The Scarlet Deep

by Elizabeth Hunter

  Her eyes were lit again, this time in sensual hunger. He reached up and loosened the tie he was wearing, pulling it away from his neck. Her eyes fell to his hands as they worked the silk that concealed his throat.

  “There is one more issue we need to discuss.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’ve been starving yourself. I’m still quite angry about that.”

  Her eyes didn’t stray from the fingers at his throat. “You’re the one who laid down the feeding restrictions.”

  “And I was the one person you could have come to when you started having trouble.”

  “I know.”

  “But you didn’t.” He pulled the tie off and let it fall to the ground. Then he started unbuttoning his collar.

  Her breath came in soft pants, and she took two steps toward him. He could sense her body readying for him. Her breasts swelled. Her lips flushed. Her fangs were long in her mouth.

  “Patrick—”

  “You’ve starved yourself instead of drinking from your mate,” he said, parting his shirt at the collar, sitting like an offering before her. “I do not approve of this.”

  “It’s not your—”

  “It is my place, and only my place. Bite me,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Drink me. Take what you need.”

  Take everything.

  He sat, braced for her rejection. His tipped his chin up, arrogance warring with supplication. The water in the room drew to his skin as he waited for her response.

  He didn’t wait long.

  Anne leapt on him like a wild thing, tugging his hair back at the nape, baring his neck to her mouth as she licked and sucked the skin there. He gripped her hips, bracing his legs to keep balance in the chair as she sat astride him. Her legs draped over his, and his hand dug into the flesh of her thighs. Murphy’s back arched when she struck.

  And then… bliss.

  Life.

  His mate drew the blood from his vein, and he felt his amnis enter her, swimming in her blood as he groaned. His head fell back, resting on the edge of the chair. His legs spread farther apart, welcoming her body with his own. He felt her draw back.

  “Not yet. Take more,” he said roughly.

  “Yes.” She pulled the top of her bathing suit off, and Murphy’s eyes fell to her breasts. Her belly. The delicate blue veins like rivers below her milk-white skin. She leaned forward again, bringing his neck back to her mouth as she bit the other side of his neck.

  “I want these off.” He tugged at the bottom of her swimsuit.

  She released his neck, his blood red on her lips. “I’m sorry about your suit.”

  He gave her a dark laugh. “I’m not.”

  She reached down and tore open his fly. Murphy grabbed her hands when he heard the cloth rip, bringing them up to his mouth, nipping her fingers as he rose to his feet, holding her body against his.

  “Now now. That wasn’t necessary. Show a little patience, love.”

  She smiled and licked her lips. “I’m done being patient.”

  “Good. So am I.” He walked her to one of the columns that lined the pool, then he set her down and knelt before her, sliding the rest of her bathing suit off until she stood bare. His hands ran from her waist, down her thighs, teasing the sensitive backs of her knees before he leaned in and nipped at them.

  She watched him, her hair a wild tangle surrounding her face and her eyes savage with hunger. Murphy licked up her legs, letting his fangs scrape along her skin, raising dark red lines but not breaking the skin.

  He’d forgotten nothing about her body. The freckle on the inside of her thigh. The rosy birthmark behind her left knee. The way her flesh molded to his hands and mouth and teeth. He paused to suck harder at her hip, delighting in the flush of red that welled under his mouth.

  “Patrick,” she panted. “I need—”

  “Shhh,” he whispered, softly kissing the inside of her thighs, the dark hair at the juncture of her legs, then her belly, her breasts. He kissed up her body as he rose until both hands framed her face. He pressed urgent kisses against her mouth until she opened for him. Then Murphy tasted his blood on her tongue and lost the last shred of control.

  He groaned and reached down, yanking his trousers open with one hand as he clutched Anne’s hair with the other.

  “I can’t… wait—”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Take me?”

