The Trelayne Inheritance

by Colleen Shannon

  He licked his lips, unaware his fangs were on display until she touched the tip of one. He gasped and drew back, but she followed, pressing harder until a tiny dot of her blood appeared on her fingertip.

  No power on heaven or earth could have stopped him then. He licked the delicious drop away. His eyes fluttered closed as ecstasy exploded in his mouth.

  Warm. Salty. Smooth. Angel was as delicious as she looked. A groan of pleasure escaped him. He shuddered.

  She looked at the tiny pin prick, back at him. “Why do I feel no fear?” she whispered, her fingertip resting on the glistening point. Harder. And harder she pressed. A bigger drop landed on his famished tongue.

  Some remnant of sanity gave him strength enough to pull away. “No!”

  “But it’s only a taste. You want it. And I don’t mind.”

  He flung off his robe. “A taste isn’t enough. I want…” He pushed her knees apart, “…all of you.” He knelt between her opening legs and touched the sweet center of her. She opened before him like a rose to sunshine, unfurling for the warmth and heat that would bring her life anew. Still, he mastered the desire drumming into his temples and made himself go slow.

  He inserted the hard tip in the mouth of her womanhood. That tiny contact made him shudder with the rightness. The belonging.

  The bond, body, mind and soul, he’d never felt before. He badly wanted to complete their melding, but still she remained present to him, precious to him, despite the violent vampire instincts urging him to give her no second chances.

  He poised there, feeling her moist and ready, and ran his fingertips through her hair, brushing the silken tresses away from her temples. Staring down into her eyes, he probed as deeply into her mind as he would probe into her body. ‘This is your last chance to say no, Angel mine. In a few moments you will belong to me utterly. Always. By your own choice and deed.’

  She reached up to trace his features with the fingertip still showing a dot of her own blood. So gently she trailed over his brows, his bold nose, his sculpted cheekbones and wide, generous mouth. With a tenderness Max the vampire hadn’t felt since his own human mother died.

  His heart lurched with the intimacy that was greater than their joining, male to female. She looked deeply into his eyes, her fingertip resting on one fang. “You’re the dream I had on awakening, the reward for the good deeds I’ve done, and my blessing for today. There is no death about you, Maximillian, Earl of Trelayne, vampire hunter. Only life.”

  Max was humbled, he who’d never been humbled by anything since the day he became a Watch Bearer. And he felt guilty, for he was using her, too, in his battle against the killer…

  She went on, “I know little of men, but this one thing I’m sure of…you are a good man. Vampire or not. And I trust you. With my body, and my life.” She tucked her hands at the base of his skull and pulled him down atop her.

  The movement made him slide inside a bit as she was so ready for him. They groaned at the ineffable pleasure. Both went very still.

  Through the bonding above and below, each knew they had to make this stolen moment last. For if the darkness gathering outside unseen but felt had its way, this time could never come again…

  Max flexed his muscles at the exquisitely sensitive gate to her body, feeling himself harden and relax in tempo with that mysterious rhythm every female seemed to instinctively know. For she answered every tiny pressure with an inward tightening that began drawing him in, inch by inch. He tried to resist, truly he did, pulling back slightly, but her hands were on his buttocks urging him on. Pulling him forward.

  Even that he might have resisted, but then she was in his mind, too. “Come to me, creature of the night. Teach me how to be strong, like you.” Her words set up a roaring flame that consumed his thoughts, his fears, and even his concern for her. She had no fear of him, even knowing what he was. It was the most arousing experience of his long life.

  The heaviness in his loins had one end now. Surcease could be found only in this one female.

  ANGEL…

  Saying her name aloud and in his thoughts, like the blessing she was to him, Max plunged deep. He sipped the sweet cry of pain from her lips and went still, hurting for her pain even in his male exhilaration of the moment. But she writhed beneath him, trying to adjust her own silken sheath around his male encroachment. The movement tightened her around him. Sweat broke out on his brow.

