Immortal Beloved - Kith & Kynn Book 2

by Jeya Jenson

  “Heaven is just a sin away,” Devon chuckled. “Your lips say no, but your body betrays your piety. You can’t resist the needs of the flesh, so give in and have the benefit of what is so generously offered.”

  The shackles of repression were easily cast aside.

  I’m too weak, he thought. The need to possess her consumed his mind.

  Bracing his head on the pillow, Adrien moved his hips, fucking her mouth, the male animal in him savoring the way she flicked her tongue over the tip, taking him deeply until he could feel the back of her throat. One hand wrapped firmly around the shaft, she used her saliva to create a slippery path for her jacking hand. Her free hand cupped his sac, squeezing and fingering his tender balls. He felt as if his cock were melting, a pleasing lassitude creeping up, dulling his brain but sharpening his other senses.

  A fine sheen of perspiration had begun to shine on his skin. His mouth felt incredibly arid, his lips tender from his hot breath rolling over them. He longed to be kissing her, holding her, needing to be inside that tight, velvety cunt, feeling her smooth belly against his as she writhed under his body. In the back of his mind, he wanted to hear her cries in his ears, matching every hard thrust of his cock.

  Just as he was about to explode in glorious orgasm, she drew back. She shifted and moved onto her knees, straddling his body. She lowered her hips to his in a smooth motion, guiding his erection into her welcoming depths. He could feel her thighs tightening against his hips, the warm maw of her pussy gripping him, drawing him deeper.

  Wholly driven to serve her, lustful moans escaped his throat. He wrestled against the bonds holding him as she began rocking her hips in a steady back and forth rhythm. She dug her nails into his shoulders, bringing a fresh pain of the most exquisite kind. Leaning forward, her mouth captured his in a long suckling kiss. He tasted his own blood on her lips, a sample both forbidden and thrilling. Even as she kissed him, he could feel the ripple of her vaginal muscles drawing away his sexual essences the way her lips had drawn in his life’s essences. Pleasure building inside, she began to thrash atop him. Her back arched and she quivered violently when orgasm ripped through her, exposed breasts heaving as she gasped for air.

  Adrien’s own need was wild, the tempo increasing. His own arousal was simmering at a heat that threatened to boil over like a volcano disgorging molten lava. Clenching his teeth, unable to hold himself any longer, he felt the pull of his loins releasing from the very tips of his toes. A quake of pleasure thundered through him as he gave himself over to total release. His body was set to trembling from the force of his orgasm when hot semen spilled from the tip of his penis, his seed drawn into the depths of her ravenous womb. He gasped, struggling to bring his breathing back to a normal level. The scent of raw sex filled the air, clogging his nostrils and permeating through his senses. He was woozy, dizzy, feeling as though his very soul had been drained away.

  Bodies still joined, Lilith retrieved her sharp-edged charm. Lifting her hand, she slashed through her palm. A well of warm blood dripped onto his chest, the droplets falling like shards of ice in a winter storm. She reached out and grasped his face. Her nails dug into his skin, the pressure at his jaws forcing his mouth open. He could feel the fierceness behind her intense gaze.

  “Drink,” she urged, positioning her bleeding hand over his lips. “Drink of me and shed your mortal shell.”

  Feeling her foul blood dripping past his lips and onto his tongue, Adrien twisted his face to one side. Guts lurching violently, his heart thudded as he fought to spit out her blood. Body writhing and bucking, he tried desperately to raise himself, but his tied wrists and the weight of her sitting across his hips kept him effectively restrained.

  With a fierce strength, she righted his head. Digging her fingers into his mouth and wrenching down his jaw, she fed him more of her blood. Appalled and confused, he renewed his efforts to refuse her offering, gagging and gurgling sickly through his efforts not to swallow even as his lungs began to burn from lack of air. He had to breathe to live.

  He had to swallow.

