by Kresley Cole
“Should we ask them to rumble? Or monster mash?” Nïx asked as she braided her waist-length black hair. Even sporting the old-fashioned hairstyle and an often confused glance—she saw the future more clearly than the present—Nïx still looked like a supermodel.
“I’m serious,” Regin said. “New Orleans may once have been the mystical melting pot of the world, but we control this place now.”
“We can always send Mysty the Vampire Layer to battle them,” Nïx said thoughtfully. “Oh, wait—she’d run off with them.”
Regin added, “Or use her famed tongue assault to flay their skin—as they line up to sacrifice themselves.”
“Har-de-har-har,” Myst mumbled. She’d been razzed about this nonstop since the episode at Oblak. And she deserved it. She might as well have been caught freebasing with the ghost of Bundy.
Others had overheard the jokes in the coven, and the word had spread. Other factions of the Lore—even the nymphs, for fuck’s sake—now whispered about Myst’s seedy penchant for vampires. But it wasn’t vampires plural—it was only one.
Nikolai Wroth. She shivered. With his slow, hot fingers . . .
Whenever she touched herself, she fantasized about him, remembering his hard chest and harder shaft. She imagined his ferocity if he ever found her again.
Truthfully, she’d thought he might have by now. She’d given him her blood—and possibly her memories—which could lead him straight here.
She often pondered that reckless kiss. Though she hadn’t decided to give him blood, in the back of her mind she must’ve known his fangs would be razor-sharp.
Had she wanted him to find her?
“Lookit.” Regin pointed to the street. “Men that big shouldn’t get schnockered.”
Myst turned her attention to a tall, stumbling man. He reminded her of Wroth from the back—why couldn’t she get that vampire out of her brain?—though this guy had a rangier build.
He leaned against another massive male, hanging on for balance.
Regin glanced at Myst’s curling claws. “Can’t you control that?”
“I can’t help it. I like big males with broad shoulders. And I bet that trench coat is concealing an ass that begs to be clutched.”
Nïx offered, “It’s not like she can put Band-Aids over them—”
“Holy shit,” Regin exclaimed. “I see a glow. Ghouls, down by Ursulines Avenue.”
“Damn it,” Myst muttered. “In public again? They are hard-up recruiting, then.” Ghouls were maniacal fighters bent on increasing their numbers with their contagious bites and scratches. They had thick green blood; every time the coven fought them, the parish of Orleans went gooey.
“Again.” Nïx sighed. “And there’s only so many times we can convince drunken tourists they’re extras in a zombie flick.”
Regin slid her blade into her forearm sheath and rose. “Nïx and I’ll go mix it up with the ghouls. You keep a watch out for vampires.” She made a ghostly wooo-wooo sound. “And try not to lift tail for any of them, ’kay?”
As Myst rolled her eyes, her sisters linked arms and leapt down, moving so quickly they were a blur. As usual, no mortals saw. Even if they did, no one registered any weirdness in this Lore-rich city.
Myst surveyed the glow. Not that extensive. Her two sisters could handle it. As eldest, Nïx was strong, and Regin was wily.
Besides, Myst had new boots on, and she’d be damned if she’d lose another pair to the epic battle between buttery-soft Italian leather and goo. Too many casualties already. It was terribly saddening. Really.
Her attention fell once more on the man below. If his front matched his back, she’d be tempted. Literal ages had passed since she’d had a little some-some, and she deserved—
He turned to peer down an alley, and she sucked in a breath. The drunk was no drunk at all! She recognized that profile—it belonged to her “estranged husband,” as the coven liked to tease.
She’d been ogling Wroth’s body!
He stumbled not from drink but from weakness, his build different because he’d lost weight. And that was his brother Murdoch helping him—helping Wroth find her.
Time for a retreat. Shaking, she crept along the roof, pressing herself around the dormers.
