by Kresley Cole
Regin was pressing hard enough to bring blood trickling down. Lucia stood at her side with an arrow nocked.
"No," Myst said, her voice sounding hoarse from screaming. "Don't."
Regin stared at her in disbelief. Regin, whose entire race had been destroyed by vampires…and who'd secretly learned to count by her mother's bite scars. "This thing just violated you—"
"We followed the lightning here, Regin," Lucia interrupted. "Whatever he did to her she let him do."
She couldn't imagine what they looked like there in the field. They'd fought ruthlessly. They must be bruised, bloody, their clothing in shreds.
Why hadn't he traced her away? Why hadn't he thrown her out of the way and attacked Regin? She suspected the answer to the first—he wanted them to see her like this. Their relationship couldn't be made more brutally clear. She pulled away from him, though his arms tightened around her to prevent it. "Please, Wroth," she whispered in his ear, "let me face them." He finally released her.
But jealous Myst didn't want her sisters to see Wroth hard, huge and magnificent, and she pulled her skirt over them as she drew him free from her, then yanked his shirttail down. That's mine, she thought irrationally. She'd been acquisitive all her life but never with men. Now she wanted possession.
***
When Myst stumbled away, Wroth reached for her, but Regin raised her sword against him, piercing several inches into his chest muscle. He didn't fight back—he could hardly feel it—and he had vowed not to harm her family.
He was euphoric. There stood his Bride, putting her chin up as she pulled her shirt closed. Claimed. He stifled an evil grin. With witnesses. She could never go back now. She was his.
His heart pumped madly for her, his blood rushing inside him—and her luscious blood as well. She'd enjoyed his bite, lightning had streaked the sky each time that she came—he'd seen her pleasure. He could give her lightning each time he drank, without fear of turning, without fear of hurting her. No more checking his eyes each sunset.
They could sustain each other. He'd never known greater satisfaction.
Now if he could just get her witch of a sister to cease stabbing him.
"You just had sex with a vampire," Lucia said. "Myst, where is your mind? You know the repercussions. You'll be shunned by the Lore, mistrusted."
Regin added in a deadened tone, "When Furie rises…"
Whatever that statement meant, it made Myst's brows suddenly draw together. She appeared shocked by everything, as if her sisters' arrival had splashed ice water over her, waking her from a dream. He needed to get her home, away from them.
Suddenly Regin gasped and stared at Myst in horror. "Oh sweetheart," she whispered, "where's your chain?"
"Quickly," Wroth snapped to Myst as he reached for her, "take my hand." Myst obeyed, diving forward to take it. He traced them just as Regin leapt for Myst's legs and an arrow sang for him, hitting him in the shoulder but not staying within him as he disappeared.
Back at Blachmount, he set Myst on the edge of the bed. "Stay here," he ordered, then returned for the goddamned bag he'd gone to get in the first place. Just as he arrived in her room, Regin and Lucia bolted up the stairs. "Give her the chain back, leech!"
"I've claimed her. She's my wife now," he said simply, then traced with an ease he'd never had, covering the distance as if an afterthought.
Back home, he tossed her things to the side, then took her shoulders. "Rest, milaya. Take a hot bath and relax here until I return." She didn't respond, and he didn't want to leave her unsteady from tracing and reeling from the events of the night, but he needed to let Kristoff know that Ivo was in the New World. They needed to hunt him down and destroy him.
As Wroth gazed down at his Bride he wondered how Ivo could not be searching for her.
He brushed her hair from her face, trying to get her eyes to meet his. "Make yourself comfortable here. Your clothes are here. This is your home now."
When she nodded absently, her pupils were huge, her eyes stark, and he knew he couldn't leave her like this. He would warm her with a bath then put her in bed.
He ran water, undressed her and set her in it. She sat silently as he scrubbed the dirt and grass from her alabaster skin and held a cloth to her neck, to the bites that marred her.
