by Tarah Scott
There is a fine line between heaven and hell…love and hate. Heaven and hell are often one and the same, as love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Too often, love leads to hate.
Then we lose control.
The sweet, thick blood that slides down my throat sets my lust on fire and feeds the fury that lives so close to the surface. This moment is the sweetest of hells I can imagine.
Ciarah has never died by our hands. What will happen if I drain her? Take all her life force? Will that end the torture? Perhaps that would give her the strength to stop seeking us—me—out.
She tastes so good, as good as I remember. Perhaps even better. I feel her life force stirring. There is only her and I, and our blood.
Yes.
Only us.
She draws harder on my wrist. Anyone else, I would fear changing them into a creature without a heart, but Ciarah can’t be changed.
I suck harder.
She sucks harder.
Lust streaks through me. My cock hardens. I smell her desire, taste her need. Memory rises of her on the floor on all fours, my grip tight on her hair as I take her from behind while my fangs are buried in her neck.
“More,” she pants.
I draw harder—drive harder into her channel.
“Yes,” she whispers in a hoarse voice. “I need more.”
I need more.
She always needs more.
Maybe it will be her who drains me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LEILAH
That mouth…so familiar
What is the magic liquid sliding down my throat? Nothing ever tasted so sweet. The pain that permeates every fiber of my body is ebbing, but the ache in my heart hovers close to the surface. Still, with each beat of my heart, I care less and less about anything except the sweet nectar.
Strong fingers squeeze my waist. Cool air washes over my skin and gooseflesh raises on my arms. There’s something familiar in the fingers that tighten on my flesh. I breathe deeply and swallow more of the magic fluid. What is that scent? Male—yes. But, also something else… Sandalwood?
The mouth pressing my flesh is full and warm, conveying a need that pulls forth an answering desire that staggers. I drink greedily. I can’t get enough. More. I need so much that I want to drown in this need. Nothing else matters. I want—need—to drink more. Need to be touched by those long fingers. Need to feel that mouth on all of me. Everywhere.
That mouth…so familiar.
I stare into a canyon.
Overhead, a hawk screams. A cool evening breeze wafts across my warm flesh. Those familiar hands span my waist from behind, then slide around as strong arms pull me against a muscular body. That mouth so close to my neck. I shiver. Need rises. Not just to have his arms around me, or to have him inside me, but to warm his cold heart. I’m not certain he’s ever felt the joy of warmth.
His need, hard and demanding, presses into my ass. I sigh and he growls low in response. The hawk cries again. The scream pierces my ears. I wince. The cry grows louder. Fear clenches my belly. I’ve never felt fear while with him. The cry grows louder. The sound isn’t a bird’s cry, but a scream. A woman’s scream.
My scream.
I bolt upright, heart pounding. The room wavers, then snaps into focus. Ethan and Blade stand over me. What the hell? Except for the collar of Ethan’s shirt, he’s shirtless and blood stains his jeans. I’m half laying on a leather couch. Raith kneels on the floor beside the couch. I gasp at sight of my ripped shirt drenched in blood. I jerk my gaze to Raith. The front of his white shirt is stained with blood. The tips of his fangs indent his full bottom lip. I’ve never allowed a vampire to feed on me. I’ve never considered the possibility. The idea that Raith took that liberty without my permission is paramount to rape.
“How dare you?” I say in a hoarse voice.
I kick him hard with the heel of my foot and he tumbles onto his ass.
He looks at Ethan. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
“Good deed?” I repeat. “You have one hell of an ego.”
“Leilah,” Ethan cuts in, “he saved your life.”
“What—”
Memory slams into me. The spear. My belly. My mind registers the bloody, broken spear lying on the carpet a few feet away. Heart pounding, I look down at my belly where the wound should have been. I run my fingers over the spot where the spear pierced my stomach. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.
I lift my gaze to Raith. “I didn’t know that a vampire feeding could heal.”