Wroth lifted his head above the milling crowd, then swung around in her direction. His gaze locked on her. His crazed eyes were black—and riveted to her with a look of utter possession.
When Murdoch’s gaze followed his brother’s, the male gave her an almost pitying look; then he slapped Wroth on the back and traced away.
Wroth tensed, about to pursue.
She leapt to the roof of the adjoining building, gaining speed for the next—
She screamed when Wroth traced in front of her. She sprinted in the other direction, but he seized her, pinning her body to his, making her feel his straining erection.
She elbowed his throat, dropped from his arms, then dove over the edge of the roof. Tumbling into a high-walled courtyard, she landed on hands and feet.
Her speed was no match for his tracing. Before she could leap from the darkened area, he caught her again, yanking her back against his front.
She fought, but even in his condition he was stronger—maybe because of his condition. With his free hand, he snatched up her miniskirt.
“Don’t do this, vampire!”
“Five years of hell,” he sneered, groping her ass. “You deserve to be fucked till you can’t walk.”
She gasped. “So the warlord claims his prize? It figures you’d take your Bride whether she wants you or not. You’d force me?”
After a hesitation, he bit out, “No. God, no.” She heard him freeing himself. “Myst,” he groaned, “just feel me.” He took her hand and made her cup his heavy sac, then grip his shaft. Never had she felt such hardness. At her ear, he rasped, “Rub the head.” Beads of precum made her shiver. “That’s as close as I can get without you. I need to fuck you so bad I’m sick with it.”
“Wroth, don’t. . . .”
With a bitter curse, he lowered his head, forehead against her neck, but he only ground against her ass. “Can’t stop,” he grated. He wasn’t going to shove inside her? Why would he restrain himself?
When his fingers strummed her nipple, lightning flashed. No, she couldn’t crave this.
The strength in his racked body . . . his desperate touch . . .
She could crave it, just as she did every night in her lonely bed.
This jasmine-scented courtyard was dark. No one was around. He wouldn’t fuck her, so why not enjoy him for a time?
She went soft in his grasp. Raising her arms, she locked her hands behind his head.
With a growl of approval, he kicked her feet apart. He thrust violently against her ass. Once, twice . . . He threw back his head and yelled.
Just before he came, he turned to spill his seed on the ground.
Low, guttural sounds erupted from his chest. As he clenched her, his shudders of pleasure went on and on. . . . Each moment reminded her how badly he’d needed this.
When she thought he’d finished, he clutched her ass even harder. Was he stroking himself anew? To come again? How many nights he must have envisioned this!
The second time he ejaculated seemed even more powerful. He roughly squeezed one breast, then the other, reminding her of that night in the dungeon when he’d made her orgasm.
She wanted to now—wanted him to work those fingers on her next. . . .
Once he was sated at last, he lifted her hair and brushed his lips against her neck, fanning his hot breaths over her sensitive skin. Her eyes closed with bliss. She was just about to say, “My turn,” when he released her.
He pulled down her skirt and smoothed it into place, then arranged his own clothing. Turning her to face him, he cupped her nape and stared down into her eyes.
Instead of drinking her or hitting her, he squeezed her against his broad chest with those muscular arms.
Which was disconcertingly p
leasant.
Curious, she let him embrace her, relaxing a fraction. In return, he lowered his head to kiss her hair.
Finally he drew back. His expression was not as wild, but grim. “I’ve searched for you, Bride.”
“Been right here.”
“You’ve treated me ill, leaving me in that state.”
“My sisters were going to kill you, but I saved your life. And you were about to treat me far worse.”
“And licking my fang?”
That had been an accident! Still, she raised her chin and said, “The least I could do since you were about to torture me. Consider it a memento.”
His face hardened at that, but then he seemed to regain control of his temper. “For five years, I’ve plotted my revenge, constantly imagining how I’d make you pay.” He exhaled a long breath. “But I’m weary of this, Myst. I want to look forward and get on with our life.”
Our life?
