by Kresley Cole
Yes, Myst had always been the girlie-girl of the coven, but she’d never in her long, long life felt truly feminine—until this male had squeezed her in his arms and taken charge.
Myst had never experienced that much pleasure.
“You were the first.” He rested his forehead against hers. “My eyes will go red from this. I will turn.”
He looked so horrified, she found herself saying, “Your eyes will go red only if you kill as you drink living blood. Red-eyed vampires drink to the marrow of their victims, sucking from the pit of the soul. They take all the bad, all the madness, all the sin.”
His jaw slackened. “Is that why pure-blooded vampires go mad?”
“It’s more than that. They grow addicted to killing, which means they can never drink from the same source. After years and years of different victims, the memories add up.”
He cupped her head. “Every sunset I checked my eyes, unsure whether I would turn from your blood. Not knowing if my brother would have to kill me.”
His tone wasn’t reproachful, but hell, could she feel more guilty? This male was still inside her body—which was thrumming as never before—and she’d tortured him. “Wroth, you’re a vampire. Others might not agree, but I believe you’re meant to drink from another—to connect, to live. But never to kill like that. And it takes decades of killing every night for the memories to reach critical mass.”
In a stunned voice, he said, “I won’t turn. I’m meant to drink.” His lips curled. His arm was still coiled around her—as if he’d never let her go.
He’s bested me. She shivered.
“And you found pleasure in it.”
Not a question, but she answered, “Your bite was the only thing that saved you from a stiff-legged kick to your groin.” When he grinned, she added softly, “It was intense pleasure.”
He groaned in approval and thrust into her, still semihard.
She moaned, desire stoking again.
“Did I take too much?” He gripped her ass, working her along his length.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she answered without thought, “Immortal here. Remember?”
He stopped suddenly, clasping her against his chest, protective once more. “I heard something.”
“It’s nothing.” Frustrated, she spurred him with her heels, rocking on him.
He stifled a groan but didn’t move. She opened her eyes to find his enraged gaze focused on . . . the sword point tucked under his chin. Blood trickled down his neck.
Regin wielded the blade; Lucia stood beside her with an arrow nocked. Both stared in disbelief.
“No!” Myst said, her voice hoarse from screaming. “Don’t.”
Regin snapped, “This thing just violated you.” Her entire race had been destroyed by the Horde; she’d learned to count by her mother’s bite scars.
“We followed the lightning here,” Lucia said quietly. “She allowed whatever he did to her.”
Myst could imagine what she and Wroth looked like. They’d fought wildly in this field. They were bruised, bloody, their clothing in shreds.
Why hadn’t he thrown her out of the way and attacked Regin? Or traced Myst away? She suspected he wanted them to see her like this. Their relationship couldn’t be made more brutally clear.
Myst 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, all hard and magnificent. As she rose, she yanked his shirttail down. That’s mine, she thought irrationally.
She’d been acquisitive all her life—but never with men.
11
When Myst stumbled away, Nikolai reached for her, but Regin’s sword pierced his chest muscle. He had vowed not to harm her family, so he didn’t fight back.
Besides, he could hardly feel the pain. He was euphoric. There stood his Bride, her chin raised as she adjusted her clothes.
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 she came.
He’d seen her pleasure.
He could give her lightning whenever he drank, without fear of turning, without fear of hurting her. No more checking his eyes at sunset.
They could sustain each other. He’d never known greater satisfaction.
Now if he could get her witch of a sister to cease stabbing him.
“You just had sex with a vampire,” Lucia said to Myst. “Where is your mind? You know the repercussions. You’ll be shunned by the Lore, mistrusted.”
Regin added, “And when Furie rises . . .”
At that, Myst’s face paled. Why? 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. She stared at Myst in horror. “Oh, fuck,” she whispered, “where’s your chain?”
Before Myst could answer, Nikolai ordered her, “Come to me quickly!” She obeyed, diving forward to grab his outstretched hand. He traced her away just as Regin leapt for Myst’s legs and an arrow sang for him, plugging his chest.
Back at Blachmount, he set Myst on the bed. He tore the arrow free and fastened his jeans. “Stay here,” he commanded her. He would return for the goddamned trunk he’d gone to get in the first place. He traced back to her room, snaring it—just as 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 known. Back home, he tossed Myst’s things to the side. “Rest, milaya.” He clasped her shoulders. “Take a hot bath and relax here until I return.”
She didn’t respond, still in a daze.
