Bitten by Ecstasy: 2 (Dark Judgment) (13 page)

Shoving to his feet, he staggered to the sink and twisted the faucet. As the cold water gushed out, he invaded Cyra’s privacy by opening the medicine cabinet and foraging through its contents. He searched for something to obliterate the taste in his mouth. Because, right now, it seemed as if a furry rodent had crawled in his mouth and died.

After locating the mouthwash, he rinsed every trace of the wendigo’s stain away then splashed the cool water over his face. Blinking away the lingering drops, he stared into the mirror above the sink, studying his weary features. Exhaustion pulled at him and the dull eyes, drawn skin and grooves bracketing his mouth revealed it.

Yet Sinéad was alive.

In spite of his fatigue, joy cascaded through his system, invigorating him like a full eight hours of sleep never could.

He returned to the living room minutes later to find Cyra seated on the arm of the couch, watching her sister. She glanced up as he neared the sofa.

“What happened?” she asked.

Bastien gave her an abridged version of the events after he and Sinéad had left her house. Cyra listened in silence, not appearing surprised her sister had raced into a house to defend an unfamiliar woman from a demon at the expense to her own safety.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t surprised either. After all, hadn’t Sinéad done the same for him? He was a freak now, but he was a living freak.

“She destroyed it with fire,” Bastien said, asking the question plaguing him since they’d faced down the demon. “Why fire?”

“Wendigos are creatures of ice, composed of the fear they feed on,” Cyra explained. “Though not widely known, the only way to defeat it is with fire.”

“Got it.” He nodded and tried not to ruminate on how they had come by that particular bit of knowledge. It made his gut swan dive to his feet. And he didn’t want to have another embrace with the porcelain god. “We won’t be able to leave tonight,” he said, keeping his voice low, although nothing short of a nuclear bomb would probably waken Sinéad. “Do you have a room we can sleep in?”

“Of course.” The cruxim rose gracefully to her feet and headed toward the entrance. Careful, as if handling a precious, invaluable package, he bent, slid his hands and arms under Sinéad’s negligible weight and straightened with her in his embrace. Cradling her close, he followed Cyra back up the stairs to the second level. She passed by several rooms and paused in front of one at the far end of the hall.

She swung the door open and backed away several steps, allowing Bastien to enter with Sinéad. Murmuring soft assurances to her though she couldn’t hear him, he placed her gently on top of the bedspread. If possible, she seemed even younger and more fragile in sleep. His fingers trembled as he stroked her hair, brushed a caress over her elegant cheekbones and traced her delicate jaw. Inhaling, he withdrew his hand, fisted it next to his thigh.

“I can bring you blankets if you need them.” Cyra’s offer came from the bedroom entrance and Bastien peered over his shoulder at her.

“Thanks.” He gave her a small smile. “That would be great and appreciated.”

Cyra ducked her head and disappeared from the doorway.

With a tired sigh, he sank into a chair next to the bed. He crossed his arms, stretched out his legs and lowered his chin to his collarbone.

And waited.

* * * * *

Once, a hundred years ago, she’d been captured by a vampire. The bastard’s idea of fun had been to lock her in a coffin, essentially burying her alive. It had taken four days, but she’d escaped from her confinement. She’d clawed through feet of mud and soil and emerged dirty, winded and royally pissed off. And then she’d returned the favor to the piece of sadistic shit by cutting off the hands he’d entombed her with before liquefying him limb by limb. Revenge had been sweet and satisfying, but she’d never forgotten the slow strangulation of her lungs breath by excruciating breath. As an immortal, the burial wouldn’t have killed her. But in that coffin, interred under mounds of earth, panic and claustrophobia had trumped reason.

As she scrabbled her way from the darkness toward a hazy, distant light, Sinéad experienced that smothering sensation of asphyxiation once again. Her heart pounded against her ribs in a primitive rhythm. With a last, desperate effort, she lunged toward the surface and freedom, aware on some subconscious level this panic only existed in her head. She wasn’t trapped beneath the mire and loam again.