Suddenly, she turned to him and placed her hands on his face. "Wroth, you said you would vow never to hurt my family?"
"Yes. I make it again."
"I believe you. You could've traced and attacked Regin and Lucia tonight and you didn't. But please, if you take more memories from this night, don't give others our weaknesses. Don't allow others to hurt them either."
Was his first loyalty to his king or to her? She was his Bride, and as he stared into her eyes, he realized that that meant she was his family. Wroth's family had always come first, and nothing had changed except that he'd now added to it.
"If I learn of other factions I will relate that information. But never about your kind."
She pulled him to her and kissed him softly with trembling lips. "Thank you," she whispered against him, then she gave him a shaky smile that made his turned heart do things he never remembered from being a human before.
Her shoulders tensed just as he heard voices sounding from downstairs.
Trespassers in his home. His fangs sharpened. That someone would dare enter his home when he had his Bride within it…"Myst, finish up, then go to the bedroom and wait for me. If anyone comes in that door but me, run faster than you've ever run and escape them."
He traced downstairs, feeling his muscles tensing, his hands itching to kill. He was strong from her immortal blood, taken directly from her flesh, as powerful as he'd ever imagined, and he would use it to protect her. His fangs were sharp as razors—
"Wroth, I pity the being who wishes to harm your Bride," Kristoff intoned from his seat at a long table in the great room. Murdoch and a couple of elders sat with him and all their eyebrows rose at his appearance.
As he struggled for control, he imagined how they saw him. His clothing was filthy, his shirt stabbed and shot through, and God help him, Myst's delicious blood marked his skin and clothing. He was fairly certain that she'd gotten in a few sucker punches at his face as well.
"I would not wish to attend you in such a condition. I'll go wash and change—"
"No, we know you are eager to get back to her for the remains of the night." Kristoff appeared proud. "Congratulations, Wroth. You've now been blooded and claimed your Bride." He studied him. "Recently. Though it appears as if she didn't acquiesce to you."
Wroth stood, uncomfortable, reminding himself that she'd kicked him like she would spur a horse when he'd stopped.
"I'd like to meet her."
"She is resting."
"I suppose she would be. In fact, we'd wonder if she wasn't." A couple of snickers. Wroth shot them a look and they quieted. "And you drank her blood this night?"
His eyes narrowed. How had he thought this would escape Kristoff's notice?
"Did you take her flesh as you did so?"
He could do nothing but admit to the most heinous crime among their order. Shoulders back, he said, "I did."
"Take off your shirt."
Murdoch caught his glance, tensing to fight, but Kristoff waved him down, saying, "Stand down, Murdoch, no one's dying tonight."
Perhaps Kristoff would only flail his skin from his back. Wroth removed the shirt, hoping. For the first time in his life, he had his wife waiting for him and for the first time he truly cared if he lived or died.
"Toss it on the table."
Frowning, he did. The elders' eyes widened, their hands going white on the table. Kristoff had scented Myst's blood, and now the others did as well.
"And what was it like, Wroth?" Murdoch asked, his voice hoarse.
Wroth didn't answer. Then Kristoff raised his eyebrow in a silent order.
After a moment, Wroth grated, "There is no description strong enough."
"And h
ow did she feel about your bite?" Kristoff asked.
He didn't want them to know how she reacted to that, how it had made her come with an intensity that had staggered him.
Kristoff's stare was unflinching. "You resist answering your king on the heels of confessing to our most reviled crime?"
This was his Bride they spoke of. He wanted to lie, to say he wasn't sure, didn't know, and he couldn't. Answering this wouldn't be breaking his vow to her, and if Kristoff ordered him killed, he couldn't protect Myst from Ivo. Though it disgusted him, he bit out, "She found extreme pleasure from it."
Kristoff appeared pleased. Or even relieved. "Do you think I should forgive Wroth his transgression? For which one of us could have resisted the temptation when she was our Bride and her exquisite blood called?"