  He forced himself to be still, letting her stretch to accommodate him.

  When he felt her relax slightly, he bent his proud golden head and nibbled a hungry path from one breast to another. “You don’t need to move, Angel. Just be still and look at me.”

  He put words to action, barely flexing his hips into her but aiming high on the upstroke. She gasped at first as her sweet purse took him fully, her eyes closing. She was so tight, so womanly, that it was all he could do to master his urge to thrust, uncaring for her pleasure, like the wild rake she’d at first thought him.

  He set up a rhythm, thrust and retreat, the dance as old as time, but new as every sunrise to the men and women lucky enough to master the intricate steps. At first she followed his lead, pushing gently back every time he inserted himself, but her response made his mastery of the moment expendable. He’d learned long ago while still a man than in bed there was no conqueror and no slave.

  Only two spirits free enough to go where the wind of passion took them.

  Her pleasure in this first time became more important than his own completion. For what seemed like hours but was only minutes, he let her set the pace. Her eager upthrusts were matched with a down tempo, exactly to her pace, not one beat faster or slower. The melding below was made all the more powerful by the way he felt her own consciousness falling away, leaving nothing but a primitive entity seeking to bond with her mate in every way.

  When she went wild, bucking her hips up into him, he thrust back, plunging full length now, letting her feel.

  And feel.

  And feel…He knew the moment of her pleasure before she did. Inserted to the hilt, he pressed slightly deeper, reaching for the tip of her womb. He felt her throbbing upon his length and withdrew a final time, aching with the fluids of her fulfillment and his. He pressed deep, reaching high, high, pressing against the hard nubbin of her womanhood to bring her to completion at the same time.

  Only when she arched beneath him, crying out as she opened and closed around him, did he let her milk him as she’d promised. He arched his back and erupted, spilling into her the essence of life she’d brought to fruition.

  And as they both pulsed in the little death, life anew beckoned to them. If they were strong enough, and brave enough, to accept the blessing of today and not repine for the morrow. A few moments later, he slumped against her, panting, still loathe to withdraw from the melding. He traced the lush curves of her mouth with a fingertip.

  “You belong to me. Say it.”

  “You belong to me.” Her eyes opened. And they glowed. With more than a tinge of red.

  Startled, he pulled away. The sight of her blood on him, the scent of it mingled with the scent of sex, made him look at the one place on her body he’d avoided with eyes, mouth and teeth. Her neck. Throbbing now with the spent passion.

  His head dipped until he could smell her. His tongue traced the tender vein. She arched her neck back for him. “Yes.”

  With a guttural cry of pain, he fell aside and leaped out of bed so fast he stubbed his toe. He scarcely felt the pain. Angel sat up, reaching down to feel her own blood. She turned her hand from side to side, appraising the reddish tint in the light.

  She sniffed her hand. Then…

  “No!”

  He felt her urge before she realized it herself. Before she could lick her own blood, he dipped her hand in an ewer of water, rinsing temptation away.

  Resentment shone in her eyes as she looked up at him. “Why did you do that?”

  He read the hunger in her gaze. A hunger he recognized with a sinking
heart. A hunger too strong for food.

  Tonight was theirs alone, he told himself, loathe to spoil their bond. But he had no choice. It was time to tell her the truth. So she could help him fight her own transformation.

  “Angel,” he whispered, drying her hands. “Did you drink any of the punch tonight at the ball?”

  The carnal glow dimmed somewhat. “No.”

  He sagged with relief, then tensed again as she added, “After the ball Sarina brought me some down to the lab while I worked.”

  “How much did you drink?”

  “I don’t remember. Two glasses. No, perhaps three.”

  He bolted up, throwing on his robe. “How long ago?” Perhaps he could mix something, make her throw up before the entire effect got into her system…

  “Hours.” She sat up, too, her lovely breasts bobbling as she stared at him. “Why are you so concerned about a few glasses of watered down punch?”