She jackknifed from the cloying obsidian sea of unconsciousness and the rough panting of her overworked lungs roared dully in her ears. She scanned her immediate area, taking in the firm mattress beneath her, the cherrywood dresser across the room…and the large hippogryph sitting in the wingback chair beside the bed.

Bastien’s long legs sprawled out before him in careless abandon, his arms crossed over his massive chest. Even in sleep, the thick muscles delineated under his jeans and shirt exuded power and strength. Blunt fingertips rested on his bulging biceps, and it amazed her how a healer could have the body of a god…

Healer.
Shit!

She scrambled for the hem of her shirt. Jerking the top up, she gaped at the scar bisecting her stomach inches above her navel. Hesitant, she rubbed a fingertip over the pink, raised flesh.
Sweet Nef.
The fiery-cold kiss of the wendigo’s claws had razed her flesh before Bastien had knocked his arm away. Yet she’d gritted her teeth, determined to die fighting. No one had ever come back from the psychosis caused by the poison of a wendigo. Especially a human. But that hadn’t meant she couldn’t take the damn thing with her. Seeing it go up in flames had brought her satisfaction, but the unnecessary loss of the woman’s life and Sinéad’s mercy killing had twisted the knife of grief deeper into her mortal soul. And the last thing she remembered was the burden of that sorrow as she fell into Bastien’s arms.

Her eyes cut toward the hippogryph and she instantly became ensnared by his jeweled gaze. Though his head remained lowered, chin nearly grazing his chest, he stared at her from under ridiculously long, thick lashes. The two of them remained frozen, engaged in one of those Western high-noon showdowns. All they needed was tumbleweed to roll between them across the floor.

Bastien was the first to break their match. He closed his eyes and raised his arms above his head in a groaning stretch. The breath whistled from her lips as her heart started a slippery slide and tumble toward her gut. The sensual rumble he emitted resonated pleasure and the air hitched in her throat.
Sweet Lady
, even the man’s jaw-cracking yawn made her entertain hedonistic thoughts. Like slowly running her tongue up the strong, golden column of his neck. Straddling his thighs and tangling her mouth with his, stroking her fingers through his pale curls.

She’d never been kissed before, had never desired to know the taste of another being. The times she’d seen males and females engage in the act, it appeared messy, wet and sloppy. Not to mention unsanitary with all the swapping of spit. But with Bastien…she cocked her head to the side, studied the full curve of his lips. Even though she would have to battle the tumultuous reaction his gift set off, she wanted to know his kiss. Wanted to explore that wide, solemn mouth and discover if he had a particular flavor. She wanted to swap spit with him.

“What are you thinking?” he murmured, dropping his arms to his lap.

He really shouldn’t speak to her in such a soft voice. Or look at her with his emerald eyes hooded and exuding a secret sensuality. Like he knew and understood why her heart battered her rib cage. Or why her stomach executed death-defying dives. Or why the blood in her veins scalded her so it seemed she smoldered like a cinder from the inside out. Sinéad trembled and edged toward the far side of the bed. Like a coward. Screw it. She could deal with cowardice. What she couldn’t handle was the ghost of a smile on Bastien’s lips, inviting her to come and find out for herself the knowledge he possessed.

“Nothing,” she lied, scooting to the end of the mattress and swinging her legs over. She pushed to her feet, tensing her muscles in preparation for the residual ache from her injury.
Huh.
She took internal inventory of her body.
Nothing.
No pain. No pulling
. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He may be using her to get to the Blood Cross. He may blame her for his altered state of existence. But he was a miracle worker—and he’d saved her life.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, rising from the chair and reaching her in two strides. He didn’t wait for her response, but knelt and pinched the hem of her shirt between his fingers. “Let me see.” Once more he didn’t wait for her agreement. The cool air of the room brushed the exposed skin of her abdomen as he lifted the top and examined the healed wound.

