Oycher (6 page)

Shadows whirled by as they ascended metal spiraling stairs, and tiny hairs stood on her arms. “Your little brother’s going to hate me for taking his room.” They passed a large painting of a male who looked like he could be Dax’s brother, but he was dressed in regency attire.

“Don’t you understand that you’re precious? My brother and the other Younglings here will be the first in line to kiss your perfect derrière.” With an all male chuckle, he added, “That is, if you're offering it.”

“I’m not offering it,” she griped, wishing her bra would stop abrading her hardened nipples.

“All joking aside, Isladora, I’d like to give you more than a reason of protection to stay. As your Alpha, I’d like to see you actually involved in Pack.”

“I’m working for a Pack owned establishment, and you’re putting me smack in the middle of an all male werewolf complex. What more do you want?”

“My wants have nothing to do with Pack needs.” He turned around three steps above her, staring down. “You were finishing a degree in special education when you were abducted.”

Another wedge of her life stolen by horrid immortals. “Yes.”

“What if you could handle special needs of a different kind, right here?” He blasted her with a movie star smile. “Would you be interested?”

He was calling her bluff, trying to keep her grounded when she wanted to fly away from Sanibel Island one day soon. “Spell it out for me and maybe I’ll consider it.”

“First,” he said, trailing a finger down the front of her throat and pausing on the pulse point too many fangs had pierced. “You’re going to have to get over your aversion to all things vampire.”

Simply put, he needed release.

It took another full hour before Terje ended up at a miasma-cloaked complex in werewolf territory, where Oycher knew only werewolf Younglings were housed — all male. If Pack had hidden the female among all those purebloods…Oycher smiled. He’d never backed down from a challenge, and he wasn’t starting that bad habit tonight on Sanibel Island.

Pulling scents through his nose, he followed Terje’s scent from building to building, letting him do all the work for finding the female both obviously desired. He braced his hands on a Coconut Palm and swung up three stories, passing six guards, and wedged the tips of his boots in a narrow ledge rimming the building. He peered down, waiting a beat since one of the guards started rubbing the back of his head in agitation. But the idiot looked everywhere but up. Poor training on Pack’s part, yet that wasn’t Oycher’s problem.

He faced what should have been his reflection in the window. But since he remained in a half-mist, shadowed under a self-imposed cloaking spell his Master had taught him only last year when he’d accepted his Commanding position, he was invisible to werewolves.

Tilting his head, he sniffed Terje heading to the main building where Oycher scented no less than thirty males. Lighter than air, he flipped over the barrel-tiled roof and free jumped. A whisper in the wind, he reached a long line of windows, easily scenting sleeping male lycanthropes…and a delicious female.

His hunger increased.

His cock twitched.

He used his mind to work open the lock on her window, which was child’s play. However, it took another ten minutes to unravel every Druid Ward used to protect her against horrid creatures with misting capabilities that hide under beds and jump out of closets, such as he.

When he slid his leg inside the opened window, the night melted away, the dawn yawning in the horizon. He cupped himself, rubbing his thumb over his straining cock head covered in buttery leather. Had he ever been this driven to find a particular female, only to see what she was all about? He didn’t think so.

He closed the curtains to keep the place dark and padded through, scenting Alpha male in every corner, but none were actually in this room. All herded, including the scent of Terje Arud, in the adjacent bedrooms. He shoved the Alpha scent away, hunting, until he spied a delicate arm hanging over the edge of the bed. Her tiny blue veins running beneath her skin a pulsating spotlight in the grey darkness of the room.

Slinking along noiselessly, he moved right next to her. And the world slipped beneath his feet. His legs turned to wet noodles, and his body started shaking. He held out his battle steady hands, oddly finding them still battle steady. But the vibrations were there, entirely real. They spread from his thighs, passing his aching groin, and ripped through his chest. His escalating heartbeat burst through, spreading scorching lava through his arms, as the vibrations went up the left side of his neck and hit his jaw.

