Hunger Aroused (8 page)

“Have you had enough?” he asked gently.

Nodding, she looked up, into his tender eyes. Her gaze traveled down and over until she saw his damaged flesh. She'd not just bitten him, but tore into his skin like a savage animal.

The realization of what she'd just done crashed into her.

Jasmine burst into tears.

“Shh,
mellita.
” Gods, how he remembered this. The impotence of giving in to the need as he came out of transition. The first time, of course, was the worst.

She snatched an article of clothing from the floor—her shirt, he thought—and pressed it against the wound. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Corin.”

Her nursing stung more than her feeding had. Still, he kept his face stoic, unwilling to show her any sign of pain or distress. No doubt she'd already been traumatized by the bloodlust. He didn't need to fuel it any. “It will heal.” He tested his neck by turning his head. “It
has
healed.”

So intent on making sure he didn't bleed out, she didn't seem to hear him. Withdrawing from her warmth, he tugged on her wrists until she stop tending to him. The shirt fell away, a sodden mess that would undoubtedly stain the almost-new carpeting. The healthy dose of reality helped his erection flag a little.

Tears tracked down her face, her breath coming in hitching gasps. She wouldn't look at him. Not into his face. Even if she didn't realize it, she needed his comfort now.

Quickly, Corin pulled up the pants still pooled around his knees and then gathered Jasmine into his arms. She didn't protest, her fingers sliding over the healed place that had bled only a minute or two before. Her eyes widened. “How…”

“I told you before, some of the rumors are true.”

Her gaze moved closer to meeting his. Not quite there yet though. “Vampires heal quickly.”

“Yes.”

“Are you immortal?”

He stood, her weight in his arms inconsequential to his movement. “Are
we
immortal? No.”

Gods damn her situation. Her sire should be here explaining these things to her. Not him. Her sire should have helped her deal with the overwhelming urge to feed for the first time. It should have been her sire's blood she learned from. Not his.

When she curled into his embrace, he also understood that had her sire been here for her, he would have missed out on this moment. This precious trust of Jasmine's arms draped around his neck as he took her into his bedroom. She started crying again, softly against him. He felt the little tremors of her body as she tried to stifle the sounds.

He laid her down on the bed, ignoring how right she looked there, and took a chance by leaving her alone to go into the master bathroom. A quick glance into the mirror verified the puncture marks had closed over. The pink area would return to its normal color within minutes. He used the time studying himself to run two clean washcloths beneath hot water. The first he wrung out and then swiped across his neck and chest, erasing all traces of blood.

She'd done a better job the first time than he had. His first time left the unfortunate servant almost without the ability to stand. His lust had raged through him with such torrential force, he'd whisked past the point of satiation and jumped headfirst into maniacal greed.

He shifted his body slightly, using the mirror's reflection to peer into the bedroom. He watched Jasmine sob, each tremor of her body slicing his heart into ribbons. A throbbing beat made its presence known right above his left eyebrow, a bitch of a tension headache that almost made him wince. His body's way of informing him, as if he didn't know, that he was a little tense about having crossed a line. Problem now was, he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to cross back over it. His livelihood, everything he'd become had just about been tossed aside for little more than a mark. This was so fucking bad.

With a sigh, he pushed away from the sink and made his way to her side. Jasmine hadn't moved from the spot he'd laid her. He dabbed the cloth on her breast, taking care of the three droplets of spattered blood. He folded the cloth over carefully, then gently spread her legs. Not saying anything, he used it to wipe the remains of his seed before pulling a comforter over her body. Once done, she curled into a little ball, her back to him, more of those heartbreaking sobs muffled into a pillow.

“I'll be right back,” he said, knowing right now she couldn't care less if he lived or died.

After discarding the soiled material into the laundry bin, he did a quick circuit of the house to check his security precautions, also using the time to cool down his remaining lust. If he went back into the bedroom now, he'd want to take her again, despite her obvious grief. He hated himself for being such a bastard about it, but there it was. His sexual appetite had been stoked. Now that he allowed it a little freedom, he grew hungry for more.

A cold shower might have helped more than walking away did, but he couldn't trust Jasmine wouldn't use that time to escape. It's what he'd do in her place.

Speaking of…

The cell phone continued to vibrate on again, off again. He'd been very much aware of its activity, but he didn't know what to do with the Council. It wasn't his job to think; he followed their orders like a dog to its master. But somehow, once again, he'd become little better than a rogue.

He couldn't deal with it now and pressed two buttons to shut the phone off. Jasmine lay in his bed, hurting and confused. She'd been pushed to the edge, her life in the balance. She fought with a passion that made him proud, handled everything he'd thrust at her with calm resolution. Tending to her needs prodded him closer to taking on a role he'd never been meant to fulfill, but his honor demanded nothing less. He'd just have to deal with the consequences later.

Until now, he'd done his job well. The man once known as Titus Corinius stayed off the grid; Corin Gerulaitis was listed as this property's owner. The seclusion of this place hadn't stopped him from installing the latest in home security surveillance, including a bank of monitors that displayed the contents from several cameras around the property. No one ever visited him here, so if anything looked out of place, he'd know immediately that someone who didn't belong had been through his things. The one time before when that had happened, he'd been living in Wales. The moment he'd crossed the threshold and realized something had changed, he'd left behind the house, furnishings and all, never to return.

Satisfied that everything met the strict safety standards he set, he returned to the bedroom. Jasmine lay curled on her side, her eyes closed. Thank the gods, her crying had ended. She looked tired though. Not that he could blame her.

She didn't turn when he moved around the bed and stripped off his clothing. Again, a shower called to him, but he'd spent too much time away from her as it was. Corin forced himself to remember the stark terror and nauseous acceptance of bloodlust. A horrific few days of his past when he'd been left to fend for himself, when he didn't know how to handle the craving that felt as if it would eat him from the inside. The poor servant who'd accidentally been the first person he'd seen since being transitioned had barely left the room alive.