Gently, he prodded the scar. One big palm pressed against her back, his long, elegant fingers splayed wide across her spine, holding her steady. Warm puffs of breath moistened her stomach where he inspected his handiwork, his mouth inches from her bare flesh. She closed her eyes briefly before opening them and peering down at the crown of his blond head. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve suspected a fever had taken up residence in her body. Except she did know better. This flushing heat had nothing to do with her injury and everything to do with the healer kneeling before her.

His head jerked back. His eyes narrowed. Nostrils flared.

She gasped as he surged to his full six-feet-plus height and captured her head between both hands. His face hovered above hers, green fire smoldering in his eyes. The air stuttered and petered out in her lungs.
Oh Lady…

“Could you kindly remove your knife from my balls?” he asked, the calm tone belying the raging storm in his gaze. “I want to kiss you, not kill you.”

“Damn.” Mortification blasted through her. She tightened her grip on the dagger she’d whipped free from the hidden scabbard at the small of her back. The reaction had been pure instinct. Muttering a curse, she tossed the weapon on the bed.

She scowled up at him. “Give me some warning before you make a sudden move like that.”

He nodded sagely, though a tiny smile played over his lips. “Noted.”

As if in slow motion, he lowered his head until their lips were but a whisper apart. She savored his breath, received a foreshadowing of what his flavor would taste like. A noise caught between a whimper and a moan escaped her. She would have cringed in humiliation if need hadn’t obliterated her dignity the moment he had touched her. It was she who rose to the balls of her feet and eliminated the scant inches separating them. His growl vibrated over her lips seconds before he turned her innocent meeting of mouths into something sexual, wild and—
Lady
—destroying.

His lips forced hers open and he immediately swept in, taking her along on a ride she couldn’t have possibly imagined. How could she have envisioned the slick glide of tongue against tongue? How could she have conjured his exhilarating heather-and-wind taste? Or fantasized how it would flow over her palate, fill her senses? How could she have dreamed about the tender, yet voracious, suckle that tugged on the flesh between her legs, leaving her aching, wet and craving more? So much more.

Desire. Need. Greed. They swelled and crashed over her in an empathic tidal wave—they swirled in an emotional maelstrom, threatening to tow her under. But unlike the previous instances where she’d fought the overpowering feelings, this time she surrendered. She dove into the whirlpool and willingly allowed herself to be submerged in the dark, hot flood.

And found a freedom she’d never known.

Bastien cradled her head, his thumbs under her chin, tilting and angling her for his slanting kiss. He plunged into her mouth, his tongue thrusting, stroking, devouring. And she opened wide, giving all he demanded, wanting
—longing—
to be consumed by him.

Until that moment, her arms had been hanging uselessly by her sides. But now she lifted them, the need to feel skin against skin overriding her uncertainty about touching someone in desire for the first time. She cupped his face, the skin on the unmarred side of his face smooth next to her palm and the scars on the left rough and irregular. Both were sensory perfection.

He wrenched his mouth from hers and tipped his head back on his shoulders. His hands fell away from her, burrowed through his hair. For several moments, he remained in the tortured pose, his only movement the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

A confusing tangle assailed her—hunger, relief, fear, excitement… She should be running in the opposite direction from a force this powerful. Anything this fierce, this intense it overshadowed all cognitive ability, was dangerous and spelled her disaster. Yes, she should run… Yet she stood, staring at his mouth while need churned inside her.

Bastien’s arms dropped from his head and, once more, he met her eyes, passion brewing in the emerald depths.

Say something
.
Tell him that the kiss shouldn’t have happened. Demand he not touch you again. Say something, damn it!

Sinéad cleared her throat. Opened her mouth. Slid her tongue over her lips to capture the taste of him.

“That wasn’t unsanitary at all.”

Water sluiced over Sinéad’s head, pouring down her face, shoulders and chest to pool at her feet and swirl down the drain. She tilted her chin up, scooped her hair back then raised her arms. The drops cascaded over her breasts and abdomen like a pulsing, cleansing stream. Funny how before humanity had shanghaied her, she’d never delighted in the simple pleasure of a shower.

