Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire

by Laura Wright

  Slipping from the bed, from the cold, dank room, she stepped out into the hallway. All was quiet except for the low crackle of the fire. She padded down the hall, not wanting to wake him, yet knowing she must. It wouldn’t do for her to get sick, too ravenous to feed from him properly, gently.

  Not that Lucian was ever into gentleness.

  But he wasn’t asleep. In fact, he was stretched out on his pallet with a book in his hand, reading by the light of the fire as though he were on vacation. Bronwyn’s gaze swept over him with a covetous pinch in her chest. He looked so beautiful, so intimidating, even with the shackle on his wrist. He wore no shirt. It sat on the floor beside him, shredded from the scuffle with the guards and all the wear and tear he’d experienced becoming a newly born Breeding Male. As her gaze continued to peruse him, an uneasy thrill coiled in her belly. With the bulk of muscle on his arms she wondered if he could rip the bolt that held him from the wall if he wanted.

  If there was something before him that he wanted badly enough…

  She tore her gaze from him and quickly searched the room—the empty room.

  “Have the guards returned?” she said, remaining at a safe distance. If there was such a thing anymore.

  He looked up over the top of his book, his eyes heavy, reminding her of the moments following their encounter on the island, the moments after she’d given him her body, the moments after they’d both climaxed.

  “They have left us fairly unprotected, it seems.”

  “Us?” she said.

  His eyes flashed with amusement. “You.”

  She inhaled deeply, trying to convince herself of the words she was about to utter. “That’s not good.”

  Lucian just lifted a brow, but neither agreed nor disagreed with her statement. “So, what has you up, lass? Checking on the Breeding Male in training?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She wrapped her arms around her chest, the thin fabric of her white nightgown allowing every bit of cool air to caress her skin. “Bed’s too hard, room’s too cold.”

  “I did offer.” His brows lifted. “Though meager, my pallet is soft and there is much heat down here by the fire.”

  A shiver moved through her that had nothing to do with air now. It settled deep in her belly and threatened to fall lower. “And it was a good offer. I’m just looking for a different one.”

  He put his book down, his eyes glistening with sensual curiosity. “What do you need, Princess?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “I’m hungry. Far more than I should be. Must be all the activity, stress…”

  The heat in Lucian’s eyes was quickly replaced with concern. He sat up, motioned for her. “Come, Princess. I have what you need. Always.”

  She melted a fraction. Why did he have to say things like that? And in that way—his voice growing huskier with each syllable. It was cruel—cruel to her unbeating heart and her foolishly willing body.

  “I’m worried,” she said, though she took a few steps closer to him and to the fire, “about stripping you of blood right now. It may activate the gene. I just don’t know. I can’t predict what’s going to happen.”

  He shrugged. “Neither one of us can predict what’s going to happen.” His voice grew firm, determined. “But you must feed.”

  She licked her lips. She could practically taste him on her tongue. Which in turn sent coils of awareness through the lower half of her body, squeezing the muscles of her cunt. “There is the Order’s blood,” she considered, though that was supposed to be for him, only for him.

  “And you are welcome to it.” Lucian said the words, but every inch of him clearly despised the idea.

  She sighed. “I hate the Order’s blood.”

  His lips twitched with amusement. “Your veins, your belly, they deserve better than cold, thick swill.”

  Did they? she wondered. At this point, she wasn’t sure she deserved much of anything with her wanton behavior and broken vows—and the thoughts, the desires that she never stopped or tamped down. Wouldn’t it be better, smarter to take that cold swill and keep herself at a distance from this paven? Not to mention that it may risk Lucian’s mental state to bite him and consume from him right as he battled against his own demons.

  “Get over here, lass,” Lucian commanded. “We will take it slow and I will let you know if the beast threatens to emerge.”

  His command pushed her forward just as his eyes, his wicked, wicked eyes, hypnotized her. The firelight and its warmth seared her skin as she moved, as she came to sit on the center of the pallet near his feet. “It is so lovely and warm down here,” she said, trying not to look at his chest, at how the firelight played with each hill of muscle, and the enticing bones of his hips.