“I’m willing to start with a clean slate. We are even for our misdeeds against each other, and I will move past any of your . . . indiscretions that happened before we met.”
How magnanimous of the vampire to give her an empty scorecard. To fill back up. “Indiscretions?”
“Your blood gave me more than a mere taste. How do you think I found you?”
“So you collected my memories?” Lovely. Did he now know she’d been infatuated with him? Had he harvested all her knowledge about the Lore? “Did you enjoy telling your brother and your friends all about my life—my private thoughts and private . . . deeds?”
“I have never told anyone anything I’ve seen. Believe me,” he added in an odd tone. “That is between us.”
“Can you vow you’ll never use information about my family to harm them?”
He scowled.
“Forget it, then. Doesn’t matter anyway,” she said, trying to wrench away from him. “There’s no starting our life—even if you hadn’t been about to interrogate me that night. Would you have broken my fingers? My legs?”
He didn’t deny these things. “That is in the past. You’ve paid me in kind. If it is consolation you want, I’ve suffered far worse than I could ever have dreamed of hurting you. For these years, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t drink. The only thing I could do was fantasize about fucking you, with no relief.”
Warmth bloomed in her belly. But then she frowned. “It doesn’t console me. I just want you to let go of my arms and allow me to walk away. My kind detests yours. Even if I liked you and you were decent to me, my sisters would kill you, and I’d be ostracized by the Lore. There’s no way I’d choose pariah-hood over my current life—which I happen to enjoy the hell out of—so back off. I don’t want to have to hurt you again.”
He raised a patronizing eyebrow, which made her bristle, then said, “I can’t let you go. I’ll never do that. Not until I die.”
“I’ve given you fair warning. I’ll say this only once more—release me.”
“It will never happen. So what will make you accept this? A vow? Done. I vow to you I will never use what I’ve learned to harm your family. As your husband, I could never hurt them anyway because the end would be hurting you.”
He was dead serious about this. Playing with him was over. He planned to force her to live with him. Because he felt that was his right over hers.
No different from all the others. Her name should be Myst the Possession.
She wondered if she’d keel over if someone finally asked her to be with him.
“Wroth,” she whispered, snaking her arms up his chest to twine her fingers behind his neck. “Do you know what it would take to make me your Bride in truth?”
“Tell me,” he said quickly.
“The life leaving my cold, dead body.” She kneed him, deciding at the last second not to break his tailbone with her blow. When he fell to his knees, she backhanded him, sending him flying twenty feet into the courtyard wall.
As she sprinted down a breezeway, he bellowed with fury.
She closed in on a pair of wrought iron gates that led to a street, but he traced forward, lunging at her. His fingertips brushed down her back, hooking the chain.
She screamed in pain when it broke from her. Great Freya, not the chain.
If he figured out its power, her Valkyrie strength and centuries of training wouldn’t matter.
She ran for her life, busting through the locked gates, blowing them off their hinges to clatter and spark across the pavement. For two thousand years, the chain had been unbreakable.
Don’t hear, don’t hear, run, escape from his voice. . . .
Nikolai had snatched only the fine gold strand from her waist. Nearly choking with frustration, he roared, “Myst, stop!”
She froze, her feet planting so quickly she almost toppled forward. Then she turned toward him, sauntering back. Smoothing her hair, she said, “That chain is mine.” She reached for it.
He held the strand of gold high above her. He was in no way magically inclined, but even he felt the power in this chain. The power of what? “How badly do you want it?”
Lightning streaked the sky behind her. Ah, very badly indeed.
“Would you steal from me?” she asked.
“You’ve stolen from me. You’ve taken years.”
“I thought we were even.”
“Until you tried to unman me.”
“I will be kinder to you if you give it back.” Her green eyes were mesmerizing. They were the color of an emerald, and just as luminous. . . .
