A Hunger Like No Other (23 page)

“If they can find this place, they deserve to try.”

Realizing how resolute he was about this, she felt her bottom lip trembling. “You would keep me from my family when I need them the most?” A hot tear tracked down her cheek. Before, he'd appeared revolted by her tears. Now he looked . . . tormented, quickly reaching forward to brush it away.

“You want to go home and you will, but no' for just a few days more.”

Not bothering to hide her frustration, she asked, “What difference will a few days make?”

“I ask you the same.”

She gritted her teeth, fighting aggravation, fighting her useless tears.

He cupped her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. His voice sounding rough, he said, “Lass, if I have you here for such a short time, I doona want to quarrel with you. For now, let me show you Kinevane.” He rose to cross to the thick curtains, opening them wide, then returned for her. Though she stiffened and leaned away, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her across the spacious room to the balcony. “You'll be surprised to know that it's still mine. No
Wal-Mart.”

Outside she saw the moon rising over a stately castle, lighting its ancient bricks and magnificent lawns. A fog was rolling in and carried a hint of brine.

He pointed off into the distance. “You canna see the walls surrounding the property, but know that whenever you are within them, you are protected.”

When he sat her on the railing, her legs immediately threaded through its marble balusters even though he held her hips.

She saw he noted this with a frown but didn't comment on it. Instead, he asked, “What do you think?”

He appeared proud, as he should with a place like this. Amidst the stone frontage of the castle were stunning herringbone formations of brick that framed the windows and matched the walks and even the back of the huge fireplace in this bedroom. The gardens were immaculate, and if the rest of the castle was decorated as sumptuously as his bedroom, then this Kinevane was a testament to luxury. Her Valkyrie sensibilities couldn't help but appreciate it.

“Well?” He looked expectant. He wanted her to like it.

She turned, lifting her gaze above the tree line to regard
the moon. “I think I only have a few days left until the moon is full.”

When she turned back, she found his jaw was clenched.

She pushed her knotted hair back and it felt gritty. “I want a shower,” she said, ducking to glance around his torso, spying out a bathroom.

She squirmed, wriggling her hips from his hands, until he finally let her down.

“I'll help you. You're still weak—”

“A
shower.
A
lone!” she snapped as she strode into the opulent—and modern—bathroom. She rushed to lock the heavy door behind her, having discovered to her horror that her nails were dirty.

She removed the shirt he'd dressed her in—his, she noticed—and stared at the ugly, raised marks winding down her chest. An involuntary moan escaped her as she swayed. For the rest of her life, she would never forget the look in that vampire's eyes just before he'd clawed her. She recalled she'd regretted head-butting him.
Now I'm going to get it,
she'd thought as his hand swung up above her. Why had she provoked him?

She turned on the shower, waiting until it steamed, then stepped under the water. A red stream ran as dried blood rinsed clean from her hair, and she focused on it, shivering.
Three vampires.
The red swirled round and round into the drain.
Why did I provoke him?

But who was alive now?

She should be dead right now. But she wasn't. She'd survived them.

She frowned. She'd survived vampires. And the sun.
And
a Lykae attack—all this week. Her worst fears for dozens of years were becoming—she bit her lip—old hat?

“Emma, let me help you.”

Her head whipped up. “You should buy stock in a lock company! I said alone!”

He nodded in agreement. “Aye, you usually say that, and I still stay. It's our way.” His voice was calm, and though the idea was crazy,
he
sounded reasonable.

Privacy? You have none . . . .
Her hand shot out to a shampoo bottle,
her
shampoo bottle that had already been
unpacked for her stay.
She hurled it at him, hard like a dagger throw, end over end. He ducked, just dodging it, and it flew into the next room. The sound of shattering felt like an accomplishment. Why was she provoking him?

Because it feels good.

He raised his eyebrows. “You'll reinjure yourself.”

She reached blindly for the conditioner. “Not before you.”

*  *  *

When she swooped up another bottle, Lachlain gave a quick, tight nod. “Verra well.”

As he closed the door behind him, he thought that not doing exactly as he pleased in his own home was going to take some getting used to.

When he spotted the priceless mirror she'd broken, he remembered it had been at Kinevane for centuries and could've been the oldest one extant anywhere. He shrugged. At least she was getting her strength back.

For fifteen minutes, he prowled the hallway. As he listened in the unlikely case that she called for him, he wondered how to coax her to drink again. If his blood made her stronger, then she needed a surfeit of it. He'd see that she had it.

She was angry, wanting to return to her family, and he
understood her need. But there was no way he could send her home. And going with her? When he could never hurt any of them, even to defend himself?

He regretted having to be so hard with her, knowing how much she'd been through, but there wasn't any
time
for this.

When he returned to their room, she was showered—and dressed as though to go outside. “What do you think you're doing?” he snapped. “You need to be in bed.”

“Going out. You told me it was safe.”

“Of course it is, and I'll take you out—”

“The whole point is to get away from you. You might be able to keep me here for four more nights, but it doesn't mean I have to spend them with you.”

He took her elbow. “Then you'll drink first.”

She gave his hand a withering glare. “Let go of me.”

“You're going to drink, Emma!” he bellowed.

“Get bent, Lachlain!”
she screamed back at him, wrenching her arm away. When he caught her once more, she struck out so fast it was a blur. He barely caught her palm before it cracked across his face.

