Lothaire iad-12

by Kresley Cole

  Now he was to suffer the urges and drives of his youth all over again?

  Between his dwindling sanity and this inconvenient erection, he found it impossible to concentrate on his Endgame.

  He began to pace, having to remind himself not to teleport in front of the mortals.

  I can’t lose focus. At long last, he was on the cusp of seizing the Horde throne. He’d completed the most challenging task—slaying Stefanovich—ages ago.

  Though not before the old king had lashed out against his bastard with incomprehensible malice. The earth grinding over me . . .

  No, focus on the Endgame! On the ring. It would enable Lothaire to destroy Elizabeth and transform Saroya into a vampire—a vital measure of protection for his Bride, and the key to securing the Horde throne for him.

  And the ring would give him the power to find and annihilate the Daci. To locate Serghei at last.

  One ring equaled Lothaire’s eternal mate, two kingdoms, and the vengeance he’d hungered for since his mother’s murder. . . .

  Saroya began to finalize her purchases, her demeanor bored. She pointed out every rack of clothing, ordering, “Put them in my wardrobe.” Her bedroom, the one adjoining his own, had an oversize closet; he doubted everything would fit into even that cavernous space.

  With an aggrieved air, she perused the jeweler’s offerings. “I will take all the baubles.”

  Eight figures’ worth of baubles. Lothaire sighed. Welcome to matrimony.

  All eyes fell on him. With a negligent wave of his hand, he approved the expenditures. If possible, the humans groveled even more, which increased his irritation.

  When Saroya returned to her suite and settled into a chair to have her hair trimmed, he followed her.

  “Am I to have no privacy?” she asked.

  “No,” he said simply. No longer. He owned the body as much as she did. He’d be there for any alterations. “And after this, I want to see you in the garments I’ve bought for you.” He leaned down to say at her ear, “See you in the lingerie.” His gaze dipped, greedily taking in the swells of her breasts.

  One tug of a leather tie . . . golden flesh spilling out.

  “Of course, lover,” she said, too smoothly.

  He pinched her chin, turning her to face him. “Saroya, I don’t buy you these things for your benefit.” Never would he give a gift with no thought of a return on his investment. “I buy them for both of us to enjoy. Just as we will this new body.”

  She subtly arched her back. “A body like this is made for sex, is it not?”

  He ground his teeth before saying, “I can only guess, as I’ve never seen it.”

  “Soon, Enemy of Old. I promise.”

  Lothaire debated whether to believe her. Saroya’s mythology was sparse at best, and contradictory. Some said she’d been as frigid with—and deadly to—males as her twin Lamia was sexual with them. Others said Saroya had participated in depraved orgies in her temples.

  Seeing her like this—in fuck-me makeup and clothing—had him betting on the latter.

  But no matter what her proclivities were, he knew the great Saroya wouldn’t happily bed a mate like him, a male who would demand obedience in all ways.

  And he would never rape a female. So it would take all his considerable experience to bring her to heel—

  “Shear it. To my chin,” she commanded the stylist.

  “Ah-ah,” Lothaire grated. “Keep it long.” He’d never seen hair so lovely, curling locks the color of mink.

  Now she wanted to cut it all off? After he’d imagined threading his fingers through it infinite times?

  After he’d fantasized about gripping it in his fists—as he eased his shaft into and out of her mouth . . . ?

  Saroya bristled. “I want it short.”

  He snapped his fingers, and the stylist scurried out of the room, closing the door behind her. “I prefer it long.”

  “It’s my hair.”

  He gave her a snide look of amusement. “That body is as much mine as it is yours.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I inhabit it.”

  “And I stole it from prison. I’ll be the one feeding it, safeguarding it. The body would be dead if not for me. Therefore, I own it.”

  “You forget I’m a goddess,” she hissed. “Your goddess.”

  And a bitch as well. But then, weren’t all goddesses afflicted with bitchery?

