A Hunger Like No Other (6 page)

Within hours, the man had arranged for fine clothing to fit Lachlain's large frame, transportation, cash, and maps, and had secured reservations for lodging in the coming nights. He
supplied every basic essential Lachlain might have needed.

Lachlain had been pleased by what the man considered “essential.” One hundred and fifty years ago, humans, with their aversion to bathing, had been an embarrassment to the Lore, who were almost to a species fastidious. Even the ghouls dumped themselves in water more often than nineteenth-century humans. Yet now, cleanliness and the tools requisite to achieve it were
essential
for them.

If he could get used to the speed with which this time moved, he might begin to enjoy its benefits.

Toward the end of the day, when he'd finally finished all his tasks, he realized he hadn't lost control or had to fight a rage once in the several hours he'd been away. The Lykae were prone to fits of temper—in fact, they spent many years of their lives learning to control it. Couple that tendency with what he'd been through, and he was shocked that he'd felt only a flare or two of anger. To quiet each one, he'd pictured the vampire sleeping up in his room, in what was now his bed. It was in his possession, to do with as he pleased. The knowledge of that alone helped brace him against his memories.

In fact, now that his mind had cleared somewhat, he wanted to question her. Impatient to return, he considered the elevator. Certainly they'd existed when he'd last walked above ground, though back then they'd been an amenity for the indolent rich. They weren't now, and using it was expected. He rode it to his floor.

Inside the room, he removed his new jacket, then crossed to the bed to wait for sundown. He studied her at leisure, this creature he'd been deluded enough to mistake as his.

Brushing aside her thick blond curls, he studied her fine-boned face, the high cheekbones and delicately pointed
chin. He traced a finger over her pointed ear and it twitched under his touch.

He'd never seen a being like her, and her fey appearance sharply separated her from the seething, towering male vampires with their red eyes. The ones he would exterminate one by one.

And soon he'd be strong enough to do it.

Frowning, he lifted the hand that rested on her chest. Examining it closely, he could barely see a smattering of scars across the back. The web of fine white lines looked like a burn scar, but it didn't extend to her fingers or past her wrist. She'd been burned as though someone had seized her fingers and held only the back of her hand to a fire—or to the sunlight. And she'd been burned young, before she'd been frozen into her immortality. Typical vampire punishment, no doubt. Vile species.

Before the fury engulfed him again, he allowed his gaze to settle on other parts of her, then dragged the cover from her. She didn't protest, still soundly asleep.

No, she was not what he had normally been attracted to, but the nightgown he dragged up past her navel and down to her waist revealed those small but plump and perfect breasts that had fit in his hands, and her hard nipples that had aroused him so last night.

The back of one finger trailed across her tiny waist, then over the bunched silk and down to her blond sex. He had to admit he liked that and wanted to taste her there.

He was a sick bastard to contemplate these thoughts about a vampire, to find one so attractive. But then, shouldn't he be allowed some latitude? He hadn't seen a Lykae female in nearly two centuries. That was the only reason why his mouth watered to kiss her.

He knew it was nearing sunset. She'd wake soon. Why not wake her with the pleasure she'd forfeited the night before?

When he spread her silky white thighs and settled between them, she moaned softly, though she still slept. Last night, she might have decided her fear or pride was stronger than her desire, but her body had wept for release. She'd
needed
to come.

With that thought in his mind, he didn't even attempt to start slowly, but fell upon her, ravenous. At his first taste, he groaned from the intense pleasure. He licked madly at her wetness, grinding his hips into the sheets. How could she feel so good to him? How could he be experiencing this much pleasure—as if she was truly the one he'd waited for?

When her thighs tightened around him, he took her with his stiffened tongue, then suckled her small flesh. A glance up revealed that her nipples had hardened into tight points and her breaths came hectic. Her arms fell over her head.

He knew she was close even though she slept. A weird charge came into the air, making him uneasy, making his hackles rise. The taste of her made him forget. He savored her as she grew wetter and wetter against his mouth.

He felt her tense, wakening.
“Come for me,”
he growled against her flesh.

She drew her knees to her chest, resting her feet on his shoulders. Interesting, but he was game if—

She kicked him hard enough to send him across the room.

A stab of pain told him she'd torn muscles in his shoulder. A red haze covered his sight and confused his mind. He roared as he charged her, throwing her to the bed and pinning her down. He freed his trews and gripped himself,
about to shove into her, crazed with his rage and lust, ignoring the Instinct's warnings:
Her mind won't bend—she'll break. You'll destroy what you've been given . . . .

He saw her fangs as she gasped with fear, and wanted to hurt her. A vampire
given
to him? Bound to him for eternity? More torture. More hatred.

The vampires had won again.

He bellowed with fury, and she shrieked. The sound shattered the glass lamp and the television and splintered the door to the balcony. His eardrums nearly burst and he leapt back, clamping his hands over his ears to block out the sound. What the bloody hell was that?

A scream so high-pitched he didn't know if humans could hear it.

She shot from the bed, and as she yanked her gown into place, she gave him a look of . . . betrayal? Resignation? She flew to the balcony, ducking through the thick curtains.

Dark now, no danger. Let her go.
He slammed his head and fists against the wall, mad with lust. With hate. Memories of fire and torture stabbed him.
The feel of the bone finally giving way under his shaking hands . . . .