“It can’t.” He shoves to his feet.
I look in confusion to Ethan and Blade.
“Raith healed the puncture by feeding on you,” Blade says. “But it was you drinking his blood that healed the internal injuries.”
I stare. Did I hear right?
“I drank his blood?” I whisper.
“You’re welcome.”
I wince at the sarcasm in Raith’s voice and, in the instant before he turns away, I glimpse the thin line of his mouth. He crosses to the large mahogany desk located near the left wall and sits in the chair behind the desk.
“How much did I drink?” I try to control my racing pulse.
“Not enough to be turned,” Blade says.
I’m not feeling anything strange. In fact, for someone who’s just been skewered by a spear, I’m feeling pretty damn good. I’m almost…relaxed, and I feel oddly safe—despite my racing heart.
I shift my gaze to Raith. “Thank you.”
His eyes don’t shift from Ethan. “What happened?”
I’m not one to embarrass easily, but my cheeks heat at the obvious rebuff. He’s angry with me. Because I kicked him?
Blade takes two steps and sits on the couch beside me, heedless of the blood that slicks the leather. “You sure you’re all right?” he asks.
His smooth British accent usually makes everything he says sound sinful. This time, however, it’s the concern in his voice that causes the insides of my miraculously healed stomach to gel. He actually sounds like he cares—a lot. My cheeks warm, again, not with embarrassment, but due to the intensity of his gaze.
I scoot backward toward the couch arm so that I can pull my legs up and swing my feet onto the floor. I stand. To my surprise, my legs are steady. I feel as if I could run a marathon.
“I seem no worse for wear,” I say.
“Is someone going to tell me what happened?” Raith demands.
I want to tell him to go to hell, but Ethan says, “Someone used magic to pull a spear from the wall and…”
My stomach somersaults at the roiling cloud of emotions in the dragon’s eyes. Fuzzy images jumble in my brain and I recall strong arms around me and the shwoosh of powerful wings taking flight.
“You brought me here,” I say. He’d unfurled his wings and I’d missed the whole thing. God, that must have been a majestic sight.
A corner of his mouth lifts in a tiny smile. “The hospital was too far away.”
And they don’t have any vampires on staff, I mentally add, but say, “I need to thank you, too.”
My gaze catches on the spear. I take three steps to where it lies and pick it up. The sigil on my hand warms.
Blade comes to his feet. “Put it down, Leilah.”
Before I can reply, Raith is at my side and knocks the spear from my hand. The shaft hits a shelf with a loud crack and splinters.
“Do you know even the most basic rules of magic?” he demands in a voice so cold, I shiver.
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“You could have triggered any magic remaining in the wood.”
I’m startled at the hurt that stabs. Then anger boils over. “Why the fuck did you save me when you clearly hate me?”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Ethan says.
Raith snorts. “This isn’t about you, Ms. Crowe.”
He starts to turn away. I grab his arm and swing him around to face me. “The hell it isn’t. You don’t know me, but you’v
e decided you don’t like me. Maybe you really believe Grams was a dark witch, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I can live with that.”
Blade surges to his feet. “Leilah—”
I cut him off with a harsh laugh, my gaze still locked on Raith. “It’s not like it’s the first time someone hates me. But I’ll respect you a lot more if you’re honest about your feelings.”
Raith’s eyes darken and awareness reminds me that this vampire has a big secret.
“I know you all too well, Ms. Crowe,” he says, and I feel as if he’s punched me in the stomach.
He really believes I’m…bad. I’m struck with the memory of calling up a dark ball of energy at Grams’ house to fight the green demon. The energy was eerily similar to the Shadow husks. Obsidian wisps of energy tangled with themselves. Raith pulls free and I fall back a pace.
“Blade, get the spear out of here and have it analyzed,” he orders.
Blade takes three steps and reaches my side. “After I’ve seen Leilah safely back to her dormitory.”