He didn’t want to leave her like this—unsteady from tracing and reeling from the events of the night. But he had to let Kristoff know Ivo was in the New World, so they could hunt that vampire down and destroy him.
As Nikolai gazed down at his Bride, he wondered how Ivo could not be searching for her.
He brushed her shining hair from her face. “Make yourself comfortable here. Your clothes are here. This is your home now.”
She nodded absently, her pupils blown.
He couldn’t leave her in this state. He would warm her with a bath, then put her in bed. He ran water, undressed her, then carried her in and set her in the steaming water.
She sat silently as he scrubbed the dirt and grass from her alabaster skin. She barely seemed to feel it when he held a cloth against that line of bite marks.
She turned to him suddenly, cupping his face. “You vowed never to hurt my family?”
“Yes. I make it again.”
“I believe you. You could’ve traced and attacked Regin and Lucia tonight. But if you take more memories from my blood, please don’t reveal our weaknesses. Don’t allow others to hurt them either.”
He stared into her spellbinding eyes. Was his first loyalty to his king or to her? She was his Bride—that meant she was his family. Nikolai’s family had always come first; nothing had changed except that he’d 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 with trembling lips. Drawing back, she whispered, “Thank you.” Her soft smile made his heart do things he didn’t remember from being a human before.
Her shoulders tensed just as he heard voices downstairs.
Trespassers. 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 but me comes in, run faster than you’ve ever run and escape them.”
Her immortal blood taken directly from her flesh gave him power. H
e would use it to protect her. He traced downstairs to the great room, his muscles swelling, his fists clenched. His fangs were like razors—
“Wroth, I pity the being who wishes to harm your Bride,” Kristoff intoned from his seat at the long table. Murdoch and a few Russian elders sat with him. All showed surprise at Nikolai’s appearance.
As he struggled for control, he imagined how they saw him. He was filthy, his skin clawed—and, God help him, Myst’s delicious blood marked his shirt. He was fairly certain she’d gotten in a few hits to his face as well. “I would not wish to attend you in such a condition,” he said. “I’ll go wash and change.” Would they suspect he’d drunk from Myst’s neck?
“No, we know you are eager to get back to her for the remainder of the night.” Kristoff appeared proud. “Congratulations, Wroth. You’ve now been blooded and claimed your Bride. Though it appears she didn’t acquiesce to you.”
Guilt welled. Then he recalled her spurring him like a horse when he’d stopped.
“I’d like to meet her,” Kristoff said.
“She is resting.”
“I suppose she would be.” The king was amused? “In fact, we’d wonder if she wasn’t.”
A couple of snickers from the Russians. Nikolai cast them a look of warning, and they quieted.
“And you drank her blood this night? Did you take her flesh as you did so?”
Why did I think my crime would escape Kristoff’s notice? Nikolai had no choice but to confess to the most heinous act among their order. Shoulders back, he said, “I did.”
Kristoff commanded, “Take off your shirt.”
Murdoch caught Nikolai’s glance, ready to fight their way free—
“Stand down, Murdoch,” Kristoff said. “No one’s dying tonight.”
Perhaps my king will only flay the skin from my back. Nikolai removed the shirt, hoping. For the first time in his life, he had his wife waiting for him. For the first time, he truly cared whether he lived or died.
“Toss it on the table.”
When he did, the others’ eyes widened, their fangs sharpening. Kristoff had scented Myst’s blood, and now the rest did as well.
“And what was it like?” Murdoch asked, his voice rough.
Nikolai hesitated to answer, but Kristoff raised his brows in a silent command.
“There is no description strong enough.”
“And how did she feel about your bite?” Kristoff asked.
Nikolai didn’t want them to know she’d climaxed with an intensity that had staggered him.
“You resist answering your king on the heels of confessing to our most reviled crime?”
This was Nikolai’s Bride they spoke of. He wanted to lie, to say he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t. Answering wouldn’t break his vow to her—and if Kristoff ordered him killed for disobeying, Nikolai couldn’t protect Myst from Ivo. Though it disgusted him, he grated, “She found it extremely pleasurable.”
Kristoff appeared pleased. Or even relieved. He asked the others, “Do you think I should forgive Wroth his transgression? For which one of us could have resisted the temptation of our Bride’s exquisite blood?”
Normally the king would’ve sentenced any transgressor who drank from the flesh to be chained in an open field until the sun burned him to ash.
