Prince of Twilight (20 page)

She growled in frustration and need.

“I want you to come with me inside you,” he told her, and it sounded more like a command than a request. “I want you to know release only when I possess you, body, blood and soul.”

She was panting, shaking.

He moved up her body and lowered himself again, and this time he slid into her. She tensed a little, unused to his size and shape. He was big and thick, and he filled her, stretched her. But he didn't change his pace. He pressed on, deeper and deeper still, and then he took her knees in his hands and lifted them, pressed them wide, and slid into her even farther than before.

She whimpered, close to asking for mercy. But if she felt full, it was a good fullness. If she felt stretched, then it was what he wanted, and that made her want it, too. And if she felt pain, it was the blissfully delicious pain that couldn't be distinguished from the most intense pleasure imaginable.

He withdrew then, slowly, and entered her again. A little faster this time. And again, still faster. His pace increased, but slowly, teasingly, and the force with which he drove into her increased, as well.

She moved her hips to accept him, to mesh with the rhythm he'd begun. She wanted more, but he wanted her to want. To crave. So he held back, damn him.

Her hands slid around him, gripped his backside and tugged him into her. And when he still didn't give her enough, she dug her nails into his flesh and flashed her eyes open, staring up into his. “Harder, Vlad. Faster.”

It was almost a growl.

His control seemed to shatter. He drove into her, hard and fast.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, linked her ankles at the small of his back and snapped her hips up to meet his with every thrust. How she stood the force he was using she didn't know, but she did, and silently asked for more. He slid his hands beneath her backside, tipped her hips up so he could penetrate even more deeply, then held her to him to take every thrust, every inch, every ounce.

And just as she neared the precipice, he drove even harder and bent his head to her neck. He bit down, sinking his fangs through her jugular, shocking her, and sucking the lifeblood from her body as he plundered and took.

She shrieked his name as she came, and he drove into her twice more, and shot his seed into her body as he drank from her throat.

They clasped each other that way as the spasms of an endless orgasm ripped though them both, bodies straining, his rod piercing her to depths no man had ever touched, his mouth drinking at her throat. Her back was arched, her arms and legs locked around him, and she trembled with the force of the spasms.

It was only as her grip on him began to weaken that he seemed to realize he was still feeding, still sucking the blood from her throat, still spilling semen into her body. She was fading, fading fast.

He stopped drinking, withdrew his teeth. Beneath him, her body relaxed into the mattress. Carefully, he withdrew from her body and lay beside her, sliding his arms around her and drawing her into his embrace. His hands stroked her hair. “I own you now,” he whispered.

She didn't reply. She couldn't. But she heard. As if from deep within a canyon, she heard. What did it mean? What had he done to her?

How long had that orgasm held him in its grip? How much of her blood had he taken? Was she dying? If felt as if she was.

He patted her cheek with his hand, softly, then with more force. “Tempest? Tempest, open your eyes. Look at me.”

Her eyes did open. She felt them open, but she didn't open them. She was trapped inside, and suddenly she understood why. The climax, and maybe the blood loss, had weakened her grip. The other was in control now.

“Don't call me by that bitch's name,” she whispered, her accent thick, her voice deeper than Tempest's had ever been. But Tempest, weak and trembling, trapped in her own body, heard it all.

“Elisabeta?” Vlad backed away slightly.

“Yes. It is me.” She clasped his face between her palms, kissed his mouth. “Oh, Vlad, darling, do you still love me? Tell me you do.”

“Of course I do,” he whispered.

Inside, Stormy felt her heart break.

“Then find a way, Vlad. Find a way to let me stay. To let me have this body. You have to, Vlad. If you don't, I'll die.”

He nodded. “I'm trying, Beta. I'm trying.”

“You're the one who set this into motion, my love,” Elisabeta said, her tone harsh. “You with your sorcerers and magicians. They with their spells and charms. Do you know what it's been like for me? Trapped between the worlds all these years, with no way to come back and no way to move on?”

He gasped.

“You didn't know?”

“That wasn't how it was supposed to be, Beta. I vow to you, it was never my intent—”

“Your intent matters very little now. It is done. My suffering, being imprisoned as if buried alive, is done. So long as you follow through. You need to finish this, Vlad.”

He met her eyes, shook his head slowly. “I don't know where to find the ring and the scroll with the rite. I'm not sure I can finish this without those items.”

She closed her eyes. “Then I'll die.”

“I won't let that happen, little one.”

A tear rolling down her cheek, she sniffled and said, “Do you promise?”

“I do. I'll make this right, I swear. Somehow.”

“Thank you, Vlad. Thank you.” She kissed him.

“Now I want you to rest. Go to sleep. Let Tempest return to her body, and wait for my call.”

“Yes. Yes, Vlad, I will.”

“Good. Good.”

She faded off to sleep, or something like it, and Stormy felt her own control slowly returning. But she'd learned something tonight. Learned it beyond doubt.

Elisabeta was the woman Vlad loved. And he would say anything, do anything, even if it cost Stormy's own life, to get her back.

 

Stormy had tears dampening her cheeks as the memory faded. She knew now what it meant, what he'd done to her, so long ago. By taking her blood, he'd created a bond between them—one that could not be broken. He'd known that. He'd done it deliberately, probably to keep her vulnerable to his power, his control, for as long as it took to steal her body for his precious dead wife.

No wonder she loved him so much.

Part of her argued that she'd loved him even before that night. But she refused to listen to that part. He was using her, he cared nothing for her. Except that she provided a home for Elisabeta.

She remained with him until the sun rose. She couldn't see the sun, of course. The windowless room gave no hint what was happening in the skies beyond it. But she felt the change in him. He went very still. No sounds emerged, not even a breath, and his always cool skin went even colder. There was a different feeling to him once the sun came up. She imagined this must be what lying with a dead man would be like.