  “Warmer now,” he said, catching her eyes on him. “And if your gaze falls upon my cock it will become like a forest fire down here.”

  She made a piteous attempt to rebuke him. “Your crudeness—”

  “Turns you on.” He laughed at her shocked expression. “Come on, you like it. In fact, I’m willing to bet you more than like it. Admit it now, Princess. Make a paven happy.”

  She shook her head, unable to quell the smile tugging at her mouth. “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I like many things about you, Lucian Roman.”

  “I knew it,” he said with a roguish grin, but his gaze was all caresses and promises, and in that moment, she wanted so much more than just his blood.

  Her insides trembled with the danger of the situation she was in—that she was putting herself in. She could have chosen to remain in her room until the guards returned. She could’ve chosen to drink the Order’s blood and keep her insides sustained. And yet she couldn’t stop herself from seeking him out, living and breathing under his gaze.

  She exhaled. So, what did that make her if she didn’t care about her fate or her sins—if she pretended nothing outside this cottage existed so she could have him all to herself for a while?

  He opened his arms then, giving her access to his body, to his scent—an invitation to heaven. “Where do you wish to tap the keg, Princess?”

  “What?”

  He laughed, his eyes glittering at her. “The neck or the wrist is where you’ll get it hard and fast. But if you’d rather go slow and easy, there are other spots on my flesh that may appeal to you.”

  Her mouth watered. Again. He was a beast, even without the Breeding Male crouching within him, waiting to spring up and seize control of the paven that housed it. Her gaze ran over his skin and she inched closer to him. Oh, how she would love to taste him, every inch—feel his hot flesh on her tongue, against the tips of her fangs.

  “The wrist is fine,” she said, disappointment filling her. She was a coward, a veana who knew what she wanted and yet refused herself.

  Lucian stretched his arm out to her. “We will start there, then.”

  As she had done before, in his bed in SoHo and on the island, she gripped his wrist with her hands and lowered her head. The anticipation was nearly the same as when his solid cock had hovered at the entrance to her body. How strange, she mused, her eyes locked on to the long, pulsing vein on his inner wrist.

  And how delicious.

  She gasped and closed her eyes as her fangs sank into his flesh. Deep, deeper, until the hot, wet, crimson gold flowed like the sweetest river. She drank like a veana who had never tasted blood in her long life, and every swallow urged her forward, to take more, take her fill. She’d never felt so needful, so overwhelmed by every sensation—taste, scent, the feel of her fangs penetrating him. She never wanted to release him.

  Was this how a paven felt when he sank his prick inside a female’s body? Was this how a true mate felt for her other half when that connection was found and tied for an eternal life?

  She prayed not.

  She hoped so.

  Lucian fell back suddenly, onto the pallet, chuckling softly. He uttered a husky, “The princess is hungry,” but Bronwyn barely heard him. She was trying to understand his movement, wondering in
her blood haze why he was pulling away. Then suddenly she realized it was her that had driven him backward. Her aggression, her hunger—and she was straddling him, her thighs on either side of his hips. How had she gotten there? she wondered like a drunk fool. And yet the questions went unanswered as she continued to feed from his wrist like a starved creature.

  The rush of blood quickened, and just as she was about to swallow, she felt him—his cock, hard and straining against his jeans. Her mind brought forth images—images of him inside of her, his hands gripping her backside, guiding her back and forth as he hit every sensitive spot within her tight cunt.

  She coughed and sputtered, blood shooting down her throat, but also into her lungs. She tried to breathe…God, she wanted him—didn’t care about breathing, living, feeding—she wanted what she felt against the thin barrier of her undergarments right now.

  And then Lucian was lifting her off him, pulling her to his side, and rapping her back gently. “Easy, Princess. Easy. There is always more. Whenever you need it.”