  Though he knew he couldn’t expect anything different from Saroya, he could begin putting her in line. “You forget that you have no power. So for now, I am your god. Stop pushing me, Saroya.” He held her gaze. “You won’t like it when I push back.”

  8

  Saroya parted her lips to curse Lothaire to the surface of the sun, but her vision wavered. She raised her freshly manicured hand to her forehead.

  She could feel Elizabeth already trying to rise—as if the girl was ramming herself against whatever internal wall separated them.

  A reminder of how much Saroya needed this fiend. For now.

  Control your righteous anger, tell him what he wants to hear. “Lothaire, I was a deity of the first Ether. I’m unused to relinquishing control. And now I’ve been too long downtrodden and trapped. I’m sure someone as great as you can scarcely imagine how low I’ve been brought, but try.”

  Immediately, she sensed a change in him. Her words had affected him.

  “I do understand, goddess.” Now he tenderly curled his forefinger under her chin. “But in this matter I will not bend.”

  He can’t lie. Which meant he truly wouldn’t relent. “Then I will leave all this”—she waved at the heavy mass of hair—“for your pleasure.”

  His eyes darkened with need. “And what else would you do for my pleasure?”

  Nothing. Never again. That night she’d let him kiss her, she’d barely concealed how revolting she’d found that rutting side of him.

  If he hadn’t been in such a fervor from his blooding, surely he would have detected her reaction?

  She knew he wouldn’t be as motivated to secure the Ring of Sums for her if he discovered how sexually repellent his Bride found him. How could she disguise it if he slaked himself on her now?

  Stifling a shudder, she purred, “Soon you’ll see. But for now, let me acquiesce to your wish about my hair.” Before she stood and turned on her heel to call the human back in, she saw his eyes narrow with suspicion.

  When the stylist began trimming scant inches off her long mane, Lothaire took a seat nearby, as if to guard every lock.

  Watching this process seemed to be both relaxing and exciting for him. As the brush glided through her hair, his lids went heavy, even as he leaned forward, inching toward the edge of his chair.

  He clearly needed her for far more than his throne.

  How could she put him off for possibly a month? Perhaps by diverting his attention toward another?

  Finding a bedmate for him wouldn’t be difficult. Even she could admit how handsome he appeared in his tailored garments.

  His longish blond hair was cleaned of blood and styled with a seemingly careless air—into a perfectly decadent result. He wore sunglasses to hide his eyes and a long coat to cover his physical reaction to her. Both made him look even more the rogue. Especially with that dark gold stubble on his jaw—he’d been frozen forever with it, could shave his face, but it would soon return to the same rakish length.

  The women and men here coveted him so intensely she could feel their desire.

  He should bed one or all of them. I’ll see to it.

  Once the stylist finished, Saroya gazed into the mirror, disdaining the outcome, but what could she expect, considering Lothaire’s constraints?

  The soft, flowing curls made her look younger, more innocent. Less powerful. Though she detested sex, she made a point of looking sexually receptive—an illusion of desirability, like that used by a Venus flytrap.

  Saroya enjoyed luring her victims with promises of fulfilling their wildest dreams—only to deliver their w
orst nightmares. She delighted in imagining each one’s last pitiful thought: I believed she wanted me.

  His voice a rasp, Lothaire said, “I am pleased.”

  Saroya informed him, “Then, by all means, the mortal may live.”

  The woman thought she was jesting and giggled, but fell silent at Saroya’s impassive expression.

  Then Lothaire began hastening the humans out of the apartment—before Saroya could secure a bedmate for him. He no doubt believed that with his Bride’s objections out of the way, they could begin pleasuring each other in other ways.

  When they were alone, he traced back to her, reaching for her—

  As if on cue, her stomach growled.

  He dropped his hand. “You haven’t eaten all day?”

  Another rumble.

  He exhaled, seeming begrudgingly amused, as if he found a human trait in her quaint. “I’ve had a meal prepared for you.”

  “Eat mortal food?” At the thought, she grew queasy. “I refuse.”

