Eternal Hunger rb-1

by Laura Wright

  “Shut up!” she roared, a sick strain of panic racing through her blood now. Fully clothed, she climbed into the shower and sat under the spray, desperate to drown out not just his not-so-bullshit analysis of her, but the questions they were bringing up in her mind. It was supposed to have been her. She was supposed to have fixed Gray, cured him, and brought him home to their mother. If she wasn’t the one to do it, what did that make her but a huge time-wasting failure? If she wasn’t the one who fixed him, how would she ever gain forgiveness for breaking him in the first place?

  She heard the lock click open, the door creak back, and Alexander walk into the bathroom. The shower curtain ripped back, and he looked down at her, his body suddenly engulfed in steam.

  “Jesus.” He stripped bare, then climbed in, knelt down in front of her. “Let me help him. Let me help you.”

  Her eyes lifted to his. “You don’t want to help me—you want me to come back. It’s all that matters to you.”

  Alexander cupped her face as water sluiced down her back. “Yes, that is what I want, what I must have. God help me, the need to have you near—the need to see you safe is excruciating and undeniable. But does it matter? The motivation?”

  Tears, like droplets of blood, fell from her eyes and her words came out choked and pained. “I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  Her head dropped forward. “If I let you do this, I’m a failure. Don’t you see? You’ve brought him back. That wasn’t the deal . . . I broke him, I fix him.”

  “Look at me,” he demanded. “Look at me, woman.”

  Again, her eyes lifted to his impassioned gaze.

  “You are no failure. You are this.” He touched her chest, her heart. “You beat with life and with love. You are brilliant, extraordinary, amazing, my captor and my friend. And make no mistake, you have kept Gray alive, as you kept me alive that morning on your door-step.” His voice dropped. “You need to stop punishing yourself.”

  Sara’s lips trembled and she blinked, tears falling to her cheeks.

  He shook his head. “I love you, Sara.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “What did you say?”

  He ran his hands over her face, gently placed her wet hair behind her ears and leaned in, kissed first her top lip, then her bottom. “What I have never said to anyone, have never felt for anyone but my brothers. I love you, and as impossible is it may be, you belong to me as I belong to you.”

  His mouth covered hers completely and for one brief moment Sara thought about resisting him, resisting her feelings, her need to touch and be touched by this paven who claimed to love her. But the moment died a quick death and Sara leaned in to the kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck, her tongue slipping between his parted lips, telling him yes, yes—she was his and they belonged together, connected, fused.

  Alexander groaned, and his hand went around her waist, his fingers gripping her wet clothes as overhead the shower rained down on them both. He made love to her mouth, his tongue stroking hers, his teeth nipping at her lips hungrily. He loved her. Even under the hot water and the sweet assault of his mouth, she shivered with the memory. Not a day would go by that she didn’t hear him say those words, not a night when she didn’t remember his eyes, tender and true, as he confessed what she already knew; there was an unbreakable, remarkable bond between them that was only broken by a hunger for blood.

  Alexander pulled his mouth from hers and stood up, his eyes heavy-lidded and lust-filled as he lifted her out of the tub and placed her on the white bath-mat. With deft hands, he peeled the clothes from her body until she stood before him wet and naked, her expression filled with longing. She needed him inside her body, his weight on her, his eyes locked to hers as he moved in and out.

  “You’re cold?” he asked, concerned.

  She smiled softly, sadly up at him. “No. But I am lonely, empty.”

  He gathered her up in his arms, gave her a kiss on the tip of her nose, then carried her out of the bathroom. The bedspread was pulled back and Alexander placed her down on the soft white sheets. For a moment, he stood there, looking down at her, his eyes fierce with longing, his cock standing up proud. Behind him, the glass door remained open and the November wind sent achingly soft snow into the room.

  But Sara felt nothing but heat and need, and she reached for him. “Please, Alexander.”

  “Yes, love.” He leaned down, his hands splayed on her ankles, up he raked to her knees, her inner thighs until he had her legs spread so wide her cunt wept for him. “You in me and me in you. For hours, forever.” He entered her with one hard thrust and stayed there, the head of his cock kissing her womb.