  Breathing heavy, her throat raw from choking, yet her body warm from the feel of his and his potent blood, she looked up at him. He was lying on his side, facing her, his gaze an odd mixture of heat and gentleness.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, whispered, “What about you? Are you all right? Do you feel…anything?”

  “I feel fucking amazing,” he said with a grin.

  “Don’t say ‘fuck,’ Luca,” she scolded halfheartedly, curling deeper into his embrace.

  “Why?” he whispered against her hair. “Because it’s crude or because you want to?”

  She was too satiated and delirious and turned on to lie. “I suppose it’s both.”

  He inhaled deeply and wrapped his arms around her. “Oh, my princess…”

  She lifted her head, looked at him through her wonderful blood haze. “Will you kiss me, Luca?” She shook her head. “I know no good can come from it, but I don’t care.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” he uttered, his eyes blisteringly hot now. “So much good can come from a simple kiss.” He tightened his grip on her, his mouth closing in as he whispered, “I’ll see to it.”

  Bronwyn closed her eyes and melted as his lips touched hers. The combination of hard and soft turned her inside out and she moaned contentedly. She could remain this way forever, or for as long as she was allowed. Holding her against him with a possessiveness she found deliriously arousing, Lucian kissed her as though he knew her more intimately than anyone else, knew what she liked, knew her pace, her penchant for nips of pain on her lower lip and a slow, deliberate suckle on her tongue. Pressing her hips to meet his cock, she inhaled him, breathed his scent into her lungs and felt every inch of her body flare with heat and want. Lucian must’ve felt it too because he made a low growling noise and pulled her impossibly closer, his chest so hard against her chest, his jean-clad thigh locking over her hip as he thrust his tongue deeply into her mouth.

  Her body went limp at his delicious assault, yet inside a fire blazed. How did veanas exist without this, this exquisite pleasure? If she would’ve known how it felt to be consumed, taken, adored in this way, she would have forced herself on him sooner, begged him to kiss her sooner.

  “Bronwyn,” he whispered into her mouth, against her lips. “Bron…”

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard him, heard him calling her. But it wasn’t the same as before and she dropped her head back, abandoning his mouth for one brief moment.

  “You called me…”

  “Bronwyn.” He claimed her mouth again in a quick, intense kiss.

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly, “but you’ve never called me by my name before.”

  He shook his head. “I could not.”

  “Why?”

  “I suppose I felt it wasn’t my right. Maybe like the shrinks say, I didn’t want to get attached.” His gaze lifted to hers, the pale brown flickering with sudden intensity. “Or maybe I didn’t feel as though you’d ever belong to me.”

  Her heart, the one that never beat, moved so profoundly in that moment she almost believed herself mortal. “Do I belong to you now?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  His mouth captured hers again and their kiss was frantic and passion-filled, and Bronwyn wished with everything inside her that his words, his declaration could be true. She wished her entire past away, wished for nothing but him and this.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, her belly tingling with heat. His mouth took hers with such exquisite force she lost her breath and her sense of self for a moment, and she was but a feeling—a single strand of happiness. As she met him kiss for kiss, she abandoned the realities of their situation and just let go, let herself be his.

  Lucian nipped at the corner of her mouth, kissed her cheek, the spot at the corner of her eye and then nuzzled deep into her neck. Bronwyn gasped as his lips suckled the ridge of muscle, the softness of vein.

  She wanted to cry out—tell him to bite her, drink from her there, right there, in that sensitive spot that was making her breasts swell and her nipples harden and tingle. But he had his hands on the top of her nightgown, easing the pliant fabric down, over her shoulders, down, over her breasts, until it lay just beneath, at her rib bones.

  There was a quick urge to cover herself, her modest upbringing and the shame attached with nudity under the eyes of anyone but her true mate filled Bronwyn’s senses for a moment. Especially when Lucian lifted his head and took her in.

  “My princess…” Bright, greedy eyes roamed over her, flashing with a hunger her blood could never feed. “You are so beautiful.”