  “You can’t refuse.”

  “I will eat as soon as you do.” The vampire could eat just as easily as a mortal could drink blood, but he’d be likewise unwilling.

  “Saroya, you know that won’t happen.”

  “I will feed when I can drink blood once more. I miss it feverishly.”

  “You can’t stomach it now?”

  She shook her head. “I tried it with Elizabeth. At the first sign of nausea, I receded into the background, overjoyed at the thought of her waking to vomit buckets of blood.” The little things in life . . .

  “And after I force her to go dormant, what then? You’ll have to nourish this human body until I can turn you into a vampire.”

  Repeating his words, she said, “In this, I will not bend. Let Elizabeth feed it.”

  “You want her to rise on occasion?”

  Otherwise Saroya would be expected to eat food—and appease his lusts. “Can you keep her prisoner here when I recede? Do you have a guard to protect the body from Dorada while you search for the ring?”

  His brow was furrowed, his complicated mind already working through the details. Lothaire might have the urges of a primate, but his mind impressed her. “This apartment is protected from intrusion and escape. It’s hidden from any being in the Lore.”

  “How?”

  “I know some of the old ways,” he said. “I’ve used a Druid spell to create an invisible boundary around the apartment.”

  Even Dorada couldn’t cross that boundary. “So where is the lock?” Somewhere in this dwelling he’d inscribed, etched, or painted symbols—a code of sorts. It might be prudent to know where—as well as the reverse code to unlock it.

  “Within my room.” Anticipating her question, he said, “The combination is updated throughout the day, just in case a talented soothsayer set out to scry your existence.”

  She’d let this lie for now. “Excellent, vampire.” She was assured by the precautions Lothaire had taken and convinced of his dedication to keeping her safe, to returning her to her former glory.

  After all, he was bound to her forever.

  Yes, she was confident. Enough that she refused to wallow in this weak mortal shell any longer than necessary. “Then you can deal with Elizabeth. And perhaps make her add flesh? Lothaire, if I could trust you to see this done, I could sleep until my turning, building my strength.” She’d need it to overpower Elizabeth at will.

  “Sleep the entire time?” He was incredulous. “I told you it might take a month! I should go without my female for that time?”

  Rutting animal! “A month feels like seconds to me, hardly a replenishing rest. And you’ve gone this long. Besides, you shouldn’t have time for a female because you should be working ceaselessly to find that ring!”

  She could see him wrestling for control of his temper. “Circumstances are different now. My needs are strong, and my mind seizes on them. I can’t afford to lose my concentration.”

  “Very well. I’ll attempt to rise tomorrow night,” she lied.

  “Don’t attempt, goddess.” He caught her wrist, forcing her palm to his pulsing erection. “I’m a blooded male. I will have another relieve me of this ache. You or a stranger. Decide.”

  Saroya yanked back her hand, parting her lips to tell him to have at a stranger. But then she realized that securing a bedmate could take time away from his search, and his dalliances with another would limit the time he personally remained with this body.

  Which wouldn’t do. Not with Dorada in the picture.

  An idea arose. Why not let Elizabeth endure his primitive lusts? “You may sate yourself on Elizabeth.” At least, up to a point. Saroya didn’t want her favorite temple defiled by Lothaire’s offspring.

  “Sate myself with a human,” he bit out with disgust. “With that human?”

  “I give you leave to use her at will. Just save the claiming for me—and don’t mar her skin further with your bites!”

  “You ask much of me, female.”

  Time to stroke his ego. “This is but temporary, my king. I only want to be yours in all ways, to rule the Horde by your side. You are a great and powerful male. You deserve a queen to match you, Lothaire.” She forced herself to smooth her hand down his chest. “Imagine an eternity of bloodletting together, hunting together, conquering together. . . .”

  She knew he’d too long dreamed of these things to go unmoved.

  Lothaire’s need to rule over his brethren wasn’t merely obsessive—it was pathological. Which fit into her plans. For the rest of time, she would strive for godhood, but for the present, she would accept ruling a kingdom of creatures who lived in the manner she had set forth. . . .

