he lowered himself, touching her lips with his. Her mouth was cool, slightly parted, showing the tips of her fangs. He found them even more erotic than before. He drew himself fully onto the bed, then kissed her again, harder. He propped himself on one hand now, using the other to slowly draw away the thin scarf she wore. The ends were tucked demurely between her breasts, a puritanical tease. The fabric slid away with a whisper that shivered along his nerves. The scarf smelled of her perfume.
“Constance,” he whispered in her ear. There was no response. The Undead rested deeply, falling into sleep so deep it was often mistaken for true death. He had no idea how long one would rest in a place that had no sun to hide from, but it could be a while.
Ah, well, that just gave him more time to play.
Skimming a finger along the top of her dress, he admired the whiteness of her skin, the soft way her breasts fell as she slept. The laces that held the front tightly closed tempted him. The tips were frayed, the ribbon soft from time and use. Carefully, he pulled one end, loosening the knot. As it gave, the lacing relaxed, the blue cloth parting to give a glimpse of more layers of clothing beneath. What he thought was a dress was actually a skirt and kind of jacket, petticoats and other cottony bits beneath, and then a stiff vest-thing that laced up the front. He guessed it was some type of corset, except it didn’t look like those he’d seen in men’s magazines.
How the hell could anyone move in all this stuff? Getting her out of it was going to take some determination, not to mention an engineering degree.
“Constance,” he whispered again, but louder.
Her eyes snapped open, her expression one of confusion deepening to desire and then absolute shock. “You came back!”
“I said I’d come back.”
She sat up, amazement filling her eyes. “What happened to you?”
Mac sealed her mouth with his before she could say another word. Her hands gripped his shoulders, trying to keep some distance between them. That wasn’t what he wanted. He worked the kiss, using every trick in his repertoire to prolong it, to make her forget whatever fear was slipping between them. Bit by bit, the tension in her fingers eased. He pushed her back down to the pillows.
Eventually, he let her break away. He left tiny kisses on her nose and eyes and brow before he retreated.
“It’s fortunate that I don’t need to breathe,” she said tartly, but her tone was shaken.
Her eyes had drifted shut, and now she opened them again. For a moment, she looked blind before she pulled him back into focus. Slowly, her brow furrowed, and she pushed him away, one hand against his chest.
This time, he let her.
Her head crooked back, trying to get a fuller view. Fear had faded to caution. “Conall Macmillan, what happened to you?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you like what you see?”
“By the sweet saints, what have you done?” Though she spoke barely above a whisper, her tone was whip-sharp. “And you’re burning up. Are you sick? What magic have you got yourself into?”
He thought he might have heard concern somewhere in there. He swallowed, the taste of her still clinging to his tongue. “It just happened. I feel fine.”
She raised herself up on her elbows, nearly bumping noses with him. Her gaze slowly slid down his front. She tensed, then flushed a faint, faint bloom of pink against her white, white skin. “I can see that.”
He couldn’t stop a grin as curiosity widened her eyes. He leaned forward, using his body to force her back to the bed again. He leaned on one elbow, supporting his head on his hand. He used the other hand to tug at the ribbon that held her jacket shut, quickly working it free.
She closed her hand over his, stilling his fingers. “You know you don’t smell the least bit human anymore? You smell other.”
Her words jolted Mac. “What does that mean?”
“You’ve changed through and through. You’re a demon now, no ‘half about it!”
The words stung, pulling his mood into darkness. Rolling away from her, he sat up. “I didn’t ask for what happened.”
Not human. He’d already lost his job, his relations, and his friends. It shouldn’t have made any difference. It was the last flicker of a dying bulb winking out, nothing more.
But he had prayed so hard for a road back.
Driven by the hot burn of emotion, his demon stirred, shadows sliding through his thoughts. He could sense the demon was adapting, deciding how it could use this new form, savoring its strength and gargantuan appetites. No, the only human part left in him was his reason and what remained of his conscience. The rest lay scattered like flotsam from a shipwreck.
Demons destroy.
Constance sat up behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. Her touch was tentative, but he could tell it was meant to comfort. “You didn’t want to hear that, did you?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.” She paused. “Why did you come?”
“I said I would.” Badge or no badge, I’m still the guy who helps people.
“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again. I kept looking for Viktor and the guardsmen’s quarters.”
As he turned, her hands fell away from his shoulders. She was sitting on her heels, her black hair in a tumble around her, the laces of her clothes dangling free. His breath caught, swamped by the burning in his blood. “I said I would help you find Sylvius.”