  “The primary ingredient isn’t wine.”

  She stared at him. He saw recognition and repugnance flare in her eyes. She turned her face away, staring stubbornly at the wall. “No.”

  “Yes. Alexander’s special family recipe is probably half blood. Why do you think he’s been conducting all that research? He’s looking for the perfect type of human blood that will give all vampires even more unnatural strength. Vampires come from five counties just to drink at his punch bowl.”

  She went green and caught her stomach. “Why did they give it to me?”

  “I think you know.”

  He didn’t have to mix anything; she leaned over the side of his bed and retched.

  He sat down with her head against his shoulder. He wiped her face and offered her some water, then he rocked her back and forth. Thanks to the heaven he still, despite everything, believed in, she was yet more human than vampire. If the sickness had taken over she wouldn’t be disgusted at the thought of drinking blood.

  She’d be fascinated.

  He’d caught her in time. Tossing off his robe, he pulled her back into his arms. “Sleep, Angel mine.”

  Tears still trickling from her eyes, she buried her face in his chest hair. He stroked her hair, soothing her with his strength, until she drifted off.

  Just a moment, I’ll rest, he told himself. But he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept well in some time, planning for, aching for, this apogee of his love life. Never had he known, or given, such pleasure. If he’d doubted the strong emotional bond he’d sensed with Angel from the beginning, he doubted it no longer.

  He fell asleep vowing to keep her safe.

  An hour later, Angel awoke from a sound sleep with the voice in her head again.

  It wasn’t Max’s voice, but in its own way it was equally seductive.

  Arise, sweet darling. Come to me.

  She looked at Max, sleeping soundly beside her. She’d only heard the voice once. That night in the crypt.

  She hadn’t trusted it then, and she trusted it even less now. Tears came to her eyes as she finally understood why she was so susceptible to this strange telepathy her scientific instincts had never put any stock in.

  She could commune with vampires because she was half vampire herself. Max had all but confirmed it for her and it explained so much.

  Her mother’s dislike of daylight, her odd way of reading minds. Even her mother’s wish to be buried on the soil of her homeland.

  But why hadn’t she wanted her daughter to visit that home that had once meant so much to her? Angel had no time to puzzle through the facts. The voice was too insistent.

  He’s using you, Angel. Before the night is over he’ll ask for more of your blood.

  “Go away!” She buried her head in the pillow.

  Let me in and I’ll prove it to you. I’ll help you find his lab.

  Angel clenched her hands in the coverlet still warm with their passion. This night had proved one thing to her complete satisfaction: Max was a reluctant vampire. He’d initiated her gently, using none of his vampire powers of seduction.

  And thus seduced her utterly. There was nothing more arousing than strength controlled. Only the totally secure man was strong enough to allow her control when he wanted her so badly. She looked down at him, the strong, uncompromising mouth, the bold nose and perfect features. Max wasn’t capable of killing, much less of mutilating an innocent young girl.

  Angel stood and went to the window, where she sensed the source of the voice lurked. She started to throw the casement open, thought better of it, and said, “You hate him. Why should I trust anything you say when you’re afraid to show yourself?”

  A brief moment of silence, then, Invite me in, if you think yourself so brave. I fear nothing.

  Somehow Angel knew that was a lie, too. The owner of this voice not only feared Max, it hated him. Angel drew the curtains over the window and went back to bed, steadfastly ignoring the insinuating voice. Angel tossed off his robe and nestled against his warm hardness, enjoying the touch of skin against skin.

  Max was a much more powerful allure.

  The voice got the last word. You can’t trust him, either. Look around his room. Carefully. He knew your mother.

  “I know that. He told me himself.”

  Did he tell you he killed her?

  “NO!” Angel screamed.

  She bolted out of bed, staring at Max.

  No, he was too fine, he could never do something like that.

  Ask him. Ask him why he became a Watch Bearer. What he does with that kit of golden spikes he keeps beneath his bed.