Raith’s mouth thins, but he gives a curt nod. “She’s to stay in her dorm for the remainder of the day.” He turns and heads for the door.
I draw a sharp breath.
“Raith,” Ethan begins.
I fist my hands at my sides. “I will not be a prisoner—”
Raith whirls, those vampire eyes swirling with emotion so hot that the room tilts around me. “You will do exactly as I say, Ms. Crowe, or I will have you sealed in your room. Indefinitely.”
An unexpected image flashes of me locked in the room—with him. Lust wars with fury. The sigil on my hand heats.
His gaze flicks to the sigil then back to my face. “If one sigil can’t keep you in check, I’ll have Ethan put one on the other hand.”
I take a step toward the vampire and Blade steps in front of me.
“He’s right,” Blade says. “We need time to find out who tried to kill you.”
I blink. Someone tried to kill me.
Raith turns and strides toward the door. I stare, torn between wanting to throw some kind of spell—any kind of spell—at him, and confusion. Of course, anger wins out, and I say loud enough for him to hear, “I can’t leave before I apologize to Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass for getting his couch bloody.”
Raith stiffens, hand on the doorknob of the open door. In the next instant, he steps through the doorway and the door clicks shut with a finality that startles me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
ETHAN
Old Wounds
Five minutes later, I nod at Rebecca, Raith’s assistant who’s seated at her desk outside his private chambers, then enter his room without knocking. “What the hell was that?” I demand.
Raith looks up from the document lying before him on his desk.
I’ve known Raith far too long to get angry over his typically cold and calculating manner. But his laissez-faire attitude after Leilah’s near death—and his willingness to let her die—kindle my fire almost as violently as did the attempt on her life.
“Don’t think I won’t make good on my threat,” I say.
“Leilah is alive,” he says, unperturbed.
“No thanks to you,” I snap.
His brows rise. “It was my blood that saved her.”
I stare for half a dozen heartbeats, as much out of the need to gain control over my temper as shock. “Would you have really let her die?”
With a deep sigh, he leans back in his chair. “Think about the last forty years,” he says.
“You mean the years we spent mourning her, then fighting a war, then trying to protect Margidda from The Shadows?” I say.
He nods. “We’ve been focused, calm, content, even.”
“Content?” I snort. “We haven’t seen Caleb and Matthias in decades. Lie to yourself all you want, but I see the strain in you.”
Anger flashes in his eyes. “Nothing compared to the strain of having them in our lives.”
I stare, this time in complete shock. Only days ago, I was contemplating how I might have Ciarah more to myself if Caleb and Matthias weren’t here. Can I really be angry with Raith for being honest about how much easier our lives are without them? Is it possible that the issue is more than just not wanting the others in his life?
“You don’t love her anymore,” I whisper.
Something flickers in his eyes.
“You can’t even successfully lie to yourself,” I say.
“Love and hate are two sides of the same coin,” he replies.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” I begin, then his words slam into memory.
Ciarah cut out my heart forty years ago.
Why hadn’t I seen it before?
Forty years have passed, and I still don’t know exactly what happened the day Ciarah put a knife through Raith’s heart.
Ciarah’s grandmother owned a popular bakery in Chicago’s Latino district. That got Ciarah noticed by John Cordero. Her grandparents immigrated to the US from Greece, and their only daughter married a young Cuban bookkeeper who helped run the bakery. With jet black hair that brushed her waist, olive skin worthy of the gods, and emerald eyes, Ciarah was as much of a beauty as she is now.
But that beauty proved her undoing. Try as we might, we couldn’t convince her to stay away from John. Even if he’d intended to marry her, she would have been miserable inside of a year. Men like John know only how to conquer. But, like most women, she foolishly thought she could control the mob boss. As a result, Raith nearly died by her hand, and she had died, shot by John. Then died in Caleb’s arms.