  “Yes.” She sucked in a quick breath as he entered her in a long, slow thrust. Her arms came around his shoulders as he hiked her up against the column, pressing deeper into her body. Murphy lifted Anne with both hands, holding her close.

  “Anne,” he groaned, resting his face against her neck, kissing her collarbone and the rise of her breasts. “You feel…”

  “Consumed.” Her voice was barely over a whisper. “You consume me.”

  I adore you.

  He couldn’t say it; he was beyond speaking. Murphy could feel his blood pulsing through her body even as he moved in her. The combination was intoxicating. Body, blood, amnis. His mate. She had claimed him in the most elemental way. In every way.

  They said nothing as the room filled with the sound of their breathing and the smell of their blood. Both their bodies dripped with water as their amnis swirled over them, building in the space between and filling the void that loss had hollowed out so many years before.

  Anne gasped as her swollen flesh tightened around him, and Murphy let himself go, taking her body roughly as his control snapped. He heard a crack from the marble and pulled back just as he came, crushing her body to his chest as he buried his face in her neck. Anne’s nails dug into his neck, and she pulled his hair as she groaned again, the small aftershocks of her pleasure wringing the last from Murphy.

  He held her, breathing in her scent, reveling in her possession as he walked them to the edge of the pool.

  “Patrick?”

  I adore you.

  I love you.

  You are mine.

  You have always been mine.

  He thought she knew it, but he couldn’t say it. Not yet.

  Soon.

  Murphy smiled a second before he tipped them in, laughing as she squealed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “THERE WERE TWO SISTERS, a blonde and a redhead. The redhead tells her sister, ‘Guess what, I slept with a Brazilian.’ The blonde says, ‘You slag! How many is a Brazilian?’”

  Murphy buried his face in the tangle of Anne’s damp hair and laughed.

  “That’s very bad.”

  “I have worse ones.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  They were stretched out on one of the lounge chairs next to the pool, both wearing nothing but skin. Anne was replete. Murphy lay at her side, one hand running up and down her back as he tried to untangle her hair with the other. He smoothed it away from her face, only to twist it around a finger or tuck it behind her ear. He was toying with her absently, his heart beating a slow rhythm in his chest.

  “I think we ruined your suit,” she said, looking at the sad scraps of grey wool that were scattered over the limestone deck.

  “It was a noble sacrifice.”

  “It was a nice suit.”

  “I have others. Feel free to ruin them all.”

  She lifted her chin and propped it on his chest. “You won.”

  Murphy raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m fairly sure we both did. At least four times for you and twice on my side.”

  “You really counted, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Anne pinched his waist. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “It should be.”

  “Patrick—”

  “Can we not?” He lifted both hands and framed her face, brushing his thumbs across her cheeks. “Allow me to explore my sensitive side as I ask you to wait on the postcoital analysis, Dr. O’Dea. I know we have things to talk about. I know not everything is resolved.”

  She said, “I wasn’t going to
analyze—”

  “Yes, you were.” He kissed her forehead. “And Anne, it’s fine. I’m not asking you to be someone else. You’ll analyze. I’ll be contrary for the sake of disrupting your analysis.”

  “All I want to—”

  He put a finger over her lips, and she resisted the urge to bite it. Barely.

  “For now, I’m asking you to wait. I want… No, I need you to give me this night. Give me a day of sleeping next to you. Give me a night waking up with you in my bed. Let me make love to you again. Let me do all that without thinking of every consequence.”

  Anne thought for a moment and then asked, “Why?”

  Murphy frowned. “I work hard to maintain that devil-may-care attitude I show the world because it’s useful. But from one night to the next, I do not make a single move without considering how it will affect my children, my city, and all those under my aegis. I deliberate every angle. I debate every eventuality. For once—with you—let me… enjoy.”

  Lying on his chest, the weight of water in the air covering them like a soft blanket, she found it all too easy to give in. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  Anne nodded.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, exploring her face with his lips, teasing kisses across her eyes and down her cheek. “You smell lovely when you smell of me.”