If he was cursed to carry those memories, to have that burden, it was little better than still being there, trapped in fire. He'd rather die.

Maybe fucking her regularly, taking his pain out on her, was what he was supposed to do. Of course. He felt himself calming at the thought. Yes, he'd been given a vampire solely for his pleasure, for his revenge.

He stalked to the balcony, assessing his shoulder, and tore the curtain aside.

His breath left him.

T
he vampire stood scarcely balanced on the balcony railing, her hair and gown whipping in the wind. He swallowed hard. “Come down from there.” Why had his chest tightened with such alarm?

She whirled to face him—somehow keeping her balance. She looked hurt, her luminous eyes filled with pain. He resisted the recognition taking hold in his disordered mind.

She whispered, “Why are you doing this to me?”

Because I've wanted what's mine. Because I need you and I hate you.
“Come down now,” he ordered.

She shook her head slowly.

“You canna die from this. From sun, or losing your head, but no' from a fall.” He made his tone casual, though he was uncertain. They were how many floors up? If she was weak . . . “And I'll easily follow you down to bring you back here.”

She glanced over her shoulder down at the street. “No, I might die in my condition.”

For some reason he believed her, and his alarm spiked. “Your condition? Because of the sun? Damn you, tell me!”

She turned toward the street and put one foot off the railing.

“Wait!” He tensed to spring for her, not understanding how she could possibly still be balanced.
Won't bend. She's
broken.
“I will no' do that again. No' until you want me to.” The wind was picking up, plastering the silk to her body. “When you woke . . . that was meant to give, no' to take.”

She put the foot back and faced him. “And when I refused your
gift?”
she cried. “What was that?”

If she died . . . The fear for her brought him his first true clarity since before the fire. Twelve hundred years he'd waited. For . . .
her
.

For whatever reason, the world had given a vampire to him, and he'd pushed her to this?
Destroy what you've been given.
He was devastated by what she was—but he didn't want her dead. Or ruined.

It enraged him even to contemplate the hell he'd just been through, much less to talk about it, but he had to try anything.
Have to get rid of this feeling—this dread.
“Understand that I've been . . . locked away for one hundred and fifty years. Without comfort, without a woman. I'd only just escaped a week before I found you and I have no' . . . acclimated well.”

“Why do you act as if you know me?”

“I've been disoriented. Confused. I know we've never met.”

“Who are you?”

Just minutes before, he'd been about to claim her—without even telling her his name. “I am Lachlain, head of the Lykae clan.”

He could hear her heart speed up with fear. “Y-you're a werewolf? You must let me go.”

She looked otherworldly, with her hair streaming about and her skin so pale. She was not of his kind, and he had no idea how to be with her. “I will. After the next full moon. I vow it.”

“I want to go now.”

“I need you . . . to get to my home,” he said, adding lie to
truth. “And I will no' hurt you again.” Possibly another lie.

She laughed bitterly. “You were going to force me just then, and I almost died this morning. Of
sun.
” She whispered the word. “Do you know what that's like? The pain?”

He had a bloody good idea.

Her expression suddenly grew horrified, as if she was recalling a nightmare. “I haven't felt the sun on my skin”—she swayed on the rail—“since I was three years old.”

Inching closer, mouth gone dry, he said, “I doona ken how to care for you, but you will tell me. And this will no' happen again.”

“I don't want your attentions. You . . . you
frighten
me.”

Of course he frightened her—his rages left even him shaken. “I understand. Now, come down. I know you doona want to die.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the waxing moon rising, giving him her flawless profile. A gust pushed her hair across her neck. In all his years, he'd never seen such a preternatural scene as her pale skin against her blood-red gown with the moon glowing behind her.

She didn't answer, only exhaled wearily, swaying.

“Look at me.” She didn't—she glanced down. “Look at me!”

She seemed to wake up, her brows drawing together, her eyes bleak. “I just want to go home,” she said in a small voice.

“You will. I vow you'll go home.”
To your new home.
“Just help me get to mine.”

“If I help you, you swear you'll release me?”

Never.
“Aye.”

“You won't hurt me?”

“No, I will no' hurt you.”

“Can you make that promise? You can't seem to . . . control yourself.”

“Every hour I gain control.” Because of her? “And know that I doona
want
to hurt you.” That, at least, was now true. He thought.

“You won't do those . . . th-things to me again?”

“I will no' unless you want me to.” He held out his hand to her. “Do we have an agreement?”

She didn't take it, but after several agonizing moments, she did come down with a bizarre movement. She
stepped
down as if she were strolling and had stepped from a curb without breaking stride.

He gave her shoulders a shake. “Doona ever do that again.” He had an odd urge to squeeze the vampire to his chest, and set her away.

She looked down. “I won't. Unless it's a better alternative.”

He glowered at that. “Do we have an agreement?”

When she nodded, he wondered if it was only the position he'd forced upon her that had made her agree, or was it more? He'd thought he might have seen
compassion
in her eyes for just a brief moment when he'd admitted his imprisonment.

“Then we leave tonight for Scotland.”

Her lips parted. “I can't
go
to Scotland! I was going to
direct
you. Or at least, MapQuest was,” she added in a mumble. “How would you plan to get there without burning me alive?” She was clearly panicked. “I-I can't travel easily. No commercial planes. No trains.
The sun . . .”