Wroth hid his shocked expression. Kristoff would've normally called for him to be chained in an open field until the sun burned him to ash.
"Continue as you were, but if your eyes turn, know that we will destroy you." He was still staring at the shredded garment marked by a Valkyrie's blood.
Wroth recovered enough to say, "I was coming to Oblak tonight to tell you that Ivo was spotted in New Orleans. He's looking for someone—and I suspect it could be Myst. I need to—"
"We'll take care of it," Murdoch interrupted sharply. "For God's sake, you stay here and…enjoy…everything."
"Find out as much as you can from her." Kristoff eyed him shrewdly as he stood to leave. "And you will tell us if the memories follow the blood."
A short, quick nod. As Wroth left the room, stunned from the events, he heard Kristoff say, "Now which one of you will volunteer to accompany Murdoch to New Orleans where this coven full of Valkyrie is located?" Wroth heard every chair scrape the floor as they shot to their feet.
Like a cat licking her wounds, Myst sat in the large bath, replaying the fight.
Since she'd pulled her punches, she wondered if she could've won, wondered if she'd truly been bested. But then she flexed the fingers of the fist he'd caught. They were sore. They were not broken. He'd held back as well.
She sighed, unable to work up the outrage that should be exploding within her or even concern over the possible threat downstairs. Wroth would take care of it. He was strong. She shrugged, her mind easily returning to tonight's stunning developments. Now her sisters knew her chain was gone and that she'd been claimed by a vampire.
What they couldn't know was how much she'd loved it. His bite had turned her inside out, made her toes curl. Even now she shivered to think of it, knowing something was woefully wrong with her for craving it. It might be twisted, but she yearned for him to do it to her again. And again.
In addition to that, Wroth had taken her as no other had before. Though she acted as if she'd had tons of lovers, she'd actually had only a couple of steady partners. She'd dated a wonderful warlock for centuries, but it was long-distance—in those days, it took a half a year to reach each other—and they'd parted ways amicably. She'd only slept with two others, both long-term, and they'd been fun and enjoyable. But she'd seen a lot, and knew a lot, and she knew Wroth moved and used his body on hers—in hers—in a way that was nothing short of divine. And she believed it would only get better. She shivered again, unable to imagine how she could feel more pleasure without dying. Then there was a very compelling fact…
He'd unchained her where none other could.
Did that mean he was supposed to have it? To have her? Was he supposed to possess her, to command her like a genie with a bottle? She'd always pitied the plight of genies until once when she'd freed one from a young berserker. Instead of thanks, the chit had laid into her, screaming, "To each her own, lightning whore!"
After Myst dried off, she dressed in an emerald-green, understated nightgown that said neither "do me" nor "don't do me." She lay back in his bed, realizing she was just so relaxed about everything. Strange, but she felt so at home here in this cold, bare mansion.
Less than half an hour later he returned and showered. There'd been no threat? Probably his brother visiting just in time to see Wroth looking like she'd fought him for her life. He should see when she didn't pull her punches.
When Wroth joined her, she wondered if he was going to make love to her again. Their time in the field had only set a fire for her—lit a pilot light, so to speak, as it had never been lit before. She was sore, but if he commanded her not to hurt again…yet he only clasped her into his arms to rest on his chest. She saw he was hard, but he made no advance.
Finally, he curled a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. He drew her hair back to reveal his bites. He let her hair fall, then stared at the ceiling, rumbling the words, "I regret hurting you. The number of bites, the lack of care before…"
She knew what he meant by the latter—he regretted not taking time to prepare her body and ease into her. When she thought about how he'd learned to do this, or thought about the first time he'd ever realized that he would even need to, she felt a scorching flare of…jealousy—so strong it rocked her. Jealous? When he could never want another but her for the rest of his life?
"I can't believe I lost control like that. I am unused to being blooded. I am unused to being a husband. But I vow to you that things will be different—I will be gentler."