  Feeding on others, claiming the night as her own dominion.

  Of course, ultimately she would be the supreme ruler of these creatures, and Lothaire would be her fawning consort. “As your queen, I will lay your crown upon your fair head and rejoice as all night beings tremble before you.”

  His brows drew together, his yearning for this nigh palpable.

  “Soon, my king,” she murmured, just before another wave of dizziness washed over her. She moved to the edge of the bed, sinking down.

  He shook his head hard, commanding her, “Fight her now. Remain with me.”

  “The girl’s coming.” Saroya irritably kicked off her stilettos. “There’s nothing I can do, Lothaire. Just use her!”

  “Blyad’! You don’t know what you’re saying. You rise tomorrow night, goddess, or suffer my wrath!”

  Her lids fluttered closed and blackness took her.

  9

  Ellie shot awake with a frantic inhalation.

  Each time she rose was like fighting her way along a black, soundless tunnel only to break through with a rush of momentum.

  Now she jerked her head around, finding herself in a dim room atop the softest sheets she’d ever imagined.

  Not in prison— Memories of the afternoon returned like a crashing wave.

  Lothaire’s hot mouth against her neck. His fangs raking over her skin for blood. His tongue snaking to the drops.

  She shivered. He’d tasted her blood. Oh, my Lord, vampires exist.

  A demon possession hadn’t been such a jump for a girl from Appalachia, home of serpent handlers, speaking in tongues, and the fabled Mothman.

  But the idea of a blood-drinking vampire had sent her entire world askew.

  And if that was true, then she had no reason not to believe Saroya was a deity.

  Ellie threw her arm over her face, groaning in misery, “Oh, God.”

  “I am not the god you’re referring to,” Lothaire intoned from a murky corner. “Although to you, I might as well be.”

  She shot upright in the bed, squinting into the dark. His red eyes glowed from the shadows like embers.

  “You!” Her nightmare continued. Fitting, since it was now night outside. The curtains were drawn back and a chill breeze blew between opened French doors. A skyline sparkled in the distance.


  Another day of lost time. But she supposed all time was borrowed now.

  Then she assessed her body. No blood?

  She was dressed in a nearly indecent silk gown, with bracelets and rings adorning her. Long red nails tipped her fingers. No skin embedded beneath them? Saroya always left her with horrific scenes. So where were the corpses? “Did Saroya . . . did she kill while I was unconscious?”

  “No.”

  Ellie exhaled with relief.

  “My Bride was too fatigued, so we called it an early night.” Since Ellie had seen him last, he’d washed himself clean of blood and changed to a black button-down and dark slacks. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

  “If your aim is to make me miserable, just consider this mission accomplished.” She always woke from her blackouts exhausted and famished. Even if she wasn’t covered with blood, she felt grimy and used-up. “So what’d I miss?” She slapped her palm to her forehead. “Oh, yeah, last I remember, you’re a vampire.”

  “I am.” He was regarding her differently. But why?

  How could she study a person when she was offstage for half of their interactions? She couldn’t get a handle on his mood either. He didn’t seem furious or crazy any longer—just held himself with utter stillness.

  Like a predator.

  She swallowed. “Did you drink more of my blood while I was out?”

  In a snide tone, he said, “Somehow I restrained myself.”

  Relief made her brave, and she snapped, “Be sarcastic all you want to, mister, but you were tonguing my vein like a son of a bitch before I kicked toes-up.”

  “And you were loving it. Moaning and rubbing against me.”

  She gazed away in embarrassment. Because what he said was true. The pleasure she’d felt had been bewildering. . . .

  “You truly remember nothing of the rest of the afternoon?”

  She shook her head curtly.

  “How maddening, to have no control over your body. If you hate this so much, then why rise at all?”

  “Because this is my body.” She thumped her nearly bared chest, and the bangles at her wrists clanged. “Mine!”