He didn't love her. He never would. She needed to get the hell out of here, get some perspective. But she sat there instead, looking at him as he slept. She still wanted him, although with her, want wasn't even close to a strong enough term. She craved him. Hungered for him. Ached and pined and bled for him. And why the hell wouldn't she? Even beyond the bond he'd deliberately created, then empowered again and again, now, she thought, she would want him. He was the sexiest man she had ever seen. God, he had the body of a twenty-year-old. A ripped twenty-year-old. And he played hers the way Santana played the guitar. He made it sing. There was no one who could make her feel the way he could.

But he'd commanded that, hadn't he? That she would know release only with him. Was that why she'd never gotten off with anyone else, not in all this time? The bastard.

He would still be with the other woman, the Elisabeta-Brooke creature, if she hadn't stabbed him in the belly. Stormy ought to hate him. Why the hell couldn't she?

She relit the candle. Then, carefully, she pulled back the covers and removed the bandage she'd placed over his wound. She pulled at the gauze, wincing at how it tugged the tender, wounded area. But he was beyond feeling any pain. And even when she bit her lip and ripped the bandage away, no fresh blood welled in the seam of the wound she'd painstakingly stitched up.

She sat on the edge of the bed, holding a blanket to her chest to fend off the early-morning chill, and kept her gaze riveted to the injured flesh. As she watched, the skin along the edges of the wound changed. It paled and it blended, the cut edges melding into each other by slow degrees. She was ready with the tiny scissors and tweezers from her purse. The stitches would be rejected by his body within a few days, but it would be irritating and perhaps painful. And she was fool enough to want to spare him that. So she waited until the skin had begun to knit itself together, then snipped each thread and tugged it free. The minuscule holes those threads left be
hind closed almost as soon as she pulled the threads from them.

When she finished, the wound was almost impossible to detect. A tiny red line marked its former position, and within a few more moments, even that was gone.

Sighing deeply, Stormy lingered a moment longer. She ran her hands over the beautiful shape of his chest, feeling every ripple of muscle beneath his smooth skin. She touched his belly and shivered at the feel of his abs. She traced his shoulders.

He was incredibly built, and that was far from the norm. Vampires tended to be lean and wiry. Sometimes even skinny. She supposed that was because the undead tended to keep the form they had at the moment of their transformation. Every vampire had the Belladonna Antigen as a mortal. And the antigen tended to make them weak and ill over time. Max's sister Morgan had been a shadow of herself from its effects. Had nearly died, in fact, before Dante had shared the dark gift with her. And so she would always be as she had been then. Painfully thin and slight, and though far stronger now, she would always be weak for a vampire.

Vlad must not have been feeling the effects of the
antigen yet when the vampire Anthar had transformed him.

Yes, Anthar. Another memory in the long list of them. He'd told her of his true origins. He'd been the helper of a Sumerian by the name of Utnapishtim, a man whose name was still known today. His story had been the precursor to that of the biblical Noah. Utnapishtim, it was said, had survived the great flood sent by the gods and had been given the gift of immortality. He'd been a relative of Vlad's. And Vlad had been sent to live with him as his servant and companion.

One day, the great king Gilgamesh himself had come, begging the old man for the secret of immortality. Vlad had been sent from the room, so he'd never seen what transpired, but he knew Utnapishtim had granted the king's request, in direct disobedience of the dictates of the gods.

Later, another man had come, an evil man, named Anthar. He was seeking Gilgamesh, and his intentions were dark. He, too, had demanded the gift, but the old man had refused. Anthar forced him at the point of a blade, then beheaded him, leaving him dead on the floor, and took young Vlad captive, to be his slave.

Vlad had been held by the dark vampire for years,
all the while working to grow stronger, so he could one day escape. By the time Anthar had decided he needed his slave to be like him, a vampire, in order to better serve his needs, and changed him over, Vlad was a powerful young man in the peak of health.

And so, by the time of his change, he'd looked…the way he looked now. Like a centerfold. A powerful, muscular, beautiful young man.

She lowered her head and pressed her lips to those rippling abs. God, she wanted to kiss every inch of him. But no. She had work to do. And she needed distance and perspective. She needed to find a way to be free of him, of the hold he had on her, the bond he'd made, the love that possessed her. Getting to her feet, Stormy tucked the covers back over him.

Her hand rose to press against her throat where Vlad had left his mark on her. She felt it clearly—two swollen, tender places. Tiny wounds. And her body heated all over again as she remembered the sensations he'd aroused.

She needed to remain aware of what he really wanted from her. She needed to make it very clear to her desire-glazed brain. She mustn't forget. He felt passion for her, a burning, nearly insatiable desire.
And yes, drinking from her again might have intensified it even more, on his side as well as her own.

But he didn't love her. He loved Elisabeta. He was willing to trade Stormy's life for hers. She mustn't forget that.

Carefully she unlocked the door, then turned the lock again before she pulled it closed. She did the same with the cellar door at the top of the stairs, and then exited the house through the front door, making sure it was locked, as well. She needed to get back to Athena House and formulate a plan to capture Elisabeta so Rhiannon could perform the ritual on her.

Vlad wasn't going to like it. In fact, he would probably never forgive her for it.

 

Elisabeta was still half-asleep in the grass when a sound brought her fully awake. Her first thought was that it was Vlad, coming out to get her, to apologize for his behavior, to bring her into the house and tell her how much he loved her.

But as she came fully awake, she realized it couldn't be Vlad. The sun had already cleared the horizon, and it beamed brightly down on her—so brightly that she had to shield her eyes to see who was coming out of the house.