by Kresley Cole
He started the engine and pulled down the drive. On the road, he commanded her, “Direct me to your home.”
Muttering, “Your funeral,” she did.
Half an hour later, they closed in on Val Hall. Myst and her sisters didn’t hide their address the way Batman did the Bat Cave, yet they didn’t often have trespassers. When his breath hissed in at the sight of the manor, she was reminded why.
“This is where you live?” he bit out, forearms resting on the steering wheel.
She tried to see it from his eyes. Fog shrouded the cavernous thirty-room mansion, and lightning struck all around. Even at this distance, shrieks could be heard coming from within. The Valkyries often screamed. If Annika got angry enough, car alarms in three parishes would blare.
Copper rods dotted the grounds, but sometimes they didn’t catch all the bolts. Smoke wafted from many of the charred oaks in the yard.
The wood nymphs were way behind on repairing the trees. If Myst heard them whine, “But, Mysty baby, there was this orgy . . .” as an excuse one more time—
“Hellish,” Wroth said.
She tilted her head. In the olden days, they used to mark a grave with a sword, and she’d always fancied that the rods made Val Hall look like a mass burial site.
Okay, it might be a bit hellish.
“It’s time someone took you from here,” he said as he drove closer.
She frowned at him. “This is where I belong. I’m as much a monster as what lies within.”
“You’re a lot of things, Bride. But you’re not a monster.”
“You’re right.” She’d play along. “I’m what monsters like you fear beneath their beds.”
He flashed her a heated look. “But now you’re in my bed where you belong.”
“So in this life of ours—the one that your crazed mind envisions—I’m not going to fight?”
“No.” He parked some distance from the manor. “I know you’re deceptively strong and that other beings would rather die than risk your wrath. But I won’t ever allow you to put yourself in danger again.”
She batted her eyelashes at him. “Because I’m just so darn precious to you?”
“Yes,” he answered simply, making her roll her eyes. As he got out of the car, she opened her door—
Instantly he traced to assist her, looking almost offended that she hadn’t waited for him.
Perfect. A gentleman warrior. Which she was discovering she might have a weakness for.
As they walked along the drive, he said, “Hold my hand.”
“Big vampire scared the wittle Valkyrie will get away?” Her hand slipped into his big, rough one.
He gazed down at her with his brows drawn. “I just want to hold your hand.”
What was that flutter in her stomach?
As they neared the manor, he grew tense, ready to trace them away in a split second. She almost felt sorry for him. He was of the Lore, yet he’d never seen anything like her home. In so many ways, he was as human as he’d once been.
He made her point out the window to her room. With a destination in sight, he was able to trace them inside.
Those discerning eyes of his scanned the ultra-feminine space. She was the girlie-girl of the coven, with her silk sheets, ornate jewelry armoire, large wardrobe cabinet, and gilded vanity. The walls were cream, the accents soft pink.
The next room over, belonging to Kaderin the Coldhearted, housed only a spartan sleeping mat, an armory, and the string of vampire fangs Kad had taken as trophies. Across the gallery was the room of timid Emmaline, who was half vampire, half Valkyrie. She made her little vampire nest under her bed.
One could argue that Emma proved not all vampires were evil—and that the coven could coexist with one. Yet Emma was the daughter of a beloved sister; her Valkyrie half was believed to “temper” the other.
An exception had been made for her. Still, did anyone besides Myst notice Emma’s big blue eyes glinting whenever the coven railed about killing leeches?
Wroth crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Start packing.”
“What do you want me to bring?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You should be used to this. Choose clothes as if you were going away with one of your lovers.”
She traipsed to the lingerie dresser that contained her Agent Provocateur, Strumpet and Pink, and Jillian Sherry collections. Opening a drawer, she said, “Depends on which lover.” With one hand, she held up a quarter-cup bra of red leather; with the other, a translucent baby-doll teddy.
“Both,” he rasped, his expression pained. He was getting hard again. He noticed her noticing, and his eyes darkened.
