A Hunger Like No Other (15 page)

Realization hit and his body tensed. “This is from hunger?” he roared.

She blinked up at him.

“You told me you ate Monday—how often do you need to?”

When she didn't answer, he shook her shoulders.

“Every day. Okay?”

He dropped her shoulders just before his fists clenched. She'd been
hungry
? His mate had suffered from fucking
hunger
while under his protection. He had no idea what he was doing . . . .

Goddamn it, he couldn't care for her. Not only had he starved her for two additional days—obviously he'd kept her from hunting—but she needed to find a victim to drink
every
night. Each night they would go through this.

Did she kill each time as other vampires did? “Why did you no' tell me?”

Her eyelids were drifting closed again. “So you could make another ‘bargain'?”

Could he allow her to take from him? Among his clan, being drunk by a vampire was reviled, considered a filthy act. Even if it was done against his will, a Lykae would suffer abject shame. But what choice did he have? He exhaled and said with a heavy heart, “You will drink from me for now on.” No vampire had ever bitten him. Demestriu had debated it, arguing with his elders over the decision. For some reason, in the end he'd decided against it, preferring to torture Lachlain instead.

“Can't drink from you,” she murmured. “Not straight from a source.”

“What? I thought your kind took pleasure from that.”

“Never done it.”

Impossible. “You've no' drunk another? Never killed?”

She cast him an anguished expression. His question had hurt her?

“Of course not.”

She wasn't a predator? There were rumors of a small faction of rebel vampires who didn't kill—of course, he'd dismissed the tales immediately. What had they been called?
Forbearers?
Could she be one? But then he frowned. “So where would you get blood?”

“Blood bank,” she murmured.

Was that a joke? “What the hell is that? Is there one nearby?”

She shook her head.

“Then you've got to take from me. Because I just signed on to be your breakfast.”

She looked too weak to take his neck, so he sliced his finger with a claw. She turned her face away. “Put it in a glass.
Please.”

“Do you fear I'll turn you into a Lykae?” He would never attempt that grueling ritual on her. “Or do you think you'll turn me?” Surely she didn't believe that. The only way to become a vampire was to die while one's blood was in your body. Only humans believed one could be turned from a vampire's bite, while those in the Lore knew one had a better chance of turning by biting the vampire.

“It's not that. A glass . . .”

He didn't understand what the difference was. Then his eyes narrowed. Did she find the thought of drinking from
him
objectionable? Galling. She had no idea what he was sacrificing for her. He snapped, “Take it, now,” then dripped the blood across her lips.

She resisted for longer than he would've if he'd been starved. Finally she dabbed the tip of her tongue at her lip, then licked there. Her eyes turned
silver
. To his shock, he went instantly hard.

Her small fangs shot longer. She had sunk them into his arm before he could blink.

With the first draw, her eyelids fluttered closed and she moaned; he went dizzy with sexual pleasure, feeling on the verge of coming. Stunned, groaning, he reached out and yanked her gown down, exposing her breasts, covering one with his palm. He squeezed harder than he'd meant to, but when he stopped she raised her chest into his hand, her hips undulating, never hesitating her sucking.

With another groan he leaned down, opening his grasp to hold her breast so he could take her nipple with his mouth. Licking desperately, his tongue swirled around the throbbing peak. When he drew it between his lips and sucked, he felt her tongue flicking against his skin at the same time.

The pleasure he derived was indescribable, and her every draw intensified it. She clung to his arm so sweetly, holding it between her breasts. As if he'd ever take it away. Her nipple was so hard between his lips.

He placed his hand on her thigh, rubbing upward, but she withdrew her fangs and flung herself away, rolling to her side. He sat on his haunches in shock, trying to compose himself, baffled by his reaction.

“Emmaline,” he said in a broken voice as he took her shoulder and turned her to her back. His eyes widened as her
wee fangs grew smaller. Her eyes turned blue once more, and she rolled them with apparent ecstasy, falling back, her pale arms over her head. As she stretched and writhed, her nipples puckered tighter. Then she gazed up at him with her full, red lips curling. The lass had a smile such as he'd never known—

Euphoria, that's what he was seeing as her skin pinkened. His erection was growing unbearable—
watching
her skin warm was incredibly erotic. Every detail of this sordid act with her was erotic. Her face grew softer, her body fuller—God help him—
curvier
. If possible, her hair shone more.

He vowed she would drink him—only him—from then on.

And, sweet Christ, she needed it every night.

She rose to her knees before him, leaning forward, seeming hungry for something else entirely. Her uncovered breasts were plump and luscious, as if begging his palms to cup them.

“Lachlain,”
she purred his name as he'd waited to hear for a millennium.

He shuddered and his cock pulsed. “Emma,” he growled, lunging for her.

The back of her hand connected with his face. Caught off guard, he flew across the room.

The second time he attempted to rise, he realized she'd dislocated his jaw.

N
ever taking his eyes from her, Lachlain punched himself in the face in the direction opposite of how she'd hit him. She heard his jaw pop into place as he loomed closer, his expression menacing.

With no shirt on to disguise how strong he was, every sculpted muscle in his chest and torso was visible as it tensed. He looked bigger without clothes on? How exactly did that happen? Yet for some reason she was unafraid. Emma the Lamb was scanning him for something else to dislocate. Vampires were evil. She was a vampire.

And she was
on fire
with his delicious blood.

