Blood of the Ancient

9

Though he continually found his thoughts returning to his new prize, Lachlain was able to garner much information during his foray. The first lesson he learned: whatever kind of card she owned, this black “American Express”, denoted extreme wealth. Not surprising; vampires had always been rich.

The second? A concierge in a lavish hotel like this could make life very easy, if he thought you were a rich, occasionally confused eccentric who’d had his luggage stolen. Initially, there had been some hesitation on the man’s part. He’d asked if “Mr. Troy” could provide any identification whatsoever.

Lachlain had inched forward in his seat, staring him down for long moments, his expression a balance of anger at the question and contempt for the man asking it. “No.” The answer was casually threatening, succinct, subject-ending.

The man had jumped at the word as he might at an unexpected gunshot. Then he’d swallowed and hesitated no more, even at the most bizarre demands. He hadn’t raised an eyebrow when Lachlain requested sunset and sunrise charts, or when he wanted to study them while devouring a twenty-ounce steak.

Within hours, the man had arranged fine clothing to fit Lachlain’s large frame, transportation, cash, and maps, and secured lodging reservations for the coming nights. He supplied every basic essential Lachlain might have needed.

Lachlain was amused by what the man considered “essential.” One hundred and fifty years ago, humans, averting bathing, had been an embarrassment to the Lore, who were almost species-fastidious. Even the ghouls bathed more often than nineteenth-century humans. Yet now, cleanliness and the tools to achieve it were essential.

If he could get used to the speed with which this time moved, he might begin to enjoy its benefits.

Toward the end of the day, when he’d finally finished all his tasks, he realized he hadn’t lost control or had to fight a rage even once during the several hours he’d been away. The Lykae were prone to fits of temper. In fact, they spent many years learning to control it. Couple that with what he’d been through, and he was shocked that he’d felt only a flare or two of anger. To quiet each one, he’d pictured the vampire sleeping in his room, in what was now his bed. It was in his possession, to do with as he pleased. That alone helped brace him against his memories.

In fact, now that his mind had cleared somewhat, he wanted to question her. Impatient to return, he considered the elevator. Certainly, they’d existed when he’d last walked above ground, though back then they’d been an amenity for the indolent rich. Now, using it was expected. He rode it to his floor.

Inside the room, he removed his new jacket, then crossed to the bed to wait for sundown. He studied her at leisure, this creature he’d been deluded enough to mistake as his. Brushing aside her thick blond curls, he studied her fine-boned face: high cheekbones and a delicately pointed chin. He traced a finger over her pointed ear; it twitched under his touch.

He’d never seen a being like her, and her fey appearance sharply separated her from the seething, towering male vampires with their red eyes, the ones he would exterminate one by one. Soon he’d be strong enough to do it.

Frowning, he lifted the hand that rested on her chest. Examining it closely, he barely saw a smattering of scars across the back. The web of fine white lines looked like burn scars but didn’t extend to her fingers or past her wrist. She’d been burned as though someone had seized her fingers and held only the back of her hand to a fire, or to sunlight. She’d been burned young, before she’d been frozen into her immortality. Typical vampire punishment. Vile species.

Before the fury could engulf him again, he allowed his gaze to settle elsewhere, then dragged the cover from her. She didn’t protest, still soundly asleep.

No, she was not what he normally found attractive, but the nightgown he dragged up past her navel and down to her waist revealed small, plump, perfect breasts that had fit in his hands, and hard n*****s that had aroused him so last night.

The back of one finger trailed across her tiny waist, over the bunched silk, and down to her blond s*x. He had to admit he liked that, wanted to taste her there.

He was a sick bastard to contemplate these thoughts about a vampire, to find one so attractive. But then, shouldn’t he be allowed some latitude? He hadn’t seen a Lykae female in nearly two centuries. That was the only reason his mouth watered to kiss her.

He knew it was nearing sunset. She’d wake soon. Why not wake her with the pleasure she’d forfeited the night before?

When he spread her silky white thighs and settled between them, she moaned softly, still asleep. Last night, she might have decided her fear or pride was stronger than desire, but her body had wept for release. She’d needed to come.

With that thought, he didn’t attempt to start slowly, but fell upon her ravenously. At his first taste, he groaned from the intense pleasure, licking madly at her wetness, grinding his hips into the sheets. How could she feel so good? How could he be experiencing this much pleasure, as if she were truly the one he’d waited for?

When her thighs tightened around him, he took her with his stiffened tongue, then suckled her small flesh. A glance up revealed her n*****s had hardened into tight points; her breaths came hectic. Her arms fell over her head.

He knew she was close even though she slept. A strange charge filled the air, making him uneasy, raising his hackles. The taste of her made him forget. He savored her as she grew wetter against his mouth.

He felt her tense, wakening. “Come for me,” he growled against her flesh.

She drew her knees to her chest, resting her feet on his shoulders. Interesting, but he was game if..

She kicked him hard enough to send him across the room.

A stab of pain told him she’d torn muscles in his shoulder. A red haze covered his sight, confusing his mind. He roared as he charged her, throwing her to the bed and pinning her down. He freed his trews and gripped himself, about to shove into her, crazed with rage and lust, ignoring the Instinct’s warnings: Her mind won’t bend, she’ll break. You’ll destroy what you’ve been given…

He saw her fangs as she gasped with fear, and wanted to hurt her. A vampire given to him? Bound to him for eternity? More torture. More hatred. The vampires had won again.

He bellowed with fury. She shrieked. The sound shattered the glass lamp and television, splintered the balcony door. His eardrums nearly burst; he leapt back, clamping his hands over his ears. What the bloody hell was that?

A scream so high-pitched he didn’t know if humans could hear it.

She shot from the bed, yanking her gown into place, giving him a look of… betrayal? Resignation? She flew to the balcony, ducking through the thick curtains.

Dark now. No danger. Let her go.

He slammed his head and fists against the wall, mad with lust. With hate. Memories of fire and torture stabbed him. The feel of bone finally giving way under his shaking hands… If he was cursed to carry those memories, to bear that burden, it was little better than being trapped in fire. He’d rather die.

Maybe f*****g her regularly, taking his pain out on her, was what he was supposed to do. Of course. He felt himself calming at the thought. Yes, he’d been given a vampire solely for his pleasure, for his revenge.

He stalked to the balcony, assessing his shoulder, and tore the curtain aside.

His breath left him.