Or noticed how…nice it could be.

Her lashes fluttered, and a shaky sigh feathered past her parted lips. The water massaged her breasts, teased her nipples. Slowly, she lowered her arms. For a long moment her hands hovered over her mounds before she cupped them. And gasped. Then groaned. Oh. She squeezed her flesh, and the hard tips stabbed her palms. A whimper escaped her. Sweet pleasure swept from her breasts and made a beeline for the suddenly empty, quivering place between her thighs.

As if suddenly possessed by a succubus, she pinched the taut peaks between her thumbs and forefingers. Rolled. Tugged. Tweaked. She arched into her own hands, her own touch. Who knew she could receive such delight from flesh she’d always perceived as unnecessary and in the way? But now, with this piercing pleasure boomeranging from her breasts to her sex,
Lady
, she’d been so wrong.

Shivering, she abandoned a breast and scaled a hand down her abdomen, over her hip. Between her thighs.

Ecstasy jolted her, snatched the breath from her throat.

“What the fuck?” She shot forward, bending forward at the waist. She spread her legs, ogled the sex between her legs that until now had only been the organ differentiating her from a man. Gingerly, she pinched the pink, puffy folds, slowly pried them apart. Slick, glistening flesh greeted her fascinated gaze. A clear glaze coated the lips. Cautiously, she glided a fingertip over the swollen skin. Silky.
Soft. She shuddered. Nice. But not the sharp pleasure that had pierced her so suddenly.

She slid her finger down, down to the puckered, clutching entrance of her core. Tentatively penetrated. Moaned. Strong, hot, muscled flesh grasped at her finger, and the ache permeating her sex increased.
Oh Lady
. She withdrew then gently thrust until her knuckle grazed the mouth of her sheath. So good. So…sweet.

Mesmerized, she pulled her finger free, teased it along the crease bisecting her full folds, following the slit to the top of her sex and…

Rapture swelled, almost pressing a cry up her throat and past her mouth. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, trapping the scream. Oh shit! That was it! The pleasure that had just about sent her to her knees. She parted the narrowed lips at the apex of her feminine flesh. Stared. More engorged flesh. And a tiny, slightly protruding kernel. She frowned. Surely something that small… She carefully whisked a fingertip over the small knot. And groaned. O-oh yes. What the hell was it? She touched it again. Pleasure spasmed hard and deep in her core, and she shuddered.
Lady
. She knew what the bud was.

A-ma
aa
z
ii
ing.

Straightening, Sinéad leaned against the shower wall, her spine pressed to the tile, hips cocked forward.

Oh Sweet Lady
. Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs. She returned a hand to her breast, molded and squeezed the mound as she continued the delectable torture between her legs. Her finger slicked around the small pink button again, in a tighter, more concentrated circle.

What… She gasped. What was that building pressure? That delicious tingle? She groaned, widened her thighs. Impatient and suddenly anxious, she arrowed two fingers through her damp slit, gathering moisture on the tips before returning to the hard nub that seemed to be the epicenter of this new, exciting—terrifying—pleasure.

She stroked the tight button of flesh, a little harder…a little faster. Eyes squeezed shut, head tilted back on her shoulders, she panted through her lips. Her stomach clenched as if she were about to drop over a great hill… The muscles deep inside her tightened, tightened…
Lady.
So close to…to…

A heavy pounding on the door reverberated through the bathroom. She yelped, jumped, snatching her hand from her chest and between her thighs—and the flesh that spasmed with aborted lust.

“Sinéad,” Bastien called from the other side of the door, impatience riding his voice. “What are you doing? We don’t have all night.”

“I’m busy!” she yelled, frustration and the ache pulsing in her sex—especially in that little nub of flesh at the top of her folds—rolling inside her like a furious storm with no outlet. She expelled a hard breath. “I’m coming out. Give me a minute.”

