by Tessa Dawn
And she didn't want foreplay: not now. Not this time.
She didn't want to be teased or stroked or fondled. She wanted to be sated. She wanted to feel the full vitality of the ancient male behind her, in his most dominant state. She wanted him to take her like the powerful force of nature he was: to please her, invade her, make her scream...
To give her the full measure of gratification her body was demanding—to ride her hard—without the gentleness she had required as a human.
Sure, she would want that again—tenderness, compassion, slow, erotic lovemaking—but not tonight. Tonight, she wanted to experience her transformation; she wanted to test the limits of her new body, to soar to new heights of pleasure.
She wanted her Alpha male.
And she wanted him now.
Nathaniel read her like a book, their minds so completely merged, as if he had been with her all of his life. He unsheathed his claws and tore at the silk nightgown, shredding it to pieces, a glorious torrent of silk swirling around her.
Her panties went next.
And then a strong, territorial growl of power surged in his throat as he reached around and lifted her by the waist, raising her up and off of the bed with one hard tug, forcing her to her hands and knees, his teeth still deeply embedded in her throat.
Jocelyn purred louder then. Her body felt like it was on fire. She lowered her shoulders and raised her hips in a tantalizing offering.
Nathaniel held her in place with one arm while using the other to free his throbbing erection from his pants. A feral growl escaped his throat as the rock-hard member came free.
And then he blanketed her body with all the stealth, power, and domination of a male lion, his jaw locking tight against her neck to hold her in place for his possession: to keep her rigid beneath him as he took her. He mounted her with a fierce groan of pleasure, stabbing deep and hard with one sure stroke, filling her in one smooth motion.
His invasion was rough...powerful...dominant, his possession aggressive. He pistoned wildly, surging deeper and deeper in and out of her heat, taking her higher and higher with every hard, pounding thrust. He ground his pelvis mercilessly against her soft, round bottom with a fierce, relentless lust as he moaned...his voice the husky growl of a predator.
Jocelyn gave herself up to the wild abandon of this new state of arousal. She gave herself up to Nathaniel's commanding, throbbing shaft as he drove her insane with pleasure. She backed into him, pushing hard against each impending thrust, desperate to have more...
Deeper. Harder. Faster.
And he answered her every desire.
Nathaniel drove further and further into her core, taking her passion to a fevered pitch and holding her there. And during those times, when her motion got too wild—when she threatened to dislodge his teeth from her throat—he snarled a low hiss of warning and clamped down harder on her neck, sending a sudden burst of pain and pleasure through her body...a sensation so glorious and primal, she thought she might just die from the ecstasy.
Nathaniel was driving harder and faster now, his hips thrashing with primitive abandon, his wild hair falling down in magnificent waves of silk around her face, his sac slapping against her in a constant, wild rhythm.
Jocelyn sighed and moaned and purred. She thrust her hips back, taking all of him in, needing more of him, still. She had never wanted a man so much in all her life.
This man.
Her man.
His voice was a raspy groan in her mind: I love you, Jocelyn.
He whispered the words and then she felt his explosion, a powerful jet of hot, pulsing seed pumping over and over in a relentless stream of pleasure, spilling deep into her core, filling her sheath, and dripping decadently down her thigh.
Her own orgasm shook them both as her body simply fractured around him—her sex squeezing, milking, and kneading—her womb violently contracting again and again until she thought the orgasm would never end.
Nathaniel held her close—slowly rocking her back and forth—gradually bringing both of them back down to earth.
When they finally stopped, their bodies were covered in sweat, their hearts were beating frantically, and their breath came in short, ragged gasps. Slowly exhaling, Nathaniel removed his fangs, allowing the last few drops of venom to seal the tiny wounds in her neck.
"You almost killed me, woman," he panted, rolling over to lie back on the bed.
Jocelyn spun around and glared at him with a fierce look of astonishment. "Excuse me?" she gasped. "Who almost killed who here tonight?"
"Oh yeah," Nathaniel mumbled, offering a sheepish smile.