“But that’s not the only reason you came back, is it?” she asked uneasily.
“No. I came here to take you.”
“What?”
Caveman alert! “Um. I mean, make love to you.” Look, bud, you can rule little Mac, but leave my mouth out of it.
Pale though she was, she turned even whiter; then
red spots showed on her cheekbones. Fear, excitement, anger all chased through her eyes.
“You want me to lift my skirts for the likes of you?” She. tossed her hair back over her shoulder, her dark blue eyes narrowing. “Why should I want that? Your blood’s no good to me now. The smell of it doesn’t tempt me to bite nearly so much as before.”
It was more a challenge than an outright refusal.
“I have other uses.”
“And what might those be?” She crawled backward a foot. Her voice teased, but underneath he could hear a tremor of fear. It didn’t matter that she had kissed him back a moment ago. The balance between them had shifted.
The ancient pursuit of male and mate had been declared.
Chapter 15
His limbs heavy with need, Mac swung himself back onto the bed. “Come here and I’ll show you.” She was panting. Not that she normally needed air, but adrenaline was taking its toll. His stomach tightened, gripped by blazing heat. “Come here,” he repeated in a thick voice. He moved forward, prowling across the counterpane.
She feinted left, vampire fast, but his enhanced reflexes were quicker. He had her caged under him in a second, his limbs trapping her as surely as iron bars. He stripped the ribbon through the last holes of her jacket in a series of efficient jerks. It went spiraling to the floor.
One obstacle down.
She tried to twist away as he pulled the jacket aside, but he held her firm. The corset beneath her top was nothing but stiff cloth laced tight. He was tempted to simply rip it in two. His hands felt clumsy, his brain too consumed with heat to manage another fiddly unpackaging job.
“Get it off,” he demanded. It came out in a growl.
“To hell with you,” she said, writhing like a cat about to be bathed. “I’m no alehouse whore.”
“How else do you expect this to happen unless you untie that bloody thing?”
“Let me up!”
Her wiggling was making things all the more urgent. He had her pinned between his thighs, balancing so as not to actually sit on her. He caught her chin, turning her face to him. His demon was aroused, but his better nature urged caution.
“Am I frightening you?”
She scalded him with a look full of bravado. “You?”
“Or do you like this?”
“Lout!”
“Uh-huh.”
He was stifling, his skin burning with the exertion of holding his demon in check. Without letting her escape, he stripped off his plaid shirt, then the charm Holly had given him, putting it in the pocket of his jeans. Last, he pulled off his T-shirt, welcoming the cool air of the room against his hot skin.
With an intake of breath, Constance stopped her squirming. Mac sensed her interest like a heat lamp. She was transfixed.
A low laugh rumbled out of his chest.
“Holy Mother of God,” Constance whispered as Mac tossed his shirt to the floor. She was utterly out of her depth. She’d never seen a man like that, not even a blacksmith. Not even the guardsmen who, to a man, were physical perfection.
Mac was a fantasy on a grand scale. Every muscle was visible and alive as he moved. The candlelight loved him, washing the landscape of his body with licks of gold. He looked like a giant killer from one of the old tales her grandfather used to tell: He loomed like a thundercloud, heavy with storms.
She felt suddenly limp, as though all her bones had been melted from her limbs. Her arms were trapped at her sides, or at least she thought they were. She couldn’t tell anymore.
With one finger, he scooped up the ends of the lace that tied her stays, then pulled the tail of the knot until it let go with an audible slide of fabric. The sound seemed to catch on her insides, tugging at things with no name.
If I do as he wishes, will he rescue my boy? It was an old bargain—a woman’s body for a man’s strength. Would a creature like him understand the trade? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure that was why she was doing this.
He kissed her again, leaving her breathless. That’s why.
Their previous encounter had wakened desire, brought her to an unfamiliar peak of need. Even though he couldn’t Turn her anymore, even though he didn’t smell like prey, that didn’t dampen her urgency. She wanted more than blood. She wanted the sensual womanhood too long denied her. It’s the magic of the room. The loss of control. It’s making me want him.
But she knew it couldn’t give her appetites. Only free them. The desires were in herself.
Centuries ago, Constance had prayed for a passionate lover, one who wanted her for more than just blood. Her wish had finally been granted. Overabundantly. He was unlacing her underthings right then and there, his big, square fingers as careful and efficient as a watchmaker adjusting a spring.
Without warning, desire flipped back to apprehension. He was too big, too male, and he was touching her in places no man had ever been. Holy Mother, how do I get out of here?