Although centuries past Youngling status, Oycher’s Vojak strengthened as his body grew even larger than normal. Half the room went black while the remaining half went ice-white. Then it flipped. Flipped again, until his hands flew to a high chest nestled against the wall to brace his burgeoning body. His vampiric speed still amazingly acute, he stopped himself just short of knocking a stack of hardbound tomes onto the floor.

He lifted his throbbing head and watched his Vojak’s shadow loom up on the wall, growing taller by the second. His father’s voice hissed in his mind, ‘A Vojak gets one chance in love, Syn. Look for her, the one, until you’ve combed the ends of the earth. And if you still haven’t found her, then start over’. He swiped out a hand, watching his shadowed self protract deadly claws from his fingertips, the ends as sharp as honed steel. His fangs dropped the lowest in his lifetime, scraping the tip of his chin, drawing his blood, the points aching for a taste of…her.

Sidestepping the chest, he gripped the nightstand, catching the lamp before it toppled and frightened her. He didn’t need the damn light to see her, his vision far better at night than daytime, as most creatures of the night. Even so, his eyes blazing with deep orange and streaks of gold crossed her heart-shaped face, illuminating her flawless skin and blue-black hair. Her bone structure was more werewolf than human, her jawline strong, the curvature of her cheek smooth and rounded, her nose a soft upturn, her inky lashes fanning across dark circles marking sleepless nights. Her arched brows scrunched together in nothing short of tension. He lowered his eyes, deftly avoiding her throat not to tempt his vampire to sin, and studied the tension in her sleeping shoulders.

This gave him pause.

Even in sleep, this sweeting could never relax. She shifted in her bed, the white sheets draping the rounded stomach and fuller hips known to female werewolves. Hips to hold onto while he pushed to the hilt. Her pillowy lips whispered some dreamy nonsense, but the words meant nothing as her intoxicating breath reached his nose. Inhaling sharply, hunger reached the rest of Oycher’s body, overriding the spine-tingling inner vibrations, and all he could smell was…her. The blood surging from her heart and nourishing her gentle body, Highlands and salt, copper and sex, long summer storms as he pressed her against a cold castle wall. Where lightning hit the ground while he sated her furiously.

Completely.

Eternally.

Because that’s what he was born to do.

“Nevesta,” he hissed, trailing the backs of his claws across her parted lips. “I found my Bride this night.” He leaned, pressing his fangs against the dip beneath her lower lip. The urge to feed her, to feed from her, and to sate her was a soaring wind shredding his body and garroting his erection. He flicked his tongue on her chin, but he wouldn’t kiss her, not even an innocent brush of the lips.

Not until her eyes were on his.

But there was only one way to get his Vojak out of here, so Oycher could delegate his duties and concentrate on courting her by full daylight. And there was only one way to get her truly beneath him without touching her.

After sliding the weight of his weapon-filled, long duster onto the floor, he spun several three-sixties, gaining momentum while staying stationary. When he attained enough speed, he glided in the way of vampires. Twisting, he brought one booted foot high, then the next, and slid up the fourteen-foot wall above her headboard. He spun, flattening his back against the ceiling, and stared down at her.

“Mine.” He flicked open his top button. “Mine.” He unzipped his leathers. “Mine.” He shoved his clawed fingers down the length of his cock. His fangs digging into his chin, he licked his blood as he yanked his sex free. Those marking instincts he’d heard about all his life fired up his balls as he admired his territory, his mate, his Bride. “Nevesta.”

A red haze flitted over his vision as pre-come shot from the slit in his head. He squeezed his sex with an insistent fist and rolled his balls between his opposite claws. Stroking, staring down at her parted lips, Oycher imagined her juicy mouth suckling his cock, her teeth tearing into his scrotum — his claws mimicking what he wanted. And his biggest fantasy, the one screaming in his head since he left Youngling status, was of him holding down his Bride while she trembled through one blinding orgasm after another in his darkened lair during a vampiric wedding ceremony.

Stroking.

He shot back his head as his claws drew blood, dreaming of making her moan his name. He flicked through her mind, searching, surprised by all the blocks impending him, and discovered her basest fantasy. Sure it was simple; she was so young, but it would do until he educated her in the finer arts of pohlavnost.