Assuming a brisk manner, she pulled a weekender bag from her closet.
“Ah-ah.” He picked her up and moved her aside to drag out a four-foot-long trunk. “Use this, because you’re never coming back to this place.”
Myst sighed at him as if he’d uttered nonsense.
If Nikolai had to battle against her for the rest of their lives, he would. “Pack. Now.”
With a defiant look, she swept dozens of fingernail-polish bottles over the edge of her vanity into the trunk.
Nail polish was out of his realm of understanding. He shrugged.
She began combing through her wardrobe with a leisurely air. They’d be here all night at this pace.
“Faster.”
“Dick.” She dumped an armful of hanging garments into the trunk.
He crossed to her copious film collection. Movies must be important to her. He was unfamiliar with the titles, but then he wasn’t versed in any leisure activities. “Which of these do you prefer?”
She hated having to answer his questions, struggled against it every time. “I like romance and horror.”
“A bit disparate.”
She pinned his gaze with her own. “Funny, I used to think so.”
Ignoring that, he tossed a few DVDs into the trunk. As she packed another load of clothes, he turned to her dressers.
Every drawer was filled with lingerie: thongs, hose, lace, and silk nightgowns that made his blood pound. It would take him months to bite all of these off her body.
The woman had a drawer for nothing but garters!
He frowned. Females wore clothes like these for a lover. How many did she currently have? When he imagined that gold chain slapping her body as she writhed on another male, Nikolai crumpled one of the bed’s iron posts.
Reading him so clearly, she said, “Wroth, if you can’t control your jealousy, we’re heading straight for divorce.” She tapped her finger on her chin. “Make a note that I’ll expect the house, the jewels, and the hellhound. Actually, you can keep the house.”
With a scowl, he tossed handfuls of her underclothing into the trunk. Tracing to her bathroom, he searched the cabinets. “There are no medicines,” he called. “No things . . . females need.”
“I don’t get ill, and I don’t have bodily functions. Just like you, vampire.”
He traced back to her. “None at all?” Perhaps she couldn’t get pregnant. He might not have to be as careful as he’d planned.
“None. Why, you can force me to have sex with you nonstop all month!”
“Why would I force you when I can barely keep your hands—and mouth—off me now?”
“Wroth, darling,” she purred, smiling so sweetly, “I can’t wait to get my mouth on you again.” She snapped her teeth and yanked her head back as if she were chewing something free.
He inwardly cringed at the visual. “If you’ve packed enough clothes, get changed.” He fastened down the top of the trunk.
“Fine.” She removed his borrowed shirt.
“Indeed.” At the sight of her body, his cock shot hard as steel. His fangs sharpened, though he’d downed blood at the mill.
With sensual movements, she slid a tight red thong up her shapely legs, wriggling her taut ass as she pulled it into place.
His breath left him when she bent over in just that thong to step in
to a skirt. The urge to feed his length into her from behind was undeniable—
Shrieks erupted from downstairs.
Inhaling for control, he crept to the landing outside her room and peered down. Ten or so Valkyries had gathered below. Some lounged in front of a TV with bowls of popcorn—which they didn’t eat. Two practiced swordplay. When the pair blocked the television, the others screeched and threw popcorn at them.
Another Valkyrie stalked inside. She was covered in blood.
“Cara!” they shouted in greeting, unsurprised by her appearance.
“What’d you get into tonight?” one of them asked.
Cara unbuckled her sword sheath. “My human unknowingly went into a demon bar. A demoness thought to use my mortal to make her lover jealous.” She shook her head. “That demon was about to rip Michael’s throat out with his teeth.”
“How’d you stop him?”
Without blinking an eye, she said, “I ripped the demon’s throat out with my teeth.”
When they all laughed, Nikolai vowed Myst would never see these malicious creatures again. Never! Without their influence, she would be kinder, gentler.
She sure as hell couldn’t get worse.