  Closing her eyes to the delicious feeling of being impaled, marked, Sara moaned, “Oh God, yes. Stay there, right there.”

  “Always,” he whispered against her mouth, pressing deeper inside of her. “Look at me, Sara.” His eyes blazed down into hers. “Your cunt is so hot, so wet, like a sweet fist, tempting me to move.”

  His words made her skin tremble, and she squeezed the muscles around his erection until he groaned. “The perfect fit,” he uttered, tucking a hand under her ass and pressing her even closer, his cock thrusting impossibly deeper. Breathless, completely filled by him, Sara wrapped her legs around his waist and again squeezed the muscles that surrounded him.

  Alexander grinned down at her, growled sensually, “Keep doing that and I’ll come.”

  She smiled back. “Promise?”

  He leaned down and nibbled at her lower lip. “Yes, and again I will be struck by my hunger for you.” He started to move then, slowly at first as he kissed her softly, tenderly.

  As he pumped inside of her, Sara let her hands explore him—his legs, his buttocks, so taut with muscle. Then up to his lean waist and rock-solid back, the skin straining to contain the sinew and bone—then over his shoulders, so terrifyingly massive, and his neck, his face. With gentle fingers, she traced the brands on his cheeks, then lifted her head and lapped at one with her tongue.

  Oh God, the taste of him. Honey and passion fruit . . .

  Alexander hissed and she felt his body go rigid, felt his cock grow even harder, stretching her. Grinning, she turned her head and traced the brand on his other cheek with her tongue.

  How did he taste so sweet? She could get drunk off his skin, his . . . blood . . . She let her teeth graze over the rough brand—

  “Fuck!” Alexander howled, pulling out of her, the sound of suction lost echoing in the room. “Your lips are dangerous, both pairs ...” He grabbed her knees and pressed her legs all the way to her shoulders, spreading her so wide he had perfect access to every wet inch of her. He was inside of her in an instant, sinking back into the hot glove of her body and thrusting away. “Yes, dangerous, delicious ...” Panting, keeping his eyes locked on hers, he slammed into her over and over. MINE.

  Sara’s breaths were coming in gasps, every inch of her screaming for him, tightening for him, wanting him to feed from her even if it cost her her life. She was a fool, drugged and desire-filled. She reached between them and palmed her breasts, tugging at her nipples until they beaded hard and dark.

  Alexander’s gaze slipped and he groaned at what he saw. “I’m sorry, Sara. Can’t go slow. Too sweet, too hot, tight ...”

  “No,” she uttered as she pumped her hips, keeping his frantic pace. “Fast. Hard. Please.”

  Alexander covered her mouth, thrust his tongue inside just as he thrust his cock deeper inside her body. Her breath caught in her throat, heat coiled within her, and her veins pulsed with the blood in her heart. She couldn’t stop the building passion inside her and she didn’t want to. Jutting her hips up, squeezing her cunt, she cried out, crashed, went over the edge. It was too beautiful, the sensations running through her, so frantic and sweet, and she refused to release it until he came inside her.

  Her mouth moved from his and found the brand on his left cheek. She growled low and nipped at the rigid flesh with her teeth. Alexander cursed, bucked wi
ldly. Sara suckled the brand into her mouth, played the damaged skin like a nipple with her tongue.

  Fingers digging into the skin of her shoulders, Alexander slammed his cock so deep within her body Sara felt him in her belly. Hot seed spilled into her cunt, and Sara squeezed the muscles that surrounded him, wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him close, reveling in the spasms and jerks of his climax.

  He loved her.

  She smiled, reveled in the feel of his weight atop her. She nuzzled her head into the curve of his neck, her eyes open and unfocused. His shoulder spread out before her, looking massive and edible. She licked her lips, watching as his skin seemed to pulse. In her muddled brain she heard herself say that it was the same spot that had opened and closed so many times before—the spot she’d tasted, and beneath it, the blood that could change her . . .