Raith had been too weak to save her. I often wondered if Caleb never forgave him for that. No one was surprised when Caleb disappeared. A wolf licks its wounds in private. What surprised us was that he never returned. Just before The Shadow attack, Matthias went looking for Caleb and also disappeared.
“You haven’t forgiven her for her relationship with Cordero,” I say.
“Her relationship with Cordero?” Raith repeats in a deadly cold voice. “She put a stake through my heart and left me there for Cordero to find.”
“She didn’t—”
“She did,” he snarled.
“We have known Ciarah for millennia,” I say. “She has never truly done anything to hurt us.”
“You’re the one lying to yourself,” he says. “People change.”
I give a slow nod. “Yes, they do.” I start to turn, then stop and add, “If any harm comes to her as a result of your actions—or inaction—I’ll make what she did to you seem like love play.” Without another word, I stride from the room.
Chapter Twenty-Five
LEILAH
Prisons
Heads turn as Blade and I walk across campus. He has given me his shirt, which hangs down far enough to cover most of the blood stains on my pants, and his jacket. Of course, Blade is left in a tank top. The temperature can’t be above thirty-five but, being kin to nature, fae aren’t easily touched by the elements. He has stuffed his hands in his jeans’ pockets but, otherwise, gives no outward indication he feels the cold.
Female passersby—and a couple males, I notice—openly stare at Blade. And why not? The damned tank top lays bare his muscled arms and emphasizes a taut torso that I could probably bounce a quarter off. Oddly, bouncing quarters isn’t what I want to do. I want to wrap my arms around him, press an ear to his hard chest and count the beats of his heart. Does he agree with Raith? Does he believe I’m no good? I can still hear the quiet click of the door when Raith left. Why did they bring me here? That obsidian energy ball I called forth to fight the green demon. Obsidian. I’d never called forth energy that dark.
“Leilah.”
I start and snap my eyes up to Blade’s. He lifts a brow and my heart jumps. God, did he read my mind? “What happened back there?” I blurt, then inwardly wince. Great cover, Leilah.
“Raith saved your life,” he replies.
“I’m not in the habit of drinking blood. Ho
w did he get me to do it?”
Blade gives me a sideways glance. “There’s no shame in liking it.”
I flush. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Vampire blood is…good stuff,” he says.
I stare. “You drank his blood?” I wasn’t sure whether to be disgusted or fascinated.
“Drinking from female vampires is just as pleasurable,” he says.
Three twenty-something girls pass, their eyes glued to Blade’s chest. His eyes remain fixed on the path ahead and I find I’m a little surprised. He clearly finds me attractive. Why not them? No way he can have any real feelings for me. A wave of self-consciousness washes over me and I suddenly feel like that starry-eyed seventeen-year-old girl who fell in love with the local bad boy she’d met on the streets. That love affair had been doomed from the start. Never mind Alec was ten years older than me, and that my commitment issues set the relationship on a path to crash and burn. Which it did in spectacular style when I bound him with magic to our bed and left him there.
“Who might want to kill you?” Blade asks.
I grimace. “What, no sweet talk before you ask a girl who hates her enough to kill her?”
His mouth twitches in amusement. “We could have dinner and discuss the matter. I promise to ply you with lots of wine and tell you how beautiful you are before we get down to business.”
Something in the way he says get down to business sends a shiver down my arms. “I’m serious,” I manage in a level voice.
“Hmm,” he intones.
“What about that girl—what’s her name—Hanson. Jennifer Hanson,” I ask.
“Jennifer?” His amusement vanishes. “She wouldn’t have the courage to make an attempt on someone’s life.”
“People can surprise you,” I say.
“Indeed, they can.”
I can’t prove it, but I know he’s not talking about Jennifer.
“Look, I’ve gotten flak from the students who believe the lies about Grams and think I’m like her. I’m not, you know.”
“I know,” he says in a gentle voice.
“I mean, Grams isn’t like that, and neither am I.”