Mists of Velvet

naked and marked. Her skin was bleeding, and there were bruises on her body. She trembled, her nerves flickering. “Yes,” she whispered as her gaze looked him over. Arching her back, she lifted her hips, showing him what could be his. “I want him inside me,” she murmured. “Please,” she begged. “The ache. It’s growing.”
    From the darkness beyond where the woman lay, another sound, this one of chains, echoed in the silence. “Not again,” came a deep, distraught voice. “I beg you . . . Not another. I cannot bear it.”
    “But you will,” his captor commanded. “Over and over, you will bear witness to my rise. You will watch my power supersede all powers.”
    What the fuck was this? Where was he? Still under Velvet Haven? Rhys had never fathomed that below the mansion were catacombs. One thing was for sure—he had to find a way out of here before he became this psycho’s next sacrifice.
    None too gently he was pulled down, his body slammed onto a hard, cold slab. Something shackled his wrists and ankles, and he fought to free himself. Raising his head, he saw the black leather straps that held him down.
    “You son of a bitch,” he roared as he struggled to pull free of the bonds. But the mage just laughed, a demonic sound that echoed around them.
    Next, his clothes were stripped from him. Rhys felt the cold blade glide against his skin as his shirt and jeans were cut away.
    “Very nice,” the mage murmured as his palm traced over Rhys’ chest. “You will make me a lovely skin suit.”
    “Fuck you,” Rhys spat, still struggling. If this murderer took Rhys’ body, he would definitely have the upper hand. Keir, Suriel, and perhaps even Bran would fall victim to this psychopath. He would be able to move among them with ease, pretending he was Rhys. He couldn’t let that happen.
    “What’s this?” The mage lifted the end of the torc. “Ah, Celtic. A warrior people. Fearless in battle, and as fiercely spiritual as they are bloodthirsty.”
    Rhys tried to look into the hood to see the face of the mage. But the hood was deep, and the shadows in the room made it impossible to see.
    The mage bent low over him. “Are you spiritual, Rhys MacDonald?”
    Rhys tried to bite whatever his teeth could grab hold of, but the mage pinned his head back against the stone with one strong hand on his forehead.
    “I know the look in your eyes. It is not fear, but rage. You boil with it.”
    Rhys opened his mouth to tell the bastard what he truly thought, but he found something shoved in instead. It tasted vile, and he spat it out. The mage laughed again.
    “You amuse me. Your strength revitalizes me. You will be a powerful offering. And because you are so worthy, and you have not once begged for me to spare your life, I will keep your soul—and your flesh.”
    The hard pit was shoved once more into his mouth, and this time, the mage’s hand clamped down on Rhys’ jaw, forcing him to keep it inside.
    “Thorn-apple.” The word was whispered to him. “And incense. No ceremony is complete without them. You’ll like it. It’s a potent hallucinogen and aphrodisiac.”
    The room suddenly began to stink of a cloying aroma, and Rhys gagged, both from the stench surrounding him and the taste in his mouth. But in mere seconds he was hallucinating, seeing images through a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes whirling before his eyes. Beyond him, the moans of the woman and the sounds of chains seemed to grow distant as a vision began to coalesce before him.
    He felt his body grow warm, then hot, as the picture took shape. He saw himself taking a woman, one hand clutched in her hair, the other cupping and squeezing her breast. She was full and soft, and he wanted to suck her, taste her. Taking her mouth, he plunged his tongue between her lips, tasting her. She moaned, and his cock grew thicker, harder. He needed to bury himself inside the pussy he could smell and feel, so hot and wet between her thighs.
    Her hands flew to his shoulders, and he tugged her hair harder, clasping her to him. She couldn’t push him away. He wouldn’t let her. Claiming her, he kissed her harder, taking her, and then he felt her nails digging into his shoulders; he felt how her body did not strive to get away but instead got closer to him, and his hunger grew more rabid.
    Breaking off the kiss, his mouth traveled lower, inhaling her scent, feeling her soft, supple flesh against his lips and tongue. He moved lower, searching for the