"You almost made me forget."
The light that lit up the vampire's eyes was positively...breathtaking...his serenity so complete that Jocelyn might have almost believed he had sailed through the whole ordeal.
Almost.
Except for one thing...
As sinfully gorgeous as his smile was, it couldn't hide the tracks of his tears.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Marquis Silivasi lay silently on the bed at the Dark Moon Lodge like a python—an ambush hunter—lurking as still as the night, patiently awaiting his prey.
Giving up control of his body to Nachari had been difficult.
He was not a male who easily relinquished power to another vampire, but it was either that or allow Nachari to make the kill. And Marquis refused to surrender that prize to anyone. Valentine Nistor was his.
Nachari had hidden himself in the small cedar closet just adjacent to the bed, leaving neither sight, nor sound, nor vibration in his wake to alert the enemy of his presence. Like a black widow spider, the talented Master Wizard hovered in the shadows, spinning a deadly web of deceit, orchestrating a fatal plan with the use of Marquis's body.
They were in the same rustic suite Valentine had used to violate—and ultimately murder—Joelle Parker the night of the lycan attack. The room where Joelle had become pregnant with the Dark One's twins. Now, forty-eight hours later, Marquis lay on the same bed, in the same position, exactly as Joelle would still be if she hadn't come to Marquis: if she hadn't found the strength and courage to get out of Valentine's snare.
Marquis could feel his brother's commanding energy as currents of power swept through his body like waves slapping against the seashore. He marveled at Nachari's sheer determination and skill as the young wizard not only cloaked the Master Warrior's presence, but gave him the outward appearance of a pregnant woman.
Marquis looked exactly like Joelle Parker.
He smelled like Joelle.
He moved like Joelle.
He even sounded like Joelle....
So that anyone entering the room would see Joelle—a human female in the advanced stages of pregnancy.
They would see the abomination of nature about to take place, the hideous ritual that would ultimately result in the birth of Valentine's twin sons: two more evil souls to expand the house of Jaegar.
And the time was approaching fast now—the hour when the evil spawn would break free from their wretched host, shredding her body and killing without mercy.
With intricate detail, Nachari recreated the illusion of the unborn twins, leaving no stone unturned that might alert their father of the trap awaiting him; he even provided two distinct heartbeats....
And so Marquis waited.
Lying ever still within the body of the murdered woman...anticipating his enemy.
And the son of Jaegar did not disappoint.
Valentine Nistor shimmered into view at precisely fifteen minutes before midnight. He appeared, all at once, standing at the foot of the bed, a wicked smile twisting his gloating mouth, his eyes focused narrowly on his prize as he laughed aloud...almost trembling with anticipation.
Marquis could feel the Dark One's heart racing beneath his iron chest, rising and falling with excitement, as he slowly knelt on the bed...as he crawled over to where the sleeping woman lay...seemingly unaware.
Valentine straddled Joelle's le
gs just below her pregnant stomach, one huge thigh placed languidly on either side of her body. He stroked her belly and purred a welcome: a fatherly invitation to his unborn children. He closed his eyes and listened to the twin heartbeats, and a look of pure ecstasy swept over his face.
Marquis could smell the pungent odor of Valentine's arousal: a bitter-sweet spice that stung his nostrils and assaulted his senses, yet he lay perfectly still. Motionless.
Focused. As Nachari continued to maintain a steady, resting heart rate in his body.
Every muscle the warrior possessed was twitching in anticipation, the desire to kill rising like the turbulent waters of a flood, a torrent of rage that had been held back far too long behind a creaking, bending dam: a straining vengeance just itching to break free.
There were no weapons hidden beneath the pillows, no daggers or sickles tucked beneath the bed. There was nothing concealed along his body to aid in the battle. Marquis intended to kill the Dark One with his bare hands. And no other pleasure would do.
