Immortals After Dark 12 - Lothaire

his eyes.
    How many times had he hungered for flesh but denied himself?
    Yet never had his fangs throbbed like this, dripping to penetrate her. . . .
    “Don’t touch me!” She thrashed, digging her nails into his arm, but he enjoyed his enemies’ struggles. Always had.
    He raked a fang down the golden skin of her neck, cutting a shallow length, blood gently pooling.
    Voice gone hoarse, he said, “I’ll like it more if you fight. You’ll like it more if you don’t.”
    Scores of women—and men—had enjoyed his bloodtaking. It made them hunger, made them cling to him as if they wanted to sacrifice themselves on his fangs.
    Mortals seemed particularly susceptible. Many came in his arms.
    Would Elizabeth? The idea made him harden even more. He dippedhis head, mouth closing over the fine wound. When his tongue touched a drop of blood, his body jerked as if lightning-struck.
    A searing current seemed to electrify every vein in his body. . . .
    Delectable.
    “Wh-what are you doing to me?”
    He licked the seam again and again, wanting to roar when she began trembling, her resistance easing.
    She leaned into him, her back pressed against his aching shaft. When he snatched her tighter still and ground it against her, she moaned.
    Yes, mortals liked his bloodtaking, but she was shaking with need.
    “Oh! Ohhhh, no. . . . Oh, please!” Her voice was throaty, her breaths shallow.
    Yet just when he’d widened his jaw to pierce her neck for more, she began fighting again. “No, not now!”
    Lothaire tore his mouth away, saw her face go even paler.
    She swayed on her feet. “Not now. . . .”
    Saroya was rising! “Don’t fight her, girl!” he commanded, yanking Elizabeth upright.
    “No, no, no—” Her lids slid shut.
    He caught her against him, turning her in his arms. “Saroya, return to me .”
    After a long moment, her eyes opened, narrowed; then her palm shot up to crack across his cheek. “How dare you leave me to rot in prison, you filth! I’ll play with your spleen before the night is through.”
    “Saroya,” he grated, barely keeping his rage in check. Inhale, exhale. “Ah, my flower. I’ve missed you too.”

6
    W hen Saroya drew back her hand to strike Lothaire’s smirking face again, his expression turned deadly. “Once was forgiven, goddess, but twice would prove unwise.”
    Her hand faltered. Lothaire was a notorious killer, and as long as she was trapped in this mortal shell, Saroya was vulnerable.
    Though her spirit would continue on after this human’s death, just as it always did, this was the body she wanted. Saroya was determined to keep
it alive and unharmed. To do so, she needed this vampire’s assistance.
    Galling.
    “Release me, Lothaire.”
    Without a word, he did. She took a step back, surveying him for the first time in years.
    Of course he’d changed little, frozen for all time into this immortal form. He was at least six and a half feet tall, lean but muscled. His features were flawless, gold stubble covering his wide, masculine jaw and strong cleft chin. His pale collar-length hair was thick and straight—now stained with blood. “You killed? Without waiting for me?”
    “To effect your escape from prison, yes.”
    Finally out of that hellhole!
    She scanned her surroundings, finding them scarcely better. The area was decorated with a subtle flair, rich colors and fabrics of obvious expense, but it was uncluttered—aside from a pile of smashed marble and various shattered vases.
    Saroya preferred flashy ornamentation, the elegance of a tomb filled with sacrifices to her, piled high with flesh trophies and bones.
    Shimmering black silk against blood-spattered granite.
    “Where have you taken me?” she asked in a pained tone.
    “New York,” he answered. “To one of our homes.”
    “I assume we have many.”
    “We own mansions, villas, châteaus. Any dwelling you desire will be yours.”
    As if she needed him to tell her that. She glanced down at her arm, at a drying track of red. “Did you bite me?” Narrowing her eyes, she added, “And do not think of lying to me.”
    A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You know I can’t lie, Saroya.” Natural-born vampires were physically incapable of it. Whenever a lie arose, a vampire would feel the rána , the burn, a scalding sensation in his throat.
    “Did you dare pierce my skin?”
    “There is little daring to it. But in this case, I only grazed your neck.”
    She reached up and brushed the nick with her fingertips.