He had to shake himself. “We’re past that point. I wanted only to make my life with you, and you left me in pain. Again.” When he’d finally been released from his torture, he’d felt overwhelming gratitude to her. Which was irrational, since she was the one who’d cursed him.
Still, he’d been satisfied for the first time in years. Then she’d lashed out again. “After tonight, I understand you’ll never be brought to heel,” he continued. He clutched the chain, recalling how she’d stopped so suddenly. “Unless . . .” He gazed down at her. “Kneel.”
Her knees met the stone as if she’d been shoved.
Shock hammered at him. Not quite believing, he commanded, “Shiver.”
She did, her skin pricking as if with cold. Her nipples hardened, and she hugged her arms around herself.
He knew his grin was wicked. Five years imagining his revenge had never prepared him for this. “Grasp my belt.”
Her pale fingers curled around the leather. She was staring into his eyes, her expression pleading, when he said, “Come.”
7
As soon as Myst’s mind registered the command, her body obeyed with a swift, searing climax.
Screaming with pleasure, she swayed on her knees and frantically brushed her breasts against his legs. Her grasp on Wroth’s belt was the only thing that kept her from collapsing on the pavement.
Once the bliss faded and she could catch her breath, she raised her face, parting her lips to ask—
“Again.”
Her second orgasm wrenched a ragged cry from her lips. Her sheath clenched, squeezing only emptiness. She rubbed her face against his huge shaft, needing it. “Please, no more. . . .” Even as she begged, she ran her mouth over his length.
Though she’d hurt him, he was recovering right beneath her lips.
“Come harder.”
To her shame, she did, arching her back and screaming. Opening her knees, she rocked her hips for him to come fill her.
As her waves of pleasure faded, he scooped her up into his arms. She was limp, yet every nerve was on fire. There was blackness, dizziness. . . .
Suddenly she was in a new place, a paneled study.
He set her on her feet, but she’d gone boneless from his orders and from . . . tracing?
In a tremulous voice, she asked, “Where am I?”
He steadied her. “You’re at Blachmount, my manor in Estonia. This, Myst, is your new home.”
Her eyes widened. “You can’t just keep me here!
”
“Apparently, I can do anything I want to you. This is where I’m going to show you all the mercy you showed me.” He crossed to a small wall safe. As he locked the chain inside, he said, “Listen carefully. The metal of this safe is indestructible. Still, you will never attempt to break into it. You will never touch the lock or try to figure out the combination. Do you understand? Answer me.”
“Y-yes.”
He clutched her arm and traced them into what looked like a bedroom—with the bed on the floor, as vampires preferred.
She shivered, knowing she was well and truly screwed in every possible sense.
“Undress,” Nikolai ordered her from the steam-filled shower.
In the short while since they’d arrived at Blachmount, her anger had replaced shock. She glared at his order. But she obeyed it.
Watching her disrobe was like witnessing a gift being unwrapped.
He stood under the pounding water, healing at a rate he’d never imagined. He’d taken a blow from her that should have crippled him for days, yet he was already hard for her again.
In fact, his pain had been the only reason he hadn’t claimed her in the courtyard as she’d writhed from her orgasm.
Once she was completely naked, he stared at the creamy breasts that had haunted him, his mouth watering at the thatch of auburn curls between her legs.
After years of agony, to have this chain . . . the possibilities were endless. If Nikolai had had a sense of humor, he might have laughed.
Though he didn’t understand the chain’s power, he wasn’t one to speculate about its origin. If he’d spent time questioning every new development in his life over the last centuries, he would have gone mad.
The chain was a tool he needed. Simple enough.
His decision to bury the past had been short-lived—just as his dreams had shown, she was too vicious to accept him—but could he use this mysterious chain to make her a biddable wife?
When she’d come earlier, she’d rubbed her face against his cock, wanting it. In an alley, with his clothes on, having just had his manhood battered, he hadn’t been able to capitalize on her need. But now . . . ? “Join me, Bride.”