“Has Myst or Daniela returned?” Cara asked.
“No. We’d expect this from Myst—”
Because she often ran off with men?
“—but certainly not from Daniela. She never came back from the Quarter.”
“Well, the hits keep coming,” Cara said. “I just saw Ivo the Cruel—in the Quarter.”
When they laughed again, she added, “You should know by now that I don’t jest about vampires unless they’re dead.”
They sobered, and one asked, “Has Ivo returned for Myst? Somebody needs to warn her.”
Nikolai turned back to Myst’s room; she was gone.
At her opened bedroom window, he caught sight of her across a field, sprinting away. He yelled for her to stop, but somehow she kept running.
She was fast and might have outrun him with her unnatural speed as she covered miles, but she couldn’t outpace teleporting. He traced for her, lunging from his momentum to snag her ankle. She tripped forward, landing in the grass.
His eyes narrowed. She wore plugs in her ears from a music player! Some song blared, blocking out his commands. Enraged, he yanked the plugs from her, and threw the contraption far away.
She’d almost escaped him. Before I claimed her. A red haze descended over his vision. Thoughts grew distant. He tossed up her skirt, ripping the silk thong from between her legs, glorying in that feeling. He was finally going to take his Bride!
Was she struggling against his hold?
“Wroth, you want it?” Her words echoed inside him. “I’ll fight you for it.”
He would always fight for her, always. Would he fight her for the right to her body? “Then you’re mine.”
10
A nightmare was about to take Myst.
Wroth’s fingers dug into her skin as he dragged her beneath him. His eyes were black, his fangs sharpening.
She slammed her forehead against his. He bellowed with rage, and she twisted around and drove her elbow into his throat. As he fought for breath, she scrambled away to mule-kick his chest.
His big body went reeling.
Why hadn’t she broken his neck with her elbow? Or shattered his breastbone with that kick? No longer would she hesitate to hurt him.
She leapt on top of him, drilling her fist into his face repeatedly. Lightning came down like a hail of bullets, as quick as her punches.
His lip split. Another two hits in rapid succession. She thought she cracked his cheekbone.
“You’ll get no mercy now,” he bit out, his gravelly voice unrecognizable. He caught her fist and squeezed.
Hissing in fury, she swiped the claws of her other hand down his chest, tearing his shirt and flesh open.
He seized both her wrists and forced her onto her back. Pinning her hands above her head, he gave a brutal growl . . . and sank his fangs into her neck.
She cried out, going limp beneath him. Her eyes widened in shock as she watched her lightning fork across the sky. This wasn’t pain he was giving her.
His bite was ecstasy.
Mindless, he withdrew, and pierced her neck lower. Then again. Each time his fangs entered her was like the thrust of a man. Each time he released her skin was like a slow, measured withdrawal.
Dizzying pleasure. Scorching agony. Her claws curled for his body.
Myst had a primal need deep inside her: to be dominated by a powerful male. Yet she’d never been defeated in a contest of two—no male had ever been strong enough.
Wroth was more powerful than any before.
Her mind rebelled. He was a vampire! She’d killed the last three she’d blooded. Why not Wroth? He’d planned to torture her in that horrid dungeon, planned to control her with the chain.
But his bite . . . She moaned, her aching sex getting wetter and wetter. She needed his shaft to fill it.
Please be strong enough. Please . . . For once in her life, would a man take control?
So she could finally lose it.
Snarling against her neck, he ripped open her shirt and bra, baring her breasts. His big hands kneaded her flesh till she arched her back in delight. He released his bite and bent to her breasts. His lips closed around one nipple, sucking her hard. Then the other.
She rocked her hips; signaling him for more?
He must have thought so. He yanked open his pants, shoving them down his thighs. He rose above her. His torn shirt gaped, revealing his clawed chest. His eyes were full black, and blood dripped from his fangs and one corner of his lips.
A vampire from legend.
As his menacing gaze feasted on her body, his huge cock pulsed between them, straining toward her sex.