She curled her fingers into fists, clenched them tight as her heartbeat gradually slowed from Mach 3 to just under cardiac arrest. That strange, expectant sensation of flying eased, and she became grounded. The throbbing deep in her sex had yet to subside. She growled, irritation crawling inside her like a hive of buzzing bees.

What the hell had just happened?

And when could she do it again?

* * * * *

Bastien prowled the circumference of the elegantly appointed hotel suite like a lion in a gilded cage. Restless. Confined. Stir-fucking-crazy.

The flight to Boston had been uneventful—if you called a three-hour trip with blue balls uneventful. He called it torture.

He threw a glance toward the closed bedroom door Sinéad had shut herself behind over an hour ago. His fists tightened and a growl rumbled in his chest before he shut it down. His hippogryph scraped him raw, furious and confused why Bastien wouldn’t claim the woman whose scent crept under wood and locks to tantalize and tease, allure and arouse. For the beast the situation was all black and white—mount, cover, fuck. For the man, it wasn’t so simple.

The man remembered the horror that had crossed her face seconds before she flinched away from his touch after Evander’s ambush. The man knew the acrid tang of rejection, the caustic flavor of abandonment. The man understood the black stain of fear on a soul too scarred and frightened to risk another slap down by a female who held in her tiny, human hands the power to hurt him as no other had. Not even the woman to whom he’d been willing to pledge his life.

Tentatively, he rubbed the thick ridge of marred flesh on his chin. Sinéad had backed away from him at the sight of his disfigurement, and those on his chest and abdomen Evander and salt from the Atlantic had etched into his skin. Why would she want him now? If anything, the rigid, raised skin looked worse than it had five months earlier.

Yet…memories from the day before rose in his mind like steam off a sidewalk after a hot summer afternoon rain. Sinéad’s lovely features had softened with pleasure. Her needy whimper had almost driven him over the edge. The soft pants had singed his lips. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the crush of her beautiful, full mouth…feel how she had opened so sweetly with complete trust and surrender.

Her claim their kiss hadn’t been unsanitary—whatever the hell that meant—hadn’t been a ringing endorsement of passion. But the glaze clouding her normally sharp eyes damn sure had been.

So what did he believe? The cold, hard knowledge a female like Sinéad—a beautiful, strong warrior—wouldn’t want a damaged healer who, by the way, considered the blood of her cruxim sisters a fine, tasty snack? Or did he believe what his lying eyes longed to see out of desperation, longing and lust. He snorted in disgust. She deserved a man like Nico or Lukas. Not him. Never him.

Yet there was another element deepening this combustible mix of
oh shit
. The hunger. And not for her delectable little body, but for blood. Cruxim blood. Healing Sinéad had ratcheted the lust for blood from temporary satiation to a low-level hum that refused to abate. Cyra’s gift was purer than the liquid he’d kept in the glass vial for five months. And he credited the power of drinking straight from her vein as the only reason the bloodlust wasn’t tearing at his gut and chest. But he didn’t know how long the satiation would last. He was a ticking time bomb with a faulty switch.

He stalked to the wide window overlooking the Charles River. Twilight had settled over the sprawling city, the disappearing sun’s orange-and-yellow glow setting the steepled spires and high-rises afire. Lights in the office buildings and from the cars fleeing nine-to-five jobs sparkled like thousands of fireflies.

Somewhere out there in Boston’s urban labyrinth was the Cardei
castel
, the colony’s citadel where their
regina
ruled and resided along with other vampires who chose not live on their own among the humans. The Blood Cross was probably being held within those walls. Reason did
not
favor a hippogryph and human female penetrating a veritable fortress full of nearly indestructible vampires and coming out alive, much less victorious.

“Freaking suicide mission,” he muttered, scowling down at the shops, outdoor cafés and walking trails edging the river. Picturesque, charming…harmless. Sinéad should be there tonight. Sitting safe at one of those white, delicate, wrought iron chairs under a colorful umbrella. Having a social ménage with coffee and one of those sugary, artery-choking things she seemed to adore. What kind of worthy male did it make him, ushering her into what at best would be a precarious situation? And, at worst, certain death. For her.