  Then the insinuating voice was silent. The presence she’d felt was gone.

  Angel backed away from the bed, but she had to know. Before she could change her mind, she knelt and reached under his vast bed. She felt a wooden case and pulled it out.

  She opened it.

  A golden hammer. Golden handled rosewood spikes. Various foul smelling herbs. Crosses. Small vials of what looked to be water.

  Angel’s dull eyes went from the case to the man with golden hair the exact same shade sleeping in the bed. How easily he’d fooled her. He looked like a golden god, a man of morality and honor. He’d treated her tenderly, courted her.

  Lied to her. He’d admitted he knew her mother. But how well? And if he killed her, why? Was it simply because he hated his own existence as a vampire so much that he systematically wiped out anyone with vampire blood?

  But if that were the case, he wouldn’t be bedding her, and helping her face the facts of her own heritage.

  Unless…He meant to catch her off guard. Enjoy her before he dispatched her as efficiently as he had the rest.

  Revolted, she closed the case and shoved it back under the bed.

  Then, being as quiet as possible, she began to search his room. If he’d really known her mother, perhaps he had some memento, some proof that he’d cared for her. She longed to wake him and ask him, but this was something she had to prove to herself.

  She’d opened herself to this man in every way. Trusted him with her heart, her mind, her body, even knowing he was a vampire. But if he’d killed her mother…

  It only took a few minutes for her to find it. The coat of arms above a dresser.

  The motto blazed into her brain. “Tomorrow’s a gift, but today’s–“

  “A blessing.” Max’s voice came over her shoulder, all too close. “Your mother’s favorite saying because she always loved my family motto.”

  Angel spun to face him. Only then did she see the small picture in his hand.

  “If you must search my room, at least be thorough.”

  Numbly, Angel accepted the miniature. She looked down. At first she thought she saw her own face, but then she recognized the subtle differences.

  This was a portrait of her mother.

  “What was she to you?” Angel asked, thrusting the picture back.

  “The woman I loved but could not touch.”

  Angel wanted to believe him, she really did. Tears were growing, enough to last her
a lifetime, and somehow she knew his answer before he gave it. “Did you kill her?” She stared into those emerald green eyes. Say no. Tell me no. She probed with her mind and found a stone wall where he’d once been so open. Then came flashing images

  Pain. Resolve. Love of family. Love of home. And loss. Terrible, aching loss. Finally, rage. Hatred. Vengeance. His steps, firm and unwavering, blood always trailing, into too many crypts to count.

  Death and decay. The life he’d chosen. But then he emerged, his hands bloody, and looked up at a clear sky.

  Always, he had hope for today…

  “Max,” she whispered. He’d sent her the visual images, trying to make her understand. But when he reached for her, she shrank away.

  For an instant, she felt the full menace he was capable of but had never showed her. He took one tiny step toward her, fangs bared, then he stopped. What might have been pain flashed in his perfect, cold features, but then he enunciated, “Keep your suppositions to warm you at night. I’ll have my coachman take you back to what you obviously consider to be your home. I’d wish you joy in it, but you’ll find only despair.”

  Tossing her clothes at her, he stormed out.

  Angel looked between the coat of arms and her mother’s picture. And she sank to the floor where she stood, clasping her clothes for warmth and comfort.

  They gave her neither.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Outside, the mist had thickened with the dawn. It coated the trees with a moisture so thick and shiny it resembled mucus. Then, in a slow cohesion, it gathered like spit upon the window panes of the upstairs bedroom, the droplets casting back images of the man and woman locked in a combat all the more mortal because it took place between two immortals.

  For an instant, glowing red eyes formed out of the mist, smiling as the girl sank to the floor with her clothes in her hands and despair in her heart. The man stormed out.

  The mist fed on that despair, thickening to an impenetrable curtain. As the girl ran out half dressed, the mist curled into a hand, reaching for the back of the carriage a yawning coachman waited to drive.