Stroking.

“Relax,” he whispered over her. The tiny line between her brows softened, her shoulders slumping into the pillows. A moan whispered from her. He watched her twist suddenly in the sheets, her nipples pebbling against the thin white cotton shirt covering her delectable flesh. Her heavy breathing met his ears, the bed creaking as she rolled back and forth. Her mouth parted even further, her tongue licking her lips.

Stroking.

Her dream left her mind, curling high, wielding her erotic subconscious desire into physical pleasure. “Work it,” Oycher demanded softly, the zing moving from his balls up his spine. A rougher groan grew in the back of her throat, building, building, building. Her eyes cracked open a fraction as pinpoints of cerulean crept through the room. “So beautiful,” Oycher hissed, pinching the end of his cock to stave off his release.

She squeezed her eyes closed, seeing the carnal images of her dreaming state inside her mind. “More,” she whispered, wanting fingers, a firm mouth, a steely cock. “I need more.”

He started stroking again.

Inch by inch, she swept her shirt over her breasts. Cool air caressed her chest as her nipples tightened from exposure. “Ruže,” he whispered of the rose-tipped mounds he longed to taste.

Stroking.

Her slender fingers plumped her right breast, squeezing and releasing, echoing the sensation deep inside Oycher’s balls. As those delicate fingertips brushed across the swell of her opposite breast, his fangs tingled for her nipples. He formed an icy breath and blew it down, watching it spiral, until it hit her pink tips. He studied them as they puckered almost painfully, her head rearing back as she cried out.

“More!”

Stroking.

Her fingers traced her ribs, the curve of her stomach, before lowering the sheet and parting the ebony, trimmed hair between her legs. He spotted some scars on her precious body, but they did nothing to mar her beauty. “Bana.” His Vojak straining to premôct, but he fought back. She flicked her clitoris with her thumb while still cradling a breast in her dainty palm, plumping the flesh until it swelled. From the tension in her body, he could see her climax peaking.

Stroking.

Another maddening jolt of lust shot up his spine as she dipped her finger between her lips and tasted her sweet essence. Oycher’s teeth clinked as he stroked until pain nearly overrode pleasure. After this, he’d be surprised to find skin left on his dick. But wouldn’t his soreness remind him of his girl?

Stroking.

She moved her hand back down and twirled her entrance mercilessly, almost desperately. He released another breeze of cool breath across the valley between her heavy breasts, while she gave her right mound a final squeeze. His breath traveled lower and lower, swirling inside her navel. Her hips lifted from the bed, pleading.

Stroking.

When his breath snaked over her soaked cleft, her breathing stopped and then accelerated. Short panting puffs left her throat. He licked his lips, curling his tongue around a throbbing fang, watching, wanting. With her thumb and forefinger, she parted her lower lips, lifting her hips even higher in invitation. She dipped in again, threading those dainty fingers into her folds and plunging in blurring werewolf speed until she cried out a final time. Oycher exploded with her, biting his tongue to quiet his cry of pleasure. An arc of ejaculate and — because she was truly his soul mate — blood sprayed over his Bride. Quickly, he waved a clawed hand and dispersed the droplets into an imperceptible mist.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

A soft knock at the door forced Oycher to zip up, spin out, and jump onto the floor. Beasts. The entire corridor filled with freshly awakened werewolves. To say that he'd lost his head with his Bride would be putting it lightly. Once she’d dropped that sheet, he hadn’t been listening for incoming. A mistake he would never repeat. He tossed on his duster, keeping himself into a half mist, and stared down at her rousing body. Her inner thighs were damp, and her right nipple held a shimmering droplet consisting of his blood and semen. And he didn’t even know her name.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

His eyes narrowed on the door, the knocking bastards, before he blew her a kiss farewell. He climbed outside. Oycher made sure he re-warded her window with extra reinforcements so no other creature, werewolf or otherwise, could mist into her bedroom, and then he dissolved.