Marquis could feel the bed depressed on both sides of his waist, sunken where Valentine's knees were burrowed into the mattress, and it felt like an eternity lying still beneath the depraved creature. He measured the vampire's body temperature as it rose several degrees in response to his mounting bloodlust. He could smell the foul odor of the undead's breath as he leaned in closer to examine the human female; yet the Dark One detected nothing amiss.
Resting the bulk of his weight on the back of his legs, Valentine finally called out to his prey: "Joelle, awaken." His voice held a mixture of triumph and anticipation in its deep, gravelly tenor.
Slowly...lazily...the sleeping woman complied.
Feral eyes, the color of blood mixed with molten lava, snapped open, the pupils no more than two tiny slits of menace—their focused glare consumed with rage. A slow, hate-filled smile curved along the corners of Marquis's mouth as his own persona began to deliciously shimmer into view, and then his razor-sharp fangs exploded from his mouth and his dagger-like claws extended from his hands.
"Gladly, darling!" Marquis hissed.
The Ancient Master Warrior lunged forward then, utilizing the full force of his massive body. Valentine shrieked and leapt back, trying to scramble from the bed, but his reaction was way too late. The son of Jadon moved far too fast.
Using the element of surprise, Marquis struck swiftly. He plunged his fist into Valentine's chest, clutched the undead's heart with a full set of unsheathed claws, and tightened his fingers in a powerful, unyielding grip.
His grasp was like that of a mighty vise: seizing and twisting...but not extracting. There would be no swift death for Valentine Nistor: not this night. The vampire would suffer a slow, agonizing death.
Valentine was stuck.
Frozen in place and unable to break free.
With the powerful Master Warrior's fist clenched tightly around his heart, any sudden attempt at movement would lead to the lethal extraction of the imprisoned organ from his body. Valentine's only choice was to fight—to struggle from a weakened, vulnerable position, hoping to wound his attacker before Marquis detached his heart.
Valentine struck back hard with a powerful counter blow, but the strike never reached its target. A howl of rage and terror shook the room as a bloodied stump made contact with the pillow where Marquis's face had just been. The skilled Master Warrior had evaded the blow with preternatural speed, bobbing his head to the side so quickly the motion was virtually undetectable, even as Nachari stood at the side of the bed, crouched down in a warrior's attack stance, still holding the ivory shaft of a steel dagger in his hand.
The wizard had come out of nowhere, unsheathing the ivory stiletto just in time to make a clean cut across the vampire's wrist, slicing Valentine's hand off before the dangerous claws had a chance to reach Marquis...who had long since moved out of the way anyhow.
Valentine's head snapped to the side, and he hissed at Nachari, his dark eyes burning with black hatred. "You want to join this battle, wizard?" It was a clear, unveiled threat, obviously meant to intimidate the younger, less experienced vampire.
Nachari laughed. His voice was a low snarl of contempt and menace. "I'm not seeing much of a battle, Dark One. But no thanks, I'll pass. In fact, I think I'll just sit back and watch the show from here."
He gestured toward a nearby chair. And then his hands began to move in a series of lightning quick movements as he withdrew a shiny, curved, sickle from the inside of his coat, spun it around in several smooth circles—like a ninja flipping a pair of nunchucks—and deftly sliced at Valentine's other arm, amputating it right below the bicep with deadly precision.
"Just as soon as I collect this trophy for my twin!" He spat the words.
Valentine shrieked in pain and snapped his head back around to look at his foremost enemy: Marquis. And then he released his only remaining weapon—his fangs.
The ancient Dark One was clearly determined to fight to the death with all he possessed. He lunged at Marquis's neck, exerting enormous pressure against the fist still tightened around his heart in order to keep it from dislodging, but once again, Nachari struck from behind.
Using the tip of the sickle in a movement so slight it required no more than a subtle flick of the wrist, he hooked the Dark One's carotid, taking advantage of Valentine's own forward momentum to sever the vital artery.
"I'm sorry," Nachari whispered, "I seem to be completely lacking in impulse control tonight. Wizards! We just don't have the discipline of you...warriors."