That statement was the first thing to threaten her lackadaisical mood since she'd returned here. She didn't want their sex to be different. Their sex. Great Freya, was she thinking about keeping him? She would get used to his size, and then she would demand that he be anything but gentle. She couldn't have ordered up a better match for her in bed and she'd be damned if she let him hold back all that magnificent strength.
He was everything she could ever dream of physically. His scars alone…she stifled a moan but her claws were curling. He was a warrior, with a warrior's mentality, which she appreciated. None of her lovers before had been warriors. No, they'd been the warlock, an immortal sultan and an architect. Perhaps that was why she was so attracted to Wroth.
She and Wroth were kindred.
"Speak to me," he commanded, then immediately amended, "Will you not speak to me?"
"I want my chain back. I want to choose." If he gave it to her, she would stay awhile. Her sisters had already seen her screwing a vampire—she might as well enjoy the pleasure for a time.
He moved to his side, pressing her to hers as well. There they lay, gazes locked. Dawn was nearing and she didn't want this to end for some reason. He put his hand on her shoulder and stroked her. His palm was rough from hardships and the grip of his sword, and she relished the feel of it. "I can't lose you. The very thought makes me crazed. I can't even allow myself to imagine you leaving me." His hand squeezed her now.
"Are you so certain I would?"
"Yes. I am," he rasped. His tone wasn't blaming, but more like he was explaining something regrettable but inevitable.
She didn't deny it, because he was probably right. He called himself her husband, but she didn't recognize him as such. She didn't recognize him as the one whose arms she would forever run to get within. She might stay for a time, but in the end she would always go.
Chapter Nine
The harsh light of day. Or night, Myst mused. The harsh light of waking was upon her.
Instead of the shame and disgust she should be feeling, she was treated to big, warm hands massaging her back until she was a boneless heap of bliss. She moaned, her mind dimly registering that vampire lovers might be vastly misunderstood. Perhaps she was in the know and enjoying early-adapter status.
"I have to go meet with my brother for a couple of hours. Can you content yourself here?"
"Uh-huh," she mumbled.
"Don't leave."
Huh? She wasn't going anywhere. She was too at home and relaxed here.
He bent down to murmur in her ear. "I've left clothes laid out. Will you dress for me, milaya?" And then he disappeared.
Strangely lazy, it took her another hour before she finally got up. She rais
ed an eyebrow at what he'd set out for her—a stiff satin bustier fringed with transparent lace that just covered her nipples, intricate garters, fishnet hose and thong—all in jet black. She shivered. General Wroth had a wicked streak.
He wanted her to dress for him, and she didn't have a problem with that—she was pleased that someone would finally enjoy her fabulous silks and lace. And it made a huge difference that he'd asked when he could have commanded. But as she soaked in a bath, she mused that she was still in a position where she had to depend that he would continue to show the same consideration. Which was intolerable for a creature like her.
She'd half-expected her sisters to have arrived already—Nïx often could find her—but knew if they hadn't come by now, she would have to win her freedom with her own tools and talents. He'd said he would return the chain when he was confident she would never leave. How hard would it be to act as though she wanted to stay forever?
She dried off, tilting her head at the lingerie laid out. Why not use seduction to let him think she desired him above all others for all time? Play at love and act at surrender. As she smoothed the hose up her legs, she wondered if deception had ever sounded so delicious.
She began trembling as she donned the bustier, and the material at the top skimmed over her hard nipples so sweetly. She was already wet with anticipation.
After dressing, she lay on the bed, fantasizing about him inside her as his big hands worked her body. Would he drink her? She pictured him driving into her from behind, the length of his body stretched over hers to take her neck as well.
Her fingers found their way down her belly and into her panties. He was supposed to be back soon, but did she really care if he caught her? She'd already done it for his pleasure, and what would he do if he found her like this and didn't like it—break up with her?
A stroke on her clitoris had her back arching. Had she ever been so wet? No, not until she'd impatiently waited in a vampire's lair in tight black satin to seduce a warlord.