  Her own eyes glistened with thankful tears as his hand moved down her shoulder, his thumb tracing the curve of her right breast.

  “I have thought about this,” he said, his fangs descending, “thought about you—touching you, tasting you, for as long as my memory will hold.”

  “So have I,” she uttered, her hips pressing forward, trying to get at him, get closer to what her body craved.

  He laughed softly. “In your bed. I remember.”

  “That was not for you to see.”

  “That was only for me to see.” He lowered his head and licked her nipple.

  She gasped as the feeling shot straight down through her belly to her core.

  “And I will not apologize for it,” he said, his breath on her nipple causing it to swell and beg for him. “For my covetous stare. For watching, panting as you touched yourself, your hands moving down your belly. Your fingers sliding through the lips of your cunt to find the hot, aching clit beneath.”

  She could barely breathe, barely rasp out the words, “Bad paven.”

  Chuckling with satisfaction, Lucian bent his head and pressed his lips over her nipple. He drew it so deeply into his mouth, Bronwyn cried out with the pain/pleasure of it. The wetness between her thighs said everything, said yes, Lucian Roman had claimed her. She was his. Truth or a lie, she didn’t care, and she brought her hands up and thrust them into his hair. She wanted him to suckle her deeper, take her under him and bury his large prick inside her where he could truly declare ownership.

  Her gaze slipped down to watch him, his head to her chest, his white hair bracketing her breast like a cloud, his harsh, demanding mouth, wet and stroking. Oh, God…Her core clenched, releasing more moisture against the thin fabric of her underclothes. The agitation, the need—the need to be filled was making her writhe, her legs moving, her hips lifting—she just wanted her panties off, wanted to feel his hips against hers, feel his long, thick rod pressing against her nether lips, begging entrance to the hot, wet sheath it craved.

  Or demanding it.

  Lucian’s hands slid to her nightgown again and down it went—over her belly, her hips, down to her knees. She was nearly completely exposed to him—all that remained was the strip of white cotton that covered her. The soaking wet strip of cotton.

  His nostrils flared then, and he lifted his
head. “Oh, God, Princess. Your scent. As much as I would love to see you work your cunt again, up close and personal this time, I must have you, taste you. Fuck, I want to drown in you, bury my face in your pussy and lap up every drop.”

  His words had her moaning, moaning his name—she sounded so desperate. His hands were on her belly now, moving down—his head too. Bronwyn wanted to feel embarrassed, maybe even momentarily startled by his direction, his course of action, but she felt only the electric pangs of passion and the provocative urgency of a veana who wanted everything her paven had just described.

  “You have my blood inside you, Bronwyn,” he said, his chin resting just above her pelvic bone as he stared up at her.

  “And you have mine.” Her gaze locked with his, so beautifully fierce, so tight with desire.

  “I want to taste more than your blood.” His fingers closed around the waistband of her panties. “I want the very essence of you inside me.” He looked at her through his lashes and grinned. His eyes were the darkest she’d ever seen them. “I want to show you just how good a simple kiss can be.”

  Her stomach fluttered, her core releasing more moisture, and before she could stop him, Lucian bent his head and ripped her panties from her hips with his fangs.

  Her hips jerked and her breath hitched in her throat.

  “Part your legs for me, lass,” he commanded on a growl. “Wide, so I can go deep, drink deep. Fuck your sweet cunt with my tongue.”

  Bronwyn licked her lips. She felt a quick shudder of nervousness as she stared down at him, his gaze so viciously hungry, so dark and excited with his lust. She knew how wet she was, how it rained from her, relentless. What if she didn’t please him, what if—

  His growl turned into a stream of curses as his gaze took in the sight before him. “Ah, lass, this is torture—this is the real torture. You, my princess, are the most delectable thing I’ve ever seen in my long life.” One hand, the shackled hand, grasped her knee and drew it back. “Hot-pink and so wet. Crying for me.” He lifted his eyes to her. “You have the sweetest pussy, Bron. And it’s mine. All mine to taste, to suckle, to devour.”