Marquis caught Valentine's throat in his hand before the creature's fangs could connect with his neck and watched as the Dark One's blood began to shoot out in a pressurized stream as if someone had just unscrewed a fire hydrant. And then he snarled a deep, throaty growl, warning his brother to back off of his prey.
"Nachari, stand down!"
It was an order.
He had allowed his youngest sibling a few acts of retribution, understanding his need to avenge his twin, but the vampire belonged to him. This was his kill. And damn it all to hell, if his little brother didn't stop soon, there wasn't going to be anything left for Marquis to do.
Valentine gurgled and choked on his own blood, a stunned look of disbelief carved on his face. Marquis knew the evil one was trying to call out to his own brothers telepathically, but it was far too late for that.
Nachari Silivasi had graduated the Romanian University as a Master in Wizardry. He now had dominion over the base elements, and he could manipulate the energies of light, sound, and vibration. Nachari had altered the energy field in the room long before Valentine had shown up, creating a static rift in the forces around them—an energetic barrier that made it virtually impossible for thought waves to transmit in or out of the carefully controlled space.
No one would recognize what was taking place in room four twenty-three of the Dark Moon Lodge: not Salvatore or Zarek Nistor...not even Nathaniel or Kagen Silivasi.
"Sorry," Marquis hissed. "Your back-up isn't coming."
Valentine howled like an injured animal. He roared his fury like an enraged grizzly bear, his powerful legs beginning to tremble beneath him.
Marquis sat up then, careful to keep his fist tightly clamped around the Dark One's heart, reveling at the sight of Valentine's blood gushing out of him like a leaking sieve, the anguished look of pain stamped deep into his arrogant face.
With a clenched fist, he swung his free hand at the vampire's jaw, connecting dead center with the front of his teeth....
Ivory fangs cracked and erupted, exploding like shattered glass as they shot out of his mouth, leaving the staggered vampire utterly defenseless.
Marquis held up his own bloodied, lacerated hand and turned it over, staring at the jagged teeth marks in his skin.
He slowly unclenched his fist in front of Valentine's face, displaying his wicked set of talons...one finger at a time.
Extending the claw of his index finger, he engraved a bloody outline around the v
ampire's eyes—then around his mouth, his nose, and his ears—before slowly etching a harsh line down his chest, across his flat muscular stomach to his lower pelvis...where he stopped.
He looked his enemy in the eyes. "Pick your poison, Dark One. In what order do you prefer to be dismembered? Eyes first? Ears? Tongue? Or that vile tool you seem so eager to rape helpless humans with?"
Valentine snarled. "Release my heart, son of Jadon, and fight me like a man!"
The words came out gargled and muted, his missing teeth prohibiting his ability to properly form his words.
Despite his sweltering rage, Marquis laughed. "You sound like an imbecile." He turned to Nachari. "I don't know, brother, should I releath hith heart, tho he can fight me like a man?"
Nachari shrugged casually. "You might as well; what's he gonna do at this point? Kick you? He seems to be running out of options."
Marquis regarded the bleeding, dying monster lodged at the other end of his fist. "Hmm. Perhaps you should remove one of his legs first, at least make the kicking entertaining."
Nachari leapt up from his chair and flew instantly to the side of the bed, his ivory dagger already unsheathed and fisted in his hand.
Marquis hissed. "Sit down, brother. I was kidding."
Nachari frowned and let out a deep-throated grumble. He sauntered back across the room and took a seat by the window next to a stone-top table with a better view of the two warriors. He snapped the dagger back into its holster, leaned back, and crossed his arms, waiting to see what Marquis was going to do next.
Marquis snarled with disdain, took one quick swipe with his claws, and removed the vampire's manhood right through his jeans. "Problem is..." He glared at Valentine. "You're not a man anymore."
Valentine roared in pain and tried to wrench his body backward in a clear attempt to dislodge his own heart into the warrior's fist...to end his own suffering and humiliation.
Suicide was clearly preferred to the ongoing torture, but Nachari sprang forward again with preternatural speed and effortlessly held the enemy in place. There would be no escaping justice this night.