  Gasping in air, he drank down her offering. The strange coppery taste of it coated his tongue as it slid like cold lead down his throat. When the chill hit his stomach, he could feel her blood commencing to invade his system, entering his veins and slithering like an evil snake through his body. He felt odd, his vision dimming alarmingly as an unfamiliar and dark euphoria started to overtake him. An unearthly and wholly incredible energy was burgeoning inside him, spawning outward like a child fighting to be birthed. He could not speak, he could not move. His flesh tingled as though consumed by an inner fire, feeling dry and papery. Some inner instinct told him that he was dying, as surely as his soul was being swallowed up by the black entity that was steadily dimming his vision. Death rose clearly and vividly in his mind. Helpless, a mist shrouded his brain, spreading a strange numbness over his senses.

  Chapter One

  His mind trapped in the manacles of a nightmare, Adrien fought to wake up, drag his sleeping soul away from the dreadful abyss unconsciousness had plunged him into. The devils of his dreamscape world were unmerciful, digging steel-tipped claws of fear and oppression deep into his psyche.

  He fought harder, thrashing to escape a realm existing only when he closed his eyes. Eyes blazing with flames, the twin demons smacked their lips in a dreadful glee. The sound of obscene laughter shredded his soul as surely as their nails ripped his naked flesh asunder. Parting his ribcage, they gazed upon his heart and then lifted it from his chest. Blood drizzled from the pulsing organ even as awareness that he was dying filtered into his dim brain. A final desperate scream burbled from his lips, the agonized wail of the damned soul…

  Finding and seizing consciousness the way a blind man would clutch toward the light, Adrien’s eyes snapped open. Through a long moment he found himself looking at…nothing. His vision was blurry, disturbingly blank. Comprehending that a white veil covered his face, he instinctively lashed out, half expecting his arm to remain immobile. Sweeping the sheet off his face, he caught sight of a shadowy figure in the corner his left eye. Leaping to his feet, he turned toward the unknown menace, his muscles coiled in anticipation of the coming attack.

  But there was no intruder. Instead, he was confronted with his own reflection in the nearby bureau mirror; a huge man thrashing like a naked chicken in convulsions. Relief flooded through his body, a sudden merciful release from the tension. He was safe. It was only a nightmare. He glanced around, automatically checking every corner. Just to be sure. No dark chamber of torture was revealed to his searching gaze. He was in his own bedroom.

  Shaking his head, he dropped back onto the mattress. He pushed damp strands of hair away from his face. Elusive wisps of his dream continued to linger.

  “Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “That can stop.” He glanced toward the mirror again. He hardly recognized the pasty-faced man staring back at him; eyes wide as saucers, mouth hanging open and panting like a dog. Heart thudding, the intense pressure of his blood unmercifully pounded at his temples and forehead.

  Adrien pressed his palms to his face and took several deep breaths. The act of drawing air into his lungs, then slowly exhaling, helped calm him. Fear was the formidable beast haunting his dreams, a nasty imp visiting him time and time again. He hated feeling overwhelmed and out of control. It frightened him more than he cared to admit. His nightmare was not the ruminations of a mentally disturbed psyche. What he dreamt had actually taken place. Images of his former captors were seared onto the walls inside his skull. If he closed his eyes he could easily slip back into the mental, physical and sexual bondage they’d inflicted.

  An unbidden tremor scratched its way up his spine. A low groan filtered past his lips. He doubted he’d ever be able to successfully vanquish the memories of his appalling kidnap and rape. The memories never failed to come when he tried to sleep, seeping from the cemetery of bones littering his brain. He glanced down at his wrists. Both were still scarred b
y the rope burns of an inhumane captivity. Though he was presently a free man, he’d been tied down through so many years that he was almost unfamiliar with the concept of uninhibited movement.

  It’s over now, he thought, swallowing down bitter acid rising in his throat. My life is again my own.

  Still, fear lingered. It was part of the reason he continued to have trouble resting, even in the daytime.

  He rubbed his eyes. “Why do I even bother?” The room around him was shrouded in shadows, dim and cool, blinds drawn against the bright light of the afternoon.

  Letting his hand drop, he glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was only three-thirty in the afternoon—much too early to get up. The early winter sun wouldn’t be going down for at least another hour and a half. That’s what he liked about winter, the nights were longer.