  Something snapped, her mind, her hunger . . . and she couldn’t help herself. She lowered her head and bit down hard on his shoulder.

  Alexander reared back, his cock coming free of her. “Sara!”

  Oh God. She looked from his eyes to his shoulder. Shock and fear blasted through her. She tasted blood on her tongue. What have I done? She covered her mouth with her hand. “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Shit. No.” Eyes wide, Alexander sat back on his heels.

  “I couldn’t stop myself. I’m sorry.”

  He turned and checked his shoulder. “You broke the skin.”

  “Alexander . . .”

  When he turned back to look at her, his eyes were black-red. “Do you taste me?”

  Scared, she shook her head, lying to him without using the words. She knew what he thought would happen to her if she ingested his blood—even one drop. And maybe he was right, maybe it had happened already.

  Alexander looked angry, shocked, and Sara stammered through another apology. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand why I would do that. I don’t understand anything right now. I’m so sorry.” But even in her fear and confusion she realized she wasn’t sorry. Not even a little. As she stared up at him, she wanted to continue what she’d started, taste what glistened on his shoulder now, bright and red and succulent as a peach.

  Her heart plummeted to her stomach. What the hell was happening to her? The hunger, not for food, but for him . . . Oh God, what had she done? And what would happen to her next?

  “Sara, you could become Imiti. Fuck! You must swear to me—” He froze, his attention drawn to something above her head, on the wall.

  Sara sat up and turned to look. At first she thought she was dizzy, but then she realized that the plaster was moving, shifting like the pages of a book. Instinctively, Alexander moved in front of her as words formed on the wall.

  “What’s happening?” she asked. “What is this?”

  Alexander stared at the message.

  THE IMPURE LIVES IN THE NIGHT. THE SECOND ROMAN BROTHER DIES IN THE SUN. COME TO THE HOLLOW.

  “I have finally been summoned.”

  32

  The blood she had given had been a great loss to her, a compromise to her moral code, and yet it had granted her the answers she’d come to the Roman house to find.

  Bronwyn took out the last piece of clothing in the drawer and placed it in her bag. Edel was already outside in the car, waiting to take her back to the credenti, back to her family, back to her work. She’d wasted enough time here, had been an unwanted guest for far too long. Her pride had taken a beating.

  She snatched up her bag and headed for the door. The eldest Roman was supposed to have been hers, but she’d fed him, let him drink from her, and had come away with absolutely no impulse to quell her own hunger. She’d sat across from him as he swore to keep their feeding a secret, every molecule in her body screaming the truth—Alexander Roman was not her true mate.

  She walked out into the hall and headed for the stairs. She had done something wrong in her research, somehow misread the genetic markers. Alexander didn’t belong to her, but she needed to find out who did. And there was no time to spare.

  “Running away, princess?”

  Dressed in black and standing in what had been a living area yesterday and what now looked like combat central with targets on the walls and burlap bags hanging from the ceiling, Lucian eyed her, two sizable knives in his clenched fists.

  He looked ready for war.

  “I’m going home,” she said.

  “But I barely had time to do my job,” he drawled.

  “What job is that?”

  “Stand in for Alexander as you’re potential mate.” He grinned wickedly. “I was really looking forward to it.”

  She lifted her chin. “Somehow I think you’ll get over your disappointment.”

  “And I think you’re wise to give up on the whole true-mate bullshit.”

  “Oh, I’m not giving up,” she said quickly, resolutely. “I’m still going to look. Just not here.”

  Lucian growled, turned around, and rammed both blades into the very center of one of the burlap sacks. “Just keep yourself locked up nice and tight, princess. There are dangerous males about.”

  Her gaze moved over him and she nodded. “Damn right there are.”

  His fierce eyes narrowed, but Bronwyn could’ve sworn she saw a spark of amusement in their depths.

  Yes, going home was right. “Good-bye, Lucian.” She turned and grabbed the door, yanked it open, then whispered, “Be careful,” before she closed it gently behind her.

  The ancient ten had returned to the Hollow. They sat at the glass table, hands folded, their eyes—the left ones branded with thin black circles—following Alexander as he walked over smooth, soft sand toward them.