It stuck in his craw like a chicken bone in a jackal’s jaws. Sinéad could defend herself. Hell, she’d probably forgotten more about warfare than he’d ever known. But it didn’t stop him from wanting to protect her like any honorable male. From wanting to keep his woman—

Fuck
. Get a grip. Fate, Sinéad’s empathy and his weakness had forced them together into this shit storm. If not for his naiveté and her decision to save him, their paths crossing would have been as likely as Sonny and Cher getting back together. A healer hippogryph and a soldier cruxim. Before he was altered, corrupted—fucked up—she wouldn’t have desired him. And not just because she belonged to a race of female vampire hunters who viewed sex as a necessary evil for procreation. No, Sinéad would have sought out a fierce, powerful warrior. Not a healer weakling who couldn’t even defend or save his own life. So how the hell was he going to protect her?

He loosed a sharp bark of laughter. He wheeled from the window and strode across the room, away from his thoughts, away from the female behind the closed door, from himself. Yet he couldn’t escape any of them.

“Okay,” a disgruntled voice grumbled behind him. “I’m ready. But how the hell you expected me to get into this contraption without grease and a crowbar I’ll never know.” A grunt and a curse. “This is indecent. I
—
”

He turned around mid-rant. He didn’t know who gasped. Him. Her. Both. In the vacuum of sound, time slowed to a snail’s pace. The room shrunk to the size of Alice’s rabbit hole and he was sucked down the cramped tunnel at warp speed. At the end of the ride stood Sinéad. Gorgeous, delicate, fuckable Sinéad. His heartbeat tripled. The traitorous organ hammered away at his chest as if it were a damn punching bag.

Long, dark hair draped like a chocolate waterfall over bare peaches-and-cream shoulders. Small but perfect breasts perched above a taut abdomen sheathed in black. A slice of skin teased his hungry gaze before a skirt skimmed slim hips to the ankles, flashing toned thighs through the deep side slits and calves encased in high-heeled leather. Shit, for such an itty-bitty female, she had legs that seemed to stretch for miles.

He bit back a groan and the tremble vibrated through his body. Talons pierced the tips of his fingers. His gums tingled. Fangs pricked the insides as they prepared to fall—to
sink
. She was a vision in silk, leather and skin. And he’d never desired,
craved
, anything as much as he did this female with her silver eyes and Irish morning-dew scent. Not her blood.
Her
.

“
Lady
,” Sinéad breathed, lightning flashing like Zeus’ bolts in her wide eyes. Her gaze caressed his face, stroked over the form-fitting black shirt and pants then made the return trip up. “You are,” she whispered, “beautiful.”

Pleasure suffused him and, fuck-almighty, he blushed. But reality quickly encroached, rearing its brutally honest and ugly head.

“So, what?” He snorted, dipped his head and his hair swung forward concealing his wounds. “Suddenly you’re blind?”

Sinéad frowned. “Blind?”

“The scars, sweetheart. You spontaneously go Ray Charles on me?”

The confusion cleared from her expression, but the scowl remained. “Of course I see the scars. They’re big as hell and cover one side of your face. What’s your point?”

He blinked. Blinked again. There had been enough irritation and
duh
infused in her tone he couldn’t doubt her honesty. But…damn. No one had ever been so blunt with him before. Not even Nicolai, his best friend.

The former
Dimios
had ignored the disfigurement, acted as if he didn’t see it. In his head, Bastien had heard the voices of Dorian and Adon, men he’d known and loved for hundreds of years.
Say hello to my little friend.
The line from the movie classic
Scarface
had become their customary way of greeting him.

He slowly let out a low, heavy breath.
Yeah, they see the scars. But maybe they really didn’t give a damn about them. Maybe they just see
me
, their friend
. He stared at Sinéad as a tremulous revelation rolled over him. Was it possible she, along with Nicolai, Dorian and Adon, weren’t bothered by his scars? Didn’t care? Didn’t pity him?