Jasmine stirred as he slid into bed and pulled her body against his. He partially draped himself over her, keeping her tucked into the cocoon of his body. One of his thighs lodged in between hers.

“What are you doing?” Her voice still wavered, a hair's breadth away from cracking.

Corin captured one of her hands in his to entwine their fingers together. “Hush. Rest now.”

“I'm not tired.”

He smiled to himself because he heard the effort she put forth in the simple protest. “
I'm
tired,” he lied. “I'm not as young as I used to be.”

“How…old?”

“Very.”

She stifled a yawn. “Robbing-the-cradle old?”

“More like robbing-the-sparkle-in-your-great-grandfather's-eye old.” Even older, but she didn't really need to know that. Not yet anyway.

It seemed his response gave her enough to chew on, for she remained silent. He waited for her next probing questions, for the beginning of her curiosity to catch and then release like a floodgate. There was so much for her to learn about him. About vampires. About her potential.

When her breathing evened out, however, the rise and fall of her chest a soothing rhythm beneath his arm, Corin acknowledged that perhaps he wasn't quite as young as he used to be, indeed. Comfortable with the certainty she couldn't leave his embrace without awakening him, he closed his eyes.

***

“He is a
senator,
Corinius. Why? Why, for gods' sakes, would you defy him?”

“So I am Corinius now? Have I lost your favor as well, and ‘Titus' is no longer fitting between us?” The cold manacles' bite made his arms break out in gooseflesh. Either that, or the tickle of his own blood as it dripped down his outstretched appendages caused them. For that matter, it might have been his nudity left to fend against the cold air. He didn't know any more, not that it mattered. Hanging from chains secured through an iron bolt in the ceiling, he supposed he had better things to worry about.

He squinted through swollen eyes to watch the agitated pacing of his former mentor. A man who, until now, he'd considered a friend.

Marcus Flavius Gaii filius, one of the greatest gladiators to ever be liberated from the bloodsport, shook with rage. He whirled on his feet to face Titus. “You were everyone's favored. Mine. The public's. The Dominus's. Why would you not do this one thing?”

“You make it sound as if taking a man's life is no more monumental than ridding myself of excrement.”

Marcus's voice went flat. Cold. “You and I have killed more men than anyone I know. It is never an easy task, but while under his patronage, it is your duty.”

Titus jerked down on the chains, his frustration a living thing in the damn room. “He was not much older than a child! He yielded and the senator had no right—”

“It is very much his right, Titus! It was what the crowd wanted and like the smart politician he is, he bows to the crowd's wishes. You had no right to defy him.”

True. Gods, he still couldn't say what stayed his hand. Standing over that boy, watching the urine spread across his groin as he'd bled as copiously from a dozen other wounds, Titus turned over in his mind what he was being asked to do. A life in exchange for a few gold coins, and appeasing the crowd's lust. To what purpose? His reputation had been solidified almost a year ago. Now he was little more than a puppet for his lord.

Titus glanced at the bruising around his wrists. “It is done, my friend. What happens now?”

Marcus sighed, his face twisting into a grimace. “You will be held here for three days. On the fourth day, I am to hobble you and take you into the arena to meet your fate.”

“Hobble me?”

“You are arguably one of the finest gladiators in ten leagues. Sending you in there as you are would do more harm to the others than to you.” Marcus chuckled lightly, but none of the amusement reached his sad eyes. “You will be starved over the next few days, and I will slit your calves before you enter the arena.”

He choked out a sound very much like a sob before he could recall it. Titus closed his eyes, fighting to remain calm. “Just kill me now and be done with it. I will be a dead man before the others in that condition.”

“And that is the point. And because my dominus commands it so, it is what I must do. It is what you should have done, son of Corinius.”

There was nothing more to be said. Titus had made his choice. He now only had to face the consequences of his actions. Still, better to be killed by his fellow Romans before the glory of the public than sold into a lifetime of slavery. Then again, if he evaluated his so-called life, he'd been living as a slave for three years now, despite the appearances the dominus presented. Yes, better dead than another forty or fifty years of this, not as a gladiator in the arena, but as a slave in the dominus's household. Once upon a time he might have believed in being allowed to be freed, but Marcus was testament to that lie. His
freedom
still kept him tethered to the gladiator life.

Yes. Better off dead.

Marcus's footsteps slapped against the cold stone floor as he walked away. Titus didn't bother to watch him leave the room, knowing full well he couldn't bear the sight of his friend's departure. The next time he saw the man, he'd be within an hour of his execution.

The chains kept his hands elevated above his head, the slack in them just enough to allow him to take a single step in one sideways direction or the other, but left little room for anything else. With perverse admiration, he recognized how they forced him to remain standing, his muscles practically immobile. By the end of three days, he'd be so stiff and miserable, if he managed to walk under his own power, he'd be impressed with himself.

Perhaps only minutes later, a sound outside of the door caught his attention. He turned as much as he could toward it. “Back already? Stay of execution?” he asked dryly.

A man much more slender and definitely more refined than Marcus stepped into the light. He was tall, thin. His dark hair framed his face in a style that suited patricians, rather than the common man. Slender hands held a cloth to his face, helping to muffle the thick scent of sweat and blood in the chamber room. Green eyes blinked lazily as they studied Titus's frame from foot to manacled hands. He felt uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny. It spoke too much of sexual wantonness.

“Do I know you, friend?”

“Would a stay of execution please you, Titus Corinius?”

Titus turned, keeping the man in full sight as he circled him. He had the unnerving feeling the man was only seconds away from trailing his fingers over the muscles of Titus's body. “Who are you?”