  “You have failed, son of the Breeding Male,” said Cruen, his electric blue stare deadly. “Abductions have slowed, true, but Ethan Dare is still at large.”

  “The failure here is yours,” Alexander returned with venom. “I came to you and told you that the half-breed has the powers and abilities of a Pureblood morphed male and you refused to believe it. Why do you think you could not track him! He is being protected.”

  There was a collective gasp among the members, a rustle of red robes as they turned to whisper panicked mumblings to their neighbors. “What is this?” and “Impossible!” and “How could it be?”

  Cruen stood, called for calm among his peers, and when he had their attention, pulled his lips up tight in a grin that had nothing to do with humor. “I still refuse to believe it.” He looked around at his peers. “Alexander Roman lies. He lies to explain away his failure.”

  Alexander swore in the ancient language, his knuckles white, fists ready to fly into the old paven’s bony face. “Dare can flash and so can his recruits. He used his blood to get into the credenti.”

  The paven chuckled. “Impures can never be anything more than what they are—a waste of blood.”

  Alexander sniffed. “You an Impure, then, Cruen?”

  Something halfway between a growl and a scream shot from Cruen’s throat and he opened his mouth wide and flexed his brick red fangs.

  Alexander stalked over to the table and stood before the Pureblood. “Unless you’re going to use those,” he snarled, “put them back in your head and tell me why I am here.”

  Cruen started to stand, but the veana with the long snow-colored hair beside him slammed a hand over his arm. He hissed at her, but remained seated. His gaze lifted and Alexander saw the true force of evil within those pale blue orbs.

  “This is the last time we will call on you, son of the Breeding Male,” Cruen spat out. “You have twenty-four hours to bring Dare to us or Nicholas Roman will be morphed. Perhaps he will bring us what we seek.”

  Sara had the room for one hour.

  Hopefully, it would be all she needed.

  Venturing a glance at her brother, who was lying on the hospital bed she’d set up in the media room on the first floor of Walter Wynn, Sara noticed that his body looked rigidly still and his eyes were clamped shut.

  She tried again,
the slow, calmness in her voice concealing the profound anxiety running through her insides. “You are relaxed, Gray. So relaxed that the muscles in your feet, your ankles, your knees, your legs are so heavy you cannot lift them. So relaxed that your belly, chest, and shoulders are sinking into the bed. So relaxed your neck, face, and eyes are limp.” Sara turned on the projector and the blank wall before Gray’s bed erupted with light. There was no sound, only visions. Only images of fires, one after the other after the other.

  She turned to look at him and said gently, “Open your eyes, Gray.”

  His face twitched as if he was trying to shake his head, but his muscles were too weak.

  “Open your eyes now,” she said again, a little stronger this time.

  Like a lover going in for a kiss, or a fish stretching for food, Gray pressed out his lips. He was talking—in the only way he could and Sara knew what the movement meant.

  No.

  Normally, she’d give up at this point, let him be, let him rest. But not today. She didn’t have the time or the patience for his petulance. She leaned down close to his ear and whispered tersely, “Open your eyes, dammit!”

  He flinched, but slowly his eyes opened and he stared up at the screen. He didn’t gasp, didn’t turn away, scream, or get agitated in any way, as she’d thought he would—as she’d hoped he would so she could take the next leap into the treatment. What he did do was stare up at the images, eyes unblinking like some scene from Clockwork Orange, tears welling in his eyes, then snaking down his cheeks.

  Fuck. Fuck Gray and fuck me.

  Sara flicked off the projector, went to stand in front of him, her emotions high as they had been for days. “Look at me, you stubborn bastard.”

  He did, his eyes bright with the tears of a tormented soul. She recognized the look, she’d seen it in the mirror on more than one occasion.

  “Is this it?” she asked him, shaking her head. “Are you ever going to let me help you? Or am I done? Do you want me to be done?”

  He stared at her.

  “Because I’ve had offers. Not pretty and probably painful as shit, but there’s someone who can help you in a way I can’t seem to.”