Still staring at the tattered shirt stained with a Valkyrie’s blood, Kristoff said, “Continue as you were—but if your eyes turn red, know that we will destroy you.”
Nikolai masked his shocked expression. “I was coming to Mount 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 will hunt Ivo,” Murdoch said. “For God’s sake, you stay here and . . . enjoy . . . everything.”
“Find out as much as you can from her.” Kristoff eyed Nikolai intently as he rose to leave. “And you will tell us if the memories follow the blood.”
As Nikolai left the room, dumbfounded by this turn of events, he heard Kristoff say, “Now, which one of you will accompany Murdoch to New Orleans, where this coven full of Valkyries is located?”
Nikolai heard every chair scrape the floor as they shot to their feet.
Like a cat licking her wounds, Myst sat in the bath, replaying the fight.
She’d pulled her punches, so had she truly been bested? Then she flexed her hand—the one he’d caught. It was sore, but not broken.
Wroth had held back as well.
She sighed, unable to work up outrage over what had happened in the field—or even concern over the possible threat downstairs. Wroth would take care of it. He was strong.
Her mind easily returned to tonight’s developments. Her sisters knew her chain was gone, knew she’d been claimed by an enemy.
They could never guess how much she’d loved it. With a vampire, for fuck’s sake. Something must be seriously wrong with her, because Wroth’s bite alone had turned her inside out. She yearned for him to do it to her again. And again.
On top of that, he’d used his body in a way that was nothing short of divine, taking her as no other had before.
Though most assumed she’d taken tons of lovers, she’d had only three steady partners. For centuries, she’d dated a handsome warlock. Their relationship had been long-distance—in those days, reaching each other took half a year—and they’d parted ways amicably. Her other two lovers had both been long-term, the sex fun and enjoyable.
But Wroth . . . divine. And she believed their sex life would only get better. She shivered. Could she possibly feel more pleasure without dying?
Then there was a very compelling fact. He’d unchained her when no other could.
As she rose from the bath and dried off, she wondered—did that mean he was supposed to have the chain? To have her? Maybe he was supposed to command her like a genie from a bottle?
She’d always pitied the plight of genies until she’d freed one from a young berserker. Instead of saying thanks, the chit had laid into her, screaming, “To each her own, lightning whore!”
Myst dressed in an understated emerald-green nightgown that said neither “do me” nor “don’t do me.” She lay back in his bed, wondering how she could be so relaxed about everything. And how could she feel so at home in this cold, bare mansion?
Wroth returned and strode into the bathroom; she heard the shower start. There’d been no threat? Probably his brother visiting. Would Murdoch remark on Wroth’s injuries? He should see when she didn’t pull her punches.
Not long after, Wroth traced into the bed. Was he going to take her again? She was sore, but if he commanded her not to hurt . . .
Yet he only clasped her in his arms, pressing her head against his chest. His steady heartbeat drummed in her ear. He was hard, but he made no advance.
He brushed her hair from her neck, uncovering his bites. He muttered something that sounded like a curse.
“Wroth?”
He curled a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. “I regret hurting you. The number of bites, the lack of care before . . .”
Lack of care? Ah, he regretted not preparing her body for his size. Who’d taught him to do that? When was the first time he’d realized he would need to? Jealousy flared.
“I can’t believe I lost control like that,” he rasped. “I am unused to being blooded. I am unused to being a husband. But I vow to you things will be different—I will be gentler.”
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 anything but gentle. She couldn’t have ordered up a better match for her in bed, and she’d be damned if he held 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.
He murmured, “Speak to me.” Then he 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—Myst 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.
He rubbed her shoulder, his palm rough from the grip of his sword.
Warrior. She relished the feel of it.
“I can’t lose you,” he said. “The very thought makes me crazed. I can’t even imagine you leaving me.” His hand tightened on her.
“Are you so certain I would?”
“Yes,” he rasped. “I am.”
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. She might stay for a time, but in the end, she would always go.
12
The harsh light of day. Or night, Myst mused. The harsh light of waking was upon her.
She should be feeling shame; instead, she was treated to big, warm hands massaging her back until she was a boneless heap of bliss.
She moaned. Maybe vampire lovers were 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,” Wroth told her. “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 laid clothes out. Will you dress for me, milaya?” Then he disappeared.
Strangely lazy, she took another hour before getting out of bed. She raised an eyebrow at what he’d selected for her—a satin bustier fringed with transparent lace to cover her nipples, lacy garters, fishnet hose, and a thong—all in jet black.