Her eyes widened. Too large for her! She dug her heels into the ground to scuttle back. Break her in slowly! That’s what he’d said.
His palms landed with a slap on her upper thighs, lifting her pelvis. He used his thumbs to spread her folds, then wrenched her down on his thick shaft.
He gave an inhuman yell; she cried out from his size. He’d buried himself deep in her core. She grimaced in pain as it throbbed inside her.
He’d bested her. Myst will want the first man who can defeat her. The Lore had always whispered that about her. She’d challenged Wroth, and he’d won. In her mind, he deserved to claim his prize.
No matter the consequences.
His hips remained still. How was he resisting his instinct to thrust? His skin sheened with sweat, his muscles rigid from his effort. Somewhere in his crazed mind, he must want her to have pleasure—he leaned down to drag his tongue over one nipple, then the other.
As if to soothe her.
Then he pierced and sucked her neck again, the bite turning pain to pleasure. Her sex slickened once more, trying to accept the invasion.
Slowly withdrawing his fangs—and his hips—he groaned, “So wet.” He plunged his cock back inside her.
She hissed in a breath, eyes watering. “Wroth, it h-hurts.”
Seeming to come out of a daze, he bit out, “Can’t stop.” Sweat dripped from his forehead.
“Tell me not to feel pain.” She gripped his damp hips, her claws sinking in.
“Don’t hurt.” His words were ragged. “No pain.”
Suddenly all she felt was . . . fullness.
When he tentatively rocked inside her, she cried out again. He tensed.
“No, Wroth . . . it’s good! Keep going.”
He did, adding another bite to the mix. He timed each draw from her neck with a surge of his hips. His cock was so swollen, he could barely move within her, was already hitting the end of her sheath.
She gave herself up to the pleasure, arching her back. The lightning whipped up the wind, and it rushed over her heated skin, over her stiff nipples.
Never slowing, he positioned himself on his knees and maneuvered her to
straddle him.
His body was so big compared to hers, making her feel truly vulnerable. As if he’d read her mind, he tightened his arms around her, trapping hers at her sides.
Completely captured. This position allowed no evasion. So she relaxed in the crushing vise of his arms; her breasts swelled against his heaving chest.
He bucked his hips up. And again. Keeping her body immobile, he started to fuck like a piston.
Her head fell back, and she watched the sky in a daze of pleasure, seeing her lightning thrashing the earth.
Bliss welling up, strengthening. “Ah, gods, Wroth! I’m so close. . . .”
“Myst!”
Would he order her to come? He tightened his arms even more—as if to threaten her not to disobey. But no order came.
He met her gaze and rasped, “Milaya, I want you so much.”
Milaya. That endearment from years ago sent her over the edge. Her orgasm seized her like a shock wave. “Wroth, YES!” She screamed from the shattering pleasure.
But it only built as he wrenched her up and down on his shaft in a frenzy. Growling, snarling, he tensed to come.
A savage bite made her scream again, her body hurtling into a second release. Her core clenched him, milking his cock.
She was still coming when he released his bite. He threw his head back, cords of muscles in his neck and chest strained. The force of his ejaculation tore a bellow from his lungs.
She felt him shooting hot semen inside her, endless jets. He yelled to the sky as he pumped and pumped his release. . . .
Then after-shudders. He loosened his hold on her, though she didn’t want him to. She didn’t want this to end.
When his breaths had calmed somewhat, he drew her back to search her face. His eyes had cleared, his fangs receding. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” His gaze dipped, and he winced. “Ah, God, your neck.” He tenderly brushed his fingertips over the bite marks.
“It didn’t hurt. Even before you . . . we . . . uh, worked it out.” They would be healed by tomorrow. “You’ve really never seen this before?”
“Never.”
“I was your first bitee?” Why should that please her so much? She should be leaping away from him in disgust. She was just so overwhelmed with everything. And she felt . . . tenderness toward him.