He was on top of her before she had time to react, pinning her arms above her head and shoving his knee between her legs. She hissed at him, struggling, making a better showing than before, but she was still no match for him.

“You're strong from my blood,” he said as he wedged his hips between her legs.

“I'm stronger just for drinking,” she snapped, which was true, but she also suspected his immortal blood, taken straight from his body, was seriously high octane. “I was hungry for anything.”

He gave her a patronizing look. “Admit it. You like the way I taste.”

She'd tasted power, tasted
him,
and lusted for more. “Go to hell.”

He adjusted his position on her, his chest rubbing over her naked breasts. When he rested against her, she felt his erection hard as steel between them. “Why did you hit me?”

She raised her head aggressively—the only movement she could manage. “For everything you've done to me. For endangering me and for every time you've ignored my wishes.” Her voice was different, throatier. She sounded like she should be on the cigarettes-and-curlers end of a sex line.

The list of reasons was endless, from ripping off the Band-Aid that had covered her traumatic memories, to making her go
mindless
with lust while drinking, to slicing through a thousand dollars' worth of hand-painted Jillian Sherry underwear his
first night
. She settled on, “For every time I've wanted to strike you and couldn't.”

He studied her, clearly not knowing what to make of her. Then the hands that had been pinning her hard cupped over the top of her head. Wolflike. “Fair enough.”

Her lips parted in surprise.

“Do you feel better for it?”

“Yes,” she answered honestly. If only for a moment, she'd felt powerful for the first time in her life, surging with power. And the next time he forced her into a restaurant, or went rock star on their hotel room, or woke her by kissing down there, she'd smack him again.

As if he read her mind, he warned, “But doona hit me again.”

“Then
doona
break your promises.” At his frown, she said, “You vowed that you wouldn't touch me. But you . . . you touched my breasts.”

“I vowed that I would no' touch you unless you wanted
me to.” He leaned up to run the backs of his fingers down her side. She had to battle the urge to flex and stretch into his touch like a cat.

“Tell me right now that you dinna want me to.”

She looked away, distressed by how attractive she found him, by how she had nearly keened when she'd lost the warmth of his hand covering her entire breast. The feel of his hot mouth sucking her nipple . . . Between them his erection was rigid, straining against her, coaxing her body to grow wet for it. “Make a note now that I will not in the future.”

His lips curled wickedly, and her breath hitched at the sight. “Then all you have to do next time is remove your wee fangs from my arm for long enough to tell me no. Long enough for one single word.”

She pulled her gown into place, yearning to hit him again. The bastard knew that tonight she could no more have taken her fangs from him than she could have stopped breathing. “You assume I'll drink from you again?”

With a sexy smirk and a rumbling voice, he said, “I'll have to insist.”

She turned her face away as the full import of her actions hit her. She'd actually taken
living
blood. She was officially a leech. And drinking directly from him was like coming home, like something had shifted into place. She feared she could never go back to cold, plastic sleeves. Just what kind of schwag blood had she been drinking before him?

“Why had you no' ever before?”

Because it was forbidden. Yet she'd done just what her aunts had feared of her . . . .

And his blood was a drug she could grow addicted to. She
could become addicted to
him
. He could have that power over her.

No! If he tried to entice her to drink again, she wouldn't be starving and she would have more control to deny herself.

In theory?

“Get off me, you brute.” When he didn't let her up, she raised her hand again, but he caught her wrist.

“Doona strike me again, Emmaline. Mates never hit each other.”

“What do you mean by ‘mate'?” she asked slowly, the fear she'd ignored returning, making her tone grow desperate. “Like . . . like Australian for ‘buddy'?”

When he seemed to be deciding if he should tell her something, warning bells blasted. “You don't mean like a Lykae mate?” The idea had occurred to her briefly, but she'd easily pushed it away. Because it was ludicrous.

“And what would you know about that?” He was getting angry again.

She remembered Lucia warning her never to walk between a Lykae and his mate. And if another male accosted his female or tried to separate them—
get the hell away
. They were as bad as a vampire with his Bride, if not worse. “I know you have only one, and that you never separate.” She knew if the other was hurt or was in danger, the beast rose up, and reason was lost. She'd seen him lose reason—and never wanted to see it again.

“What's so wrong with that?”

“You can't mean . . . You do want to separate from me? Right?”

“What if I dinna want to?”

“Oh, God.”
She scrambled from him until he let her go.

He crooked his arm behind his head and leaned back. “Would it be that terrible to be with me?”

She feared he was acting deceptively casual. “Of course it would! Besides the fact that you can't seem to make up your mind whether to be nice to me or to hate me, and besides the fact that we are . . . different, you're a bully, you're out of control, and you don't care about how I feel whatsoever, and you
do
break your promises and we're on the cusp of the Accession and—”

“Now, doona hold back how you feel, lass,” he interrupted. When she glared at him, he smirked. “It pleases me that you've obviously given us a lot of thought. Working out all the angles.”

She clenched her fists in frustration. “Tell me I'm not your mate, then.”

“You're no'. You're a
vampire,
remember? Think about it. My clan would want to rip you to bits on sight.”

She tilted her head, studying him, trying to determine the truth.

“Granted, with all your new curves”—he raked his gaze over her, then shook his head in that way men did, as if he was a goner—“I would no' mind keeping you around as my mistress, but nothing so serious as my one mate.”