by Kresley Cole
Though compelled to enter the shower, she wore an expression of disgust. “You keep calling me that, but you don’t have the right to.”
“Fate says I do.” He grasped her tiny waist and pulled her under the water with him. “You are my fated wife. And I’m from a time when a husband had certain freedoms with his wife.”
“Was I wife to every vampire I blooded? Then I’m a widow several times over. I’d almost forgotten what it was like having to kill all you pesky leeches when your pesky little hearts would beat for me.” She cast him a look of pure venom. “But it’s coming back to me.”
When she bent down to wash off her knees, he sat on the shower’s marble bench and watched her move. “If I weren’t a vampire and we had no history, would your body be aroused by mine?”
She’d just straightened to lift her face to the water. At his words, she clenched her jaw.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” she grated.
“Good. Come here. Closer.” When she sidled over, he commanded, “Kneel once more.”
“You can’t make me do this,” she hissed even as she obeyed.
“I’m not going to make you do anything. Despite how badly you’ve treated me, I will never force you to touch me or force myself upon you. In fact, to make this more difficult for you, I will never touch or kiss you unless you ask me for it. This will be even sweeter when you beg me to fuck you.”
“Never.”
He ignored her protest. “However, if at any time you want to touch me, I give you leave.”
“Are you off your meds?” she snapped, but she was clearly nervous.
He cradled her face with both hands, thumbing her plump bottom lip. “Touch yourself.”
She gasped, her hand flying to her skin as though magnetized. She caressed up and down between her breasts.
“Lower,” he commanded. “Lower.”
Though she resisted, twitching from the fight, her delicate fingers snaked down her flat stomach.
“Open your knees wide, and pleasure yourself as if I weren’t here.”
She whispered, “Don’t,” even as she spread her knees to pet her sex.
When her eyes fired silver, his cock pulsed, the head growing slick. After long moments of simply staring in awe, he rasped, “Are you wet?”
“Yes,” she moaned.
Electricity rolled from her, pricking at his skin, quickening his own need. “Inside, Myst. Put your finger inside.”
She cried out when she slipped her finger into her sheath.
“Two fingers. Deeper.” He clenched the edge of the bench, and the marble cracked under his grip. “Harder.”
As she obeyed, she bowed her head above his lap, her hair cascading over him. She panted against his sensitive cockhead, and her tongue flicked out.
“Ah! Fingers deeper. Faster. . . .”
She took the crown between her soft lips, behaving just as he’d suspected. Her mouth was so hungry as she started to suck.
“Woman! Feels so fucking good.”
Her lips glided lower down his shaft, her cheeks hollowing. Fingers dipping in and out of her heat, she used her other hand to explore him, wickedly seeking.
His Bride was on her knees, masturbating at his command and greedily devouring his cock. A dream. “Do you want me to touch your breasts?”
When she nodded eagerly, he grated, “You have to ask me for it.”
Her fingers slowed, and she released him from her mouth.
He’d pushed too far. “I want to, Myst. I want to have my hands on your beautiful breasts. I’ve dreamed of this for so long,” he admitted.
She hesitated, her body quivering. “Will you touch them?” she breathed, kissing his cock again.
“God, yes!” He covered her breasts with his hands, closing his eyes as he fondled her.
She moaned around his shaft, sucking it deeper. And deeper. She kissed with such abandon she must be on the verge again.
“Ah, yes, suck me, Myst! Your mouth . . . heaven.” He groaned and tugged on her nipples.
How did I live so long without this?
The pressure built inside him; his sac tightened. He widened his knees and planted his heels on the floor as he tensed to spend. “Watch me come,” he growled. He didn’t want her to watch him spill seed; he wanted her to meet his gaze as pleasure overwhelmed him.
Somehow she knew. She raised her head. Silvery eyes riveted to his, she worked her fist on his engorged cock. She pumped it in time with her thrusting fingers—as if she yearned for him to fill her.
That thought sent him over the edge. He cupped her beautiful face when the unbearable pressure exploded. He bellowed, “Myst!” and began to ejaculate. Mindlessly, he bucked his hips, fucking her fist. Anything to lose his seed. Ropes of it arced across his torso.
“Oh, my gods!” Her eyes grew wide before fluttering shut. “Wroth, I’m coming!” she cried, jerking against her busy fingers as she orgasmed all on her own. . . .
Once she’d wrung pleasure out of both of them, she collapsed against his knees. Still shuddering, she clutched his leg as she had that night in Oblak.
Before she left me in agony. Now that he’d taken the edge off his lusts, his familiar resentment returned.
He coldly brushed her aside and stood. As he rinsed his seed away, he stared at the ravishing, evil creature. She remained on her knees, hands on her thighs. Her wet hair splayed all along her slim back. The sight of her perfect ass aroused him yet again.
But she was breathing hard. For their first night together, he’d worked her pitilessly. “Rise and come to me.”
Her pupils flickered as she stumbled to obey.
Guilt flared, but he made himself remember all his grueling pain. The hunger and exhaustion.
He recalled days he’d spent in his bed, drenched in sweat as he’d desperately fucked the very sheets for relief. She’d reduced him to that.