  She stretched against him, pressing her curves along the hard ridges and angles of his body. It was purely a side benefit of the man he was, but Murphy had an exceptional form and she enjoyed showing her appreciation.

  His body was naturally lean, but the fighting he’d done during his human years had shaped his arms and torso with an extra layer of muscle. Most vampires of his age were thinner, nothing like the sculpted humans Anne saw in modern advertisements. Murphy was the perfect balance, a man who had worked with his body in human life, but not for vanity.

  And his blood…

  Her lover tasted of the woods and sweet water. His blood hummed within her, his amnis mingling with her own. When she drank of him, she smelled campfires and pine.

  “I missed you,” she whispered against his shoulder. “So much, Patrick.”

  He paused. “I missed you too.”

  Silence fell between them, and it was so laden with unspoken truths that Anne could feel them like a weight upon her body.

  Murphy held her against him, one arm wrapped tightly around her waist and the other hand petting and stroking her body, as if reassuring himself that she was real.

  Anne held still in his arms. Moving might break the fragile bubble they’d constructed.

  They both stirred when they heard human voices in the hall.

  “So”—he reached down and patted her backside—“more swimming or shall we turn in for the day?”

  Murphy’s voice had taken on a deliberately lighter tone that Anne forced herself to imitate.

  “And by turning in you mean—”

  “You tell me horrible sex jokes and I punish you in creative ways? Yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind.”

  She bit back a laugh. “I’m not sure that’s what I meant, actually.”

  “Yes, it was.” He slapped her backside, rubbing it slowly when she jumped.

  “Patrick!”

  “Bloody hell, woman, keep your voice down—you’ll embarrass the servants.”

  Then Murphy threw a thick towel over Anne as she laughed, and strode out of the pool room wearing nothing but the skin he’d been born in.

  THE following night, their meetings dragged. Anne couldn’t keep her mind off Murphy’s rough commands when she woke him with her mouth and fangs. He’d roused with a gasp, only to drag her up the bed, taking her mouth with his, nipping at her tongue before he pushed her away and let her continue to pleasure him. He lay back and closed his eyes; the slow stream of curses that dropped from his lips was thanks enough in Anne’s mind.

  Now he was covered in more of his Savile Row armor, as she thought of it, taking tidy notes in a leather-bound journal and scrutinizing the newest additions from the Americas.

  Anne had never met Cormac O’Brien, but she’d heard of him. He appeared to be in his midthirties. He wore a full beard and a pocket watch that made Anne wonder if he still reminisced fondly over the late nineteenth century. The rest of his clothes seemed designed to distract. His glasses were likely an affectation—she’d never met an eye problem that immortality didn’t cure—but they suited him. His waistcoat was blood-red velvet, and he wore a worn tweed jacket over it. Dark plaid trousers and black motorcycle boots rounded out the look. It was as far from coordinated as Anne could imagine, but somehow O’Brien made it work.

  His daughter, Novia, had taken the O’Brien name when she turned, though she was clearly of African-American descent. Her hair curled around her face in a mass of reddish-brown corkscrews, highlighting her light brown skin and vivid green eyes the same shade as her sire’s. Novia listened with rapt attention to every detail, took furious notes, and said nothing, often glancing at O’Brien for cues. She was young but sharp.

  The Americans hadn’t contributed much to the conversation about Elixir, though Cormac had offered a few bits of intelligence about ships he’d encountered in the Baltic Sea. Mostly, despite Cormac’s brash appearance, he listened.

  Neither Cormac nor his daughter were what Anne had expected, and she wondered if Murphy even considered them allies. She’d have to talk with him later.

  “Later.”

  It had been his whispered promise before he’d left to bathe and dress for the night. A single word drenched in sensual possibilities that had Anne’s blood leaping to life within her. She saw Murphy’s knuckles whiten as he gripped his pencil. His eyes turned to her.