  He lay back and punched his pillow into shape, then rolled over onto his side. A slight smile crossed his lips when he saw a spill of black across the pillow beside his. As he had, expected, Gisele was in her place, still asleep. He was glad he hadn’t disturbed her. Reaching out, he stroked her soft, silky hair. It was the most beautiful shade of smoke he’d ever seen, her crowning glory.

  At his touch Gisele opened her eyes, showing startlingly green twin orbs flecked with gold. She rolled over and stretched, giving a big yawn.

  “I know it’s too early to get up, Gizzy,” he said, “But I can’t sleep.”

  Gisele looked at him with her big beautiful eyes. Then she turned up her cute pug nose and meowed.

  Smiling, Adrien gave her a loving scratch behind her ears. Persian cats were his weakness and he loved owning them. He and Gisele had been together five years, and hers had been the only warm body to share his bed in a long time. She never questioned his odd hours and the fact that he only went out at night. She was always there, calming him when he was upset and offering a love that was unconditional. Whenever he’d sit down, she would jump in his lap.

  He stroked the cat’s soft fur, calmed by her trilling purr, so peaceful and content. It was how he wished he felt inside, but peace and contentment eluded him. All he felt was fury and anger. The paths he insisted on treading took him toward that unhallowed ground that was his mental hell. He ruthlessly dug up the old graves, examining the rotted corpses. More than his human life been taken away by the demonic beasts masquerading in human guise; he’d been robbed of his soul. The thing inside looked like him, acted like him… But deep down he knew that the man who was Adrien Roth had died when Lilith’s tainted blood invaded his body.

  Another glance at the clock. Ten after four.

  He sighed and tossed aside the bedcovers, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed to stand up. Stretching, he caught sight of his nude body in the bureau mirror. His physique was sleek, solid, well-muscled. A man who’d worked all his life, he was not one to shy away from doing hard labor, pleased with the effects it bestowed.

  Urging Gisele off her pillow, he quickly straightened the sheets and tucked the bedspread into place. By time he finished, the bed was perfectly made. Disorder disturbed him. He needed to have everything in its place. More than part of a compulsive personality, such care was necessary. He had to maintain a façade of normalcy. He could only live with what had happened and try to go on. It was called staying sane, surviving. If nothing else, he was a survivor.

  He headed toward the adjoining bathroom to take a quick shower. Lathering up, he could not help but notice the multitude of tiny scars marring his neck and abdomen. Lilith had used him well to sate her many hungers; for blood, for sex. More than her scars marred his skin. Her demonic brand was burned into his left shoulder. The silver 'slave' collar he’d been forced to wear still cast its thin scores around his neck.

  But he didn’t want to think of her. Not today. Face twisted into a scowl, he redoubled his scrubbing efforts, as if by adding more soap and rubbing harder he could wash away all the hateful marks. He couldn’t, but the act of cleansing his body made him feel a little less tainted. Rinsing the soap off his skin, he turned off the water and snagged a towel.

  Fingering his face, he decided yesterday’s stubble was acceptable; it added to the bad boy outlaw biker look he’d cultivated lately. He could surely use a haircut, too. Thick brown hair tumbled around his shoulders. He looked like a shaggy dog, all scruffy and unkempt. Instead of a shave, he pulled his hair back with a band, then dressed in jeans, sleeveless T-shirt, black biker boots.

  Giselle was waiting for him in the kitchen. She wove between his legs, demanding her share of attention. Getting up meant it was time to eat and she wanted her food. Now.

  Adrien laughed, retrieving a bowl and can of food from the cabinet. “Yes, my lady. Always at your service.”

  Top popped, he spooned out tender flakes, then filled a second bowl with fresh, cool water. Gisele ate only the finest money could buy. Cheap and off-brand wasn’t good enough for this finicky feline. She knew what she was, a pedigree, and she knew that she deserved it, too. Her owner wouldn’t have it any other way.

  As Gisele munched, Adrien made a cup of instant coffee, heating water in the microwave. Sugar and a liberal dash of bourbon made it palatable. Sipping the hot liquid, he leaned against the counter. The rush of caffeine gave him an instant boost. He wasn’t hungry, though. Later, he would fix something to eat. He never was the kind of man who could face eating first thing after getting up. At this point food was a thing he consumed to live, not the other way around.