With a curse, he snatched a towel from the rack, running it over his damp skin. She wisely said nothing when he dried her stunning body as well.
Standing before her, he murmured, “Sleep.” He caught her as she fell limp, then traced her to his room, to the bed in the darkened corner.
This should have been a time of satisfaction—he had a living, breathing Valkyrie for a Bride—yet there was little. She was under his control, but he wished she didn’t have to be.
Like a natural-born vampire, he hunched over her, dragging the beauty into the shadows with him.
8
Rise.
Myst hazily heard the command. She must still be dreaming because her skin was touching another’s, and she hadn’t slept with a lover in memory.
She frowned at how pliant her body felt. Where was the tension she normally carried? And why was her face pressed against the naked, broad chest of a man?
His delicious scent surrounded her, made her go warm and liquid. Snuggling closer, she pulled her leg up over his.
She heard a rumbling sound of male pleasure, and her eyes went wide. She shot up, drawing the sheet to her neck. Dread settled over her as the events of the night caught up with her. She was in a vampire’s bed, here as a slave to his every whim. Or as she figured it, she was in hell.
“Were you dreaming about last night?” His voice was husky, his eyes steely gray.
“No,” she answered honestly. She’d been thinking about licking every inch of the hard male beneath her.
“How do you feel about what we did?”
“We? What you did.”
“I only commanded you to take your pleasure. Of your own volition, you sucked me into your mouth.” He raised an eyebrow. “Greedily.”
“Then I feel shame.”
“And?” When she frowned at him, he said, “There’s rarely an instance when emotions do not conflict. What else do you feel when you think of last night?”
She recalled being mindless with lust as she had never been before. In the heat of the moment, she’d considered straddling him and slowly fi
tting his huge shaft inside her. Shivering at the delicious image, she said, “A-aroused.”
“Are you aroused now?”
Her cheeks heated. Why? Myst never blushed. “Yes.”
“Do you need to come?”
“Yes.” She turned from him, bringing her knees to her chest. “But I won’t ask you.”
“Even when I can give you what you need?”
“The only thing I’ll ask you for is my chain.”
“You’ll get it back when I am convinced you will stay with me,” he said. “Explain to me what it is.” When she didn’t reply, he grated, “Answer me.”
“It’s called the Brisingamen.”
“Why do you wear it?”
She shrugged her pale shoulders. “As punishment, and to protect it.”
“Punishment? For what exactly?”
Myst turned back to him, her green eyes taunting. “When I was seventeen, I was caught in a compro-mising position with a demigod of no importance—other than his mind-shattering talent at kissing. My family was unamused.”
He felt a muscle tick in his jaw. Demigod? Nikolai was a battle-scarred vampire who would never walk in the sun with her.
She studied his expression. “Jealous, vampire? Or do you realize I’m out of your league?”
He ignored her words. “So your family punished you with a vulnerability that gave men control of your body? How many have had it, commanding you to fuck them for your very life?” When she glared at him, he said, “Answer. Fully.”
“There was no vulnerability. It’s never been broken. I’ve been tossed by it, caught by it, even held above a pit of boiling tar by it. In the olden days I tried to have it smelted from me, and then lasered recently. Nothing could touch the integrity of the chain before—”
“Before I pulled it free like a thread? So I’m the first.” He exhaled in relief. Then his eyes narrowed. “Over all females in any time and place, you are my Bride. And I’ve freed you from something no man has before. You think this is merely coincidence?”
She clenched her jaw.
“How do you find those facts? Answer honestly. Now.”
“I find them . . . they might be . . . it might be fated,” she bit out.
“We might be fated.” He already knew this without a doubt. He couldn’t believe his heart would beat for a woman who could never want him back. But then, she’d spoken of blooding other vampires.
“Maybe fate’s got a sick sense of humor. Who knows? But that doesn’t mean my feelings about you will change. Are you going to keep me prisoner for eternity?”
“Before I let you go philander with your demigods? Yes.”
With a roll of her eyes, she stood. The ends of her wild red hair brushed her waist as she sauntered around the room, exploring her new surroundings.
He lay back, proudly ogling his Bride’s ass. Myst didn’t merely walk; her every movement was the stuff of fantasy, her every touch as well. He gave his hardened cock a stroke. He hadn’t gotten the chance to claim her—in the shower, he’d been too excited by her wanton sucking—but he would remedy that soon.
She ran her hand along an old papered wall. “I’m surprised a run-down heap like this even has modern plumbing.” She opened a rusted shutter and gazed out into the night. He knew she’d see neglected grounds.
Heap? He had a sudden urge to explain the condition of his home.
“You’re actually going to keep me here?” she asked. “Your torture is fiendish and boundless, Wroth.”
Christ, she got his back up. “As I told you, here is called Blachmount. It used to be awing and will be so again, but the estate’s been abandoned for many years. I only come here on occasion.” Whenever he missed his family.
As soon as he’d determined Myst’s location, he’d left Oblak. He could have traced from the castle to search, but the distance was demanding, and he’d been weak. So Murdoch had purchased a renovated mill on the outskirts of New Orleans for them to live in as they combed the city for her.