  “You need to stop,” he said under his breath, clearly distracted by her arousal.

  Anne took a deep breath and thought about translating notes. About Ruth and Dan’s litter of Irish terrier puppies. About Brigid’s latest whim to dye her hair midnight blue. Anything but what Murphy’s eyes told her he wanted to do later in the safe confines of their suite.

  Having forced her thoughts back to those talking, she heard Jetta mention the Russians another time.

  “The fact that suspicious ships have been spotted in the Baltic and yet no reports have come out of Russia regarding Elixir makes me suspicious about the Russian’s involvement. I know you’ve spent time building a trade relationship with Oleg, Terry, but if we’re talking about someone who has access to the Black Sea or the Eastern Mediterranean and the capability of shipping something like this that targets political powers in the North Atlantic, we can’t ignore him. It would be foolish.”

  “I’m not saying we ignore them,” Terry said. “I’m simply saying that trying to determine Oleg’s motivations is damn near impossible. So far, the status quo has been profitable for him. Why would he change that?”

  Anne froze. They were talking about Russia. Again. They were talking about Oleg.

  Oleg and the Black Sea.

  Murphy leaned toward her and spoke quietly in Gaelic. “What is it? You had the same reaction the other day when someone mentioned Russia.”

  “I… Murphy, I can’t say.”

  She hadn’t anticipated this. There was information she could share, but it would break every rule of confidentiality she’d ever lived by as a healer.

  “What do you mean, you can’t say?” He sounded annoyed. “Is it Mary? Because we’ve been nothing but open with her about—”

  “It’s not Mary. It’s…” How could she explain without revealing that Oleg was a patient? Not that he considered himself a patient, but in Anne’s mind, he was. “I can’t say, Patrick.”

  He still looked confused, verging toward angry.

  Anne looked at him with pleading eyes. “Do you understand? I can’t say.”

  He must have understood enough, because he leaned back and muttered, “Fecking hell.”

  “I didn’t anticipate this. I don’t… know any of the players here except through Mary, and I
didn’t anticipate—”

  “Clearly.”

  Murphy tapped a pen on his knee for a few moments until there was a pause in the flow of the meeting. Then he stood up and said, “If our associates would excuse Dr. O’Dea and me for a moment, it would be appreciated.”

  “Of course,” Gemma said. “Your secretary can take notes.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder and led her out of the room and to a deserted office down the hall. Anne realized, to her surprise, that he was angry.

  “You’re angry with me?”

  He said nothing until he closed the door.

  “Tell me.”

  “I told you I can’t.”

  Murphy gritted his teeth. “We’re not with the others now, Anne. Tell me why you keep reacting to the Russians. This is important.”

  “I know it is. And I still cannot tell you.”

  “Because of Mary?”

  “No.”

  “Because of a patient?”

  She said nothing.

  “We don’t have the luxury of confidentiality here, Anne. We need every piece of information we can get.”

  Anne’s mouth dropped. “The luxury of confidentiality?”

  “We’re all revealing uncomfortable truths. And we’re doing it to save lives. This isn’t a game.”

  “I know it’s not a game!”

  “Then stop playing and tell me what you know about Russia!”

  “I will not.”

  He was furious.

  “You and Mary agreed—”

  “This is not about Mary. This is about your asking me to violate my own principles. Again.”

  His jaw tensed, but he didn’t back down. “For the greater good, Anne. This isn’t about me.”

  “You know who I am and what I do. And I will remind you that I was not the one who wanted to attend this summit, Patrick. It was you who dragged me along. My sister who forced me to come. This wasn’t my idea.”

  “You didn’t put up much of a fight either, did you? You wanted to come,” he said. “Your little life in the west was driving you mad, and you jumped at the chance to do something other than listen to sob stories from vampires with more money than sense.”

  Anne felt as if he’d slapped her. “Póg mo thóin.”