  Glancing around his apartment he mentally assessed things that needed to be done. He had a long list of renovations in mind. He’d only been in residence about six months, renting one half of a duplex owned by a half-blind, half-deaf old widow who needed the extra income a renter afforded. She’d offered to cut the rent a little if he would help her fix up the place. He had agreed, but whether or not he’d get around to doing them, however, was negligible.

  Initially, the old lady hadn’t been happy to see a strapping single man come knocking on her door. After all, dressed in his leather jacket and riding a motorcycle made him look like what he was; mad, bad and dangerous to know. His sole grace had been Giselle. The old lady loved cats—any and all cats. She must have kept a hundred and fifty of the felines on her side and her home reeked of tom-cat pew and overflowing litter boxes. It was a wonder the county didn’t cart her off to the old folk’s home and haul those pussies off to the pound. He doubted anyone cared very much anyway.

  At any rate, Gizzy had gotten him into the door without having to sign a lease. Plus the old bat liked the fact that he paid her in cash by the month; something she unquestionably was not reporting to the IRS. A paper trail was something Adrien definitely didn’t want to leave behind. He needed to be free to pack up and leave within ten minute’s notice.

  The apartment was not the Taj Mahal. It didn’t even qualify as bohemian chic.

  Pre-furnished with a lot of secondhand crap, it wasn’t the best by any means. In fact, most of it was of appalling taste and would have been better hauled off to the garbage dump and burned. Walls and ceilings once off-white had darkened into a cruddy smoker’s yellow. The former tenants had obviously burned a lot of cheap candles and incense, probably to hide the smell of marijuana smoke. Black soot-stains licked the walls, something no amount of scrubbing could entirely erase. Not that anyone had tried very hard. The carpets were filthy, the mattress in the bedroom sagged and the shower leaked alarmingly. He’d done a bit of work to make it clean and habitable for Gisele, but still wasn’t sure that he wanted to invest much time doing renovations.

  It’s only a temporary place to roost, he reminded himself.

  Still, it served the purpose. He wasn’t about to fret about clashing colors and mismatched drapes. Not even the coffee cup he drank out of was his. He personally owned nothing more than his clothes, cat and motorcycle. Giselle had a kitty carry that she rode in, even though she was happier when stuffed in his backpack, furry head sticking out so she could watch the landscape go by. Ad
rien was sure he’d gotten more than one double take with that one.

  Finishing his first cup, he fixed a second, pouring in extra booze. There. That would do just fine for breakfast.

  Retrieving yesterday’s paper from the counter, he sat down at the kitchen table to read. The table wobbled alarmingly, one leg shorter than the other. He’d solved the problem by pushing it against the wall and shoving a Reader’s Digest Condensed Book under the short side. Nobody really read those things anyway. The paper didn’t succeed in keeping his attention. Instead, his gaze drifted to his wallet and keys.

  He reached out and picked up the folded leather case. Opening it revealed the usual items: driver’s license, social security card, fifty dollars in small bills. No pictures, though, or any other items that would mark it as a truly personal possession—anyone finding it would take the cash and toss it away. The address was a local post office box, not a physical address. He’d deliberately chosen a small rural area where there was no home mail delivery. All mail had to be picked up at the post office.

  Sliding the wallet into his back pocket, his tongue worried the inside of his cheek. Adrien Roth did not exist anymore—hadn’t existed for a long time. He was presently AJ Bremmer, and the life he was living did not belong to him. The day and age he was born to was now ninety-eight years into the past. His actual age was one hundred and twenty-seven years.

  He’d gotten used to borrowing other people’s names. It was all part of surviving in the modern world, when one’s natural life had overrun its span. The real AJ was long dead, victim of a farming accident at age fifteen. What he’d left behind, aside from a grieving family, was a treasure on the market that created fake identities—a birth certificate. This little piece of paper could be the ticket to a new identity, the key to obtaining a license, social security number and passport. The fact that AJ lay rotting quietly mattered naught. What did matter was his birth year, 1975, would have made him twenty-nine in 2004—his own and forever age.