*  *  *

With a low, menacing growl, he put his hand behind her head and pressed her against the wall. “I've told you no' to strike me. Know that the next time you try, I
will
retaliate.”

She kept her chin in the air, though she prayed his eyes wouldn't flicker. “One hit from you could kill me.”

His voice grew rough.
“Never hit you.”
He leaned in and brushed her lips with his own. “Each time, I'll take a kiss as my due.”

She felt her nipples harden and grew angered at her lack of control over her body—he seemed to have more control over it than she did. Even with all the confusion and panic
of the last few nights, another slow brush of his lips across hers had her wanting him still. Even when she was terrified by what was inside him. What if he turned when they had sex? That thought made her break away.

“I know you want more than a kiss. Isn't that why you're forcing me to stay until the full moon? So you can sleep with me?” Like he'd warned her he would.

“I will no' deny that I want you.”

“What if I said we should just get it over with? Tonight? So I could leave tomorrow.”

She could sense him weighing his answer. “You'd sleep with me to leave me a few days early?” He sounded almost hurt by this. “Your body for your freedom?”

“Why not?” she asked, lowering her voice to nearly a hiss. “Just think of all the things I did in a shower in Paris for only a phone call.”

She thought he flinched before he turned away. He limped to the fireplace, then lowered his head, staring at the fire. She'd never seen anyone gaze at one the way he did. Watchfully. While most seemed to lose themselves in the lulling flames, Lachlain did not. His wary eyes darted and flickered as though a play were being presented inside. “Know that I regret the way I've been with you, but I will no' let you go. For now, you're free to walk the grounds, and you'll be guarded.”

Free to walk the grounds. The ones that were dark and should unnerve her; yet she'd been itching to explore them since first perceiving that scent of brine. And didn't she belong out there anyway? Without a look back, she crossed to the balcony, strode up the railing, then dropped off into the night.

The last thing she heard was him rasping, “And I know you'll come back to me before dawn.”

E
mma immediately sensed things following her as she moved into the mist.

So he'd really sicced guards on her? Considering his intrusive nature, they were probably more like spies. She figured a proud, independent woman would resent the intrusion. Emma? She reasoned that if this place wasn't as safe as he'd told her and vampires did attack again, Emma wouldn't have to outrun them—she would merely have to outrun the spies hiding in the bushes.

Unable to muster the desired outrage at being spied on, she explored for a while before stumbling upon a folly. Clustered all around it were wildflowers, which had bloomed during the day and now looked wilted and dismal.
Just missed 'em. Story of my life.

Still, it was nice here, she supposed, with the fog-covered lake in view—or loch—or
whatever
. It kind of reminded her of home.

She closed her eyes at the thought of the manor. What she wouldn't give to be back there. She'd missed Xbox night last night. Tonight she was supposed to be riding horses through the bayou.

She hopped atop the folly's railing, following it, pacing round and round as she thought of everything that had happened
to her. Before her trip, she'd yearned for something more. Now, being forced away, she realized how good she had it. Yes, she'd been lonely, feeling the lack of a partner in her life. Yet now that she had to deal with a stubborn, overbearing male every day, was being held captive by one, she thought partners were spectacularly overrated.

And, yes, sometimes she felt like an outsider—like not knowing where to look or how to act when her aunts shrieked about vampires—but often she didn't. Sure, they taunted her unmercifully, but looking back, she realized they taunted
everyone
. Like her aunt Myst. Years ago, after the incident with the vampire general, the coven had dubbed her Mysty the Vampire Layer.
How do you separate Myst from a vampire? With a crowbar
.

Emma's lips parted in surprise. They might treat her differently, but they did
not
treat her like an outsider. Had her own insecurities colored how she saw them? She recalled her memory of the day her hand had been burned, and now she saw even that differently. At first the memory had hurt her and shocked her anew. Now she remembered two distinct things: Regin had dived for her and shuddered at the close call. And Furie had announced to them all that
Emma was just like them.

Emma felt her lips curling. Furie had said that. Their queen.

Excitement began to build in her, and she grew impatient to return home to see it with new eyes. Now she ached to appreciate all the things she'd taken for granted—or had been blind to. She wanted to fall asleep awash in the comforting sounds of bayou insects and her family's shrieks. She wanted to lie in her own blankets piled under the princess bed in her room—not in Lachlain's massive bed. She'd gotten
the feeling that those carved symbols told an ancient story and, Freya help her, she sensed that as long as she was in that bed, she was a part of it . . . .

When she skimmed around a column, her palm caught a large splinter. In the past, she would've howled from the pain. Now she sighed.
Everything's relative.
Compared to having her chest ploughed like a vegetable patch, this was a mere annoyance.

She tilted her head and stared at the sliver, frowning as a memory flooded her. She must have dreamed of him again. Today.

When she'd slept, she'd seen their last . . . sexual encounter, from
his point of view.

As she stared at the small trickle of blood around the white wood, she went awash in the dream, feeling splinters from the
headboard
digging into
his
palms as he crumbled it. But he didn't care about the pain. He
had
to keep his hands there. Had to.

His need to touch her warred with his desire to earn her trust. Emma
felt
how strongly he'd wanted to put his hands on her—felt the lust welling up in him, the urge to thrust against her—and admitted to herself that if the situation had been reversed, she'd have said, “Screw it,” and pawed him.