Immortals After Dark 12 - Lothaire

distinguished athlete. She played no instrument, and she spoke only one language—poorly.
    If not for Saroya, Elizabeth would have lived a wasted existence, just like her loathsome mother. Thrift-store clothes and cheap perfume in a dingy, leaking trailer.
    At least now Elizabeth served a higher purpose.
    As her breaths deepened, her lips parted and her heartbeat grew lulling. Like a metronome . . . like the waves she’d never see.
    So young, this mortal. Gazing at her now, he could almost forget how much he detested humans.
    Almost.
    His thoughts were interrupted by his sudden yawn. Watching her sleep had calmed him. His Bride—or at least her body— could soothe him. A tool I can use?
    After unfastening his sword, he kicked off his boots, drew off his shirt. Now I sleep. Now the memories would come.
    As he traced to his bed, he thought, Your days are numbered, young Elizabeth.

15
    E llie woke to a groan. A male’s groan.
    She cracked open her eyes, found herself curled up on the couch in the vampire’s bedroom. She groggily reached over and turned on a nearby lamp, lighting the area enough for her to see Lothaire.
    He lay asleep in his bed.
    She rose and crossed to him, curious to see if she’d find him so handsome now that she was rested—and not acutely traumatized.
    At his bedside, Ellie exhaled in resignation. How could he be so damaged mentally—and morally—and yet so stunning on the outside?
    Clad only in dark jeans that hung low on his hips, he reclined on his front, the side of his head resting on his forearm. His longish blond hair was tousled, those unnerving eyes concealed.
    His face was hauntingly flawless, with his proud, patrician nose and broad cheekbones. Even the stubble covering his bold jawline was enticing to her. Her fingers itched to trace his lips, to determine if they were as firm as they looked. She’d never really noticed men’s lips before, but his were sexy.
    Now that his wounds had healed, the smooth skin of his back seemed to demand her touch. Those brawny shoulders . . .
    He groaned again, his brows drawing together sharply. Dreaming?
    If he truly experienced the memories of all his victims—thousands of years’ worth—how could he not be going insane?
    Surely he wouldn’t be dreaming of that ring already. Maybe he was seeing her memories?
    She’d never done anything she’d be too ashamed of him discovering, but she didn’t want him to feel exactly how much she loved her family—or to know how dire their straits currently were.
    The last time she’d spoken with her mother, there’d been mutterings about the Peirce men returning to the mines. Mama had said, “Over my dead body, Ellie,” then had grown embarrassed by her comment to her death-row daughter. . . .
    When Lothaire turned on his back, Ellie’s mouth went dry. His torso was hard as stone, with cut abs and pecs. Darker blond hair, almost golden in color, dashed the center of his chest, and a fine line of gold trailed down to his navel and lower.
    Her starving senses drank him in, almost blunting her hatred for him. Dear God, the vampire was so . . . beautiful.
    Masculine perfection. Especially with his eyes closed. I could look at him all day.
    No! Rubber band snap. He was a murderer who wanted to do her in. He was partly responsible for her imprisonment.
    She’d best not have any confusing attraction to him. In fact, she briefly considered opening the curtains to the morning sun, but decided against it. He was too fast, would just trace from the light.
    Instead, Ellie dragged herself away, planning to shower, get dressed, and mentally prepare for her next go-round with him.
    Inside her room, she locked the adjoining door between their suites from her side—as if that’d do anything to keep him out. Then she drew back the curtains to her balcony. Her lips parted.
    Late afternoon? Exhausted or not, she couldn’t believe she’d slept so long. In prison, she’d awakened at 6 a.m. on the dot for her entire sentence.
    She headed for her bathroom, finding lavish toiletries inside. The promise of a shower with piping-hot water—and no guard’s eyes on her—called to her.
    Once the steaming water cascaded over her, she sighed with contentment, leisurely scrubbing her body with a scented soap.
    Yet soon her sweeping hands slowed, bathing turned to stroking. It’d been so long since she’d been able to touch herself like this—fully naked and unobserved—that she’d forgotten what she felt