With a sigh, she meandered to the pile of her clothes. She blinked up at Nikolai, clearly wondering what his next move would be.
Comprehension hit him full force: no matter how he felt about her, taking care of his wife was his responsibility. He’d best get this ancient keep back to its former glory to give her a home that befitted her.
In the meantime, she would require things he couldn’t anticipate, because he was clueless about female needs. Did he dare take her to get her belongings?
He needed to return to the mill anyway for the supply of blood there. He was thirstier than usual, his appetite reawakened, and claiming her in this condition would not be wise.
As they’d slept, he’d dreamed of drinking from her white thighs.
He could check in with Murdoch, send word to Kristoff that he’d found his Bride, and drink in preparation for claiming her. While in New Orleans, he might as well visit a Valkyrie den. “We go for your belongings tonight.”
9
How?” Myst asked. “You can only trace to places you’ve previously been.”
“But I can drive anywhere,” Wroth replied casually, every inch a modern warlord.
So she was to return home in torn clothing, with her skin flushed and her body still singing for a vampire’s touch.
Lovely.
She would never live this down. And for an immortal, never was particularly bad.
When he rose and strode to his closet, she studied his ripped, naked body. So strong. Too strong. Going to Val Hall might give her a chance to escape, but he could kill one of her sisters if they tried to free her.
He caught her gaze just as it drifted south to his hard shaft. She almost missed the shirt he tossed her.
He smirked. “Come here,” he ordered, and she dragged her feet over. He piled her hair atop her head and leaned down to nuzzle her neck. At her ear, he murmured, “Bride, this is embarrassing. I think I’ve caught you staring at my cock. Hungrily.”
She shivered. Years ago, she’d teased him the same way when he’d stared at her neck.
In a sensual rumble, he added, “You like it, don’t you?”
Once the question sank in, her eyes went wide. She would be forced to answer!
His lips hovered over her shoulder. “Answer me honestly.”
I want to curl up between your legs and suck on it for hours. She quelled the thought and came up with another honest answer: “It’s too big.”
He dropped her hair, smirking again. “So my size terrifies you more than tantalizes?” he asked, using the words she remembered well. Little by little, he was getting his revenge.
She gritted her teeth against her answer. “Both.”
He chucked her under the chin. “I’ll be sure to break you in slowly, ride you easy the first few times.”
Myst—usually quick with the witty banter and dripping sexual innuendo—was speechless. Break her in? Arrogant male!
When he turned toward the shower, she told herself not to stare at his muscled back. Not to notice how it tapered to his narrow hips. Not to gawk at his chiseled ass with the hard hollows on the sides. She’d been right, it did beg to be clutched.
Damn her claws for curling—
“I believe you like everything about me,” he rumbled from inside the bathroom.
She gazed at the ceiling, cheeks heating again. Of course he’d realized she was staring—her eyes had probably burned holes into his skin.
As she dressed in his shirt, she admitted he was right; she did like everything about him physically. Considering her attraction to him and the way he’d made her feel last night . . .
Soon she’d be asking—no, begging—for him inside her.
She had to escape before then, before he “claimed” her. He hadn’t drunk from her, and they hadn’t had sex. As long as those two things stayed sacred, she could get past this rocky patch in her life.
She’d just dragged on her boots when he returned, looking like a male dream. Though his outfit was
casual—low-waisted jeans, a leather belt, and a thin, black V-neck sweater—his expensive clothes accentuated his powerful physique.
She shuffled her feet, embarrassed by her ridiculous getup: his billowing shirt and her knee-high boots.
He put his hands on her waist. “Are you ready?” Ready? To kiss him, hug him, go to her knees? He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her. “Close your eyes,” he commanded. She did. “Open them.”
Suddenly, they were in a modern and stylish kitchen. This was the first time she’d had the luxury to think about the process as they traced. She’d dropped an intoxispell or two in her day and found tracing on par with that.
“What is this place?” She drew back to look around.
Wroth traced to a refrigerator and retrieved a bag of blood. “A restored mill outside of the city.” He poured the cold bag into a mug. “This is where I stayed while scouring the streets for you—for as long as I could manage every night . . . before succumbing to agony and exhaustion.”
Feeling guilty, she didn’t even comment when he downed the mug. At least warm it up, leech.
Whatever he saw in her expression made him say, “You should get accustomed to seeing me drink.” He set aside his cup.
Should I?
He took her arm again and traced her into a garage with several sports cars. She tried to be cool, but of course Wroth caught her eyeing them with appreciation. Especially the Maserati Spyder.
Valkyries prized fine things, and they were acquisitive to a fault. Myst’s first word had been, roughly translated, “Gimme.”
He opened the passenger door of the Spyder for her. Inside, she savored the upscale leather, lids gone heavy.
Sliding behind the wheel, he cast her an inscrutable expression. “We are fortunate, Myst. You’ll want for nothing as my wife.”
She was already fortunate. She already wanted for nothing. The coven divvied their collective earnings from investments, and the take was always generous. She had enough money to buy anything that struck her fancy, from video games to her own sports cars. Last week she’d spent two grand on hand-painted underwear to placate her lingerie obsession. “Oh, joy. I’m rich.”