She couldn’t do this. She’d never done this, not really, and it terrified her—even worse than the door to the outside world. This was a door to someplace even more fraught with danger.
Vertigo seized her, dragging her down some hellish drain.
“Let me go,” she ordered again, putting a waspish sting to the words. She started worming her hands free, only to realize they weren’t trapped at all.
“No,” he replied, giving her one of his fleeting smiles. “If you really wanted me gone, you would have poked me in the eye by now.”
“Are you sure you want to give me ideas?”
He bent and kissed her. Gently. Reassuringly. Confused by his tenderness, she nearly burst into tears. “You don’t understand,” she said.
“I think I might. Don’t worry. I’ll make everything all right.”
“But...”
“Shh.” He put a finger on her lips. “Your son. Your dog. Everything. My word on it.”
Kissing her again before she could reply, he gently dragged the second lace away and sunk his hands beneath the layers of cloth to caress her through the thin fabric of her shift. Trembling, she dragged in a breath. She was unarmored, helpless, her defenses gone. Traitor that it was, her body arched to meet him.
He was a demon. The fact didn’t matter. Or that he was magnificently, bizarrely changed. Mac had reached the core of her yearning the way no one else ever had.
He’d been so gentle with her clothes. No man had ever taken that much care of what was hers. No man had ever wanted her enough to peel back the layers around her. Not in any sense of the words. And his kiss ...
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, in a thick, husky voice.
Tentatively, she lifted her hands to his face, digging her fingers into his thick, wavy hair. “Liar,” she said, and pulled his mouth down to hers.
“Far from it,” he murmured just before their lips collided.
The kiss was long and leisurely, and they barely moved apart when it was finally done. For a long moment they stayed, noses almost touching, sharing the same breath. The bones behind her fangs began to ache, waking her own sleeping beast. She had been too shy, too shocked by this unexpected tryst for her own hungers to fully rise before this. He didn’t smell like food, but desire and biting went hand-in-hand. Still, Constance held back, swallowing the saliva pooling in her mouth. She didn’t want anything to spoil the moment.
Slowly, he sank down beside her, stroking her hair back from her face. Stroking her arms. Drawing the long tendrils of her hair through his fingers. Loving her. For all the impatience she could feel radiating from his big body, he was going at a cautious pace. His dark eyes hadn’t changed— outside of a slight smolder of demon fire—and for that she was glad. His gaze was what had called to her when they first met. Despite the wildness of his demon nature, those eyes were still wise and mischievous and kind. The look of someone who had seen more than they should have, but had survived to jest about it.
Feeling less intimidated, she rose and shed the garments he had unlaced, leaving nothin
g but the flimsy, shabby shift. She unhooked her skirt and pushed it off, but left her petticoats. She wasn’t ready to part with them yet.
As she shed her layers, he stripped down to his skin, but slid under the covers before she could get more than a glimpse of his male parts. They were like the rest of him. Distressingly large.
Bloody hell.
He sat up and pulled her under the covers, steering her into the circle of his arms. He smelled like spice. Resin. Dark, fragrant woods. Musk. This new form of his was exotic and unfamiliar. Hot to the touch.
Kissing her again, he plundered her mouth with the gusto of a pirate. Her resistance melted in all that heat. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the play of strength beneath his skin. That weak feeling swamped her once more, followed by a wave of her own slick fire:
“Connie?”
Connie? No one had ever called her that. “What?”
“Have you ...” He gave a little lift of the eyebrows. One thing hadn’t changed over the centuries. Men still had problems with some words. “No.”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
She would have said more, but that was all the informa tion he seemed to need. He had given her the chance to back away from this encounter, but now he was back in control. One hand reached around her waist, untying the tapes of her petticoats. She kicked them free.
She lay half on top of him, captured by his strong arm. His mouth quested down her neck, his hands circling her breasts. His teeth dragged against their peaks, teasing through the thin fabric of her shift. She felt them harden, aching and tight. He suckled through the cloth, sending a stab of pleasure right down to her belly. She gasped, her back arching, pushing her farther into his embrace.
As they moved, Constance slid her hands down the ridges of his stomach, around his hips, over the cresting arch of his backside. Her mouth found his flesh, tasting, savoring, but keeping her fangs from seeking the sweetness below the skin. Her teeth ached, but the discomfort only made her more eager. She tentatively ran her fingers over the hair that curled low on him, and the hard, long, thick evidence of his pleasure. It was unexpectedly smooth, in places soft.
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