Bitten by Ecstasy: 2 (Dark Judgment) (14 page)

His soul, mottled with bruises, dared to stretch out toward this lifeline of hope. But just as it grasped the frayed end, it retreated. Fear and insecurity wrapped around him, shackled him until he personified Bob Marley’s ghost, imprisoned and weighed by the chains his insecurity and hurt had created.

“Nothing,” he muttered, turning from her like the Christians’ Eve should have done to the serpent. Yielding to the temptation Sinéad represented wouldn’t be his first original sin. But it would be the most damning one he committed. “We need to go over the plan for—”

“Oh no,” she objected, voice hard. “You don’t get to change the subject. It’s something.” The clipped taps of her boots weren’t smothered by the plush carpet as she followed him toward the fully stocked minibar the hotel so thoughtfully provided. “I repeat, what’s your point?”

“I said nothing,” he gritted out, his fist tightening on the bottle of Patrón. He kept his back to her. Alcohol and gut-ripping lust didn’t mix well.

“I say something.”

“Let it go, Sinéad.”

“I don’t think so, Bastien.”

“Damn it,” he snapped, whipping around, bottle in hand.

Mistake.

He didn’t need the tequila to fuel the fire in his stomach, to rocket his desire from ten-alarm fire to raging inferno. His dick throbbed, screaming for relief, but not any his hand could provide. He needed to be buried in Sinéad. He craved her tight, silken pussy squeezing him like a fist, pulsing around his flesh, driving him crazier than he already was even as she offered peace, solace…sanctuary.

Without turning, he banged the alcohol back down on the bar. Anger rose in him, a fever-induced flush that heated him from the inside out and razed caution and common sense to ashes. Measured, deliberate steps carried him forward—and pushed Sinéad backward. He didn’t stop until her spine hit the wall and his palms slapped down on either side of her head. His chest pressed into the soft cushion of hers, his legs spread and caging her slim thighs. His cock nudged her belly and, though he heard her sharp inhalation of breath, he didn’t ease away. He wanted her to feel his dick, know what she did to him.

“What’s my point?” he murmured through rigid lips. He bent his head closer, so close he could taste the scent of her breath. “There’s nothing beautiful about this face. You rejected this face, remember? Cringed away from it when I reached for you after I woke up.”

His stomach twisted at the memory of her shock and horror as she jerked beyond his touch. Pain, humiliation, sorrow—they converged in a horrible emotional morass and swirled in his chest. Sinéad inhaled. His eyes narrowed as her lashes fluttered and tension invaded her features. Almost immediately, the tangle inside him loosened like a string slowly unraveling.

He growled, captured her chin and jerked it upward. “Stop it,” he ordered. “Look at me.” Her lashes rose and he glared down into her silver eyes, noting the slight cloudiness. “Let it go, Sinéad.”

“I am what I am,” she whispered. “I can’t help it.”

“And I didn’t ask for your ‘healing’,” he shot back, releasing her face and slapping his palm to the wall. “You want to help, admit you were repulsed by me. That my scars sicken you.”

She shook her head. “That’s not true. You didn’t—don’t—sicken me.”

“Don’t lie to me.” The words came out harsh as hurt lashed at his throat. Why the fuck was he doing this? Why couldn’t he just shut up and leave the topic alone?

“I don’t lie, hippogryph,” she snarled, clearly offended.

“Then why,”
shut the hell up
, “didn’t you,”
please shut the hell up
, “want me to,”
aw fuck
, “touch you?” She stared up at him, silent. He could almost see the door slam in her eyes, concealing her thoughts from him. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled, again clasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping her head up at a higher angle. “You pushed this. Now you answer me. I want to hear you say it,” he said. “So say. It.”

“Watch your hands, hippogryph. Don’t get grabby with me,” she snapped. She whipped her head to the side, snatching free of his grip. “
You
have the problem with the scars. I don’t. They’re marks of valor. A warrior’s medals. Badges of honor and courage. They say you suffered and survived. They say you were willing to lay down your life for something you believed in. They declare your strength. Those are characteristics of a male of worth.” The anger slowly bled from her features, the scowl softening, the crack of lightning in her eyes gentling to liquid mercury. She tilted her head to the side, sighed and gently cupped his jaw. “Why would they disgust me?” she asked softly. “They humble me.”

“I wasn’t willing to lay my life down for anything. I just wanted to live,” he mumbled through numb lips. His arms fell down by his sides and he stepped back. Placing space between them was a must. He needed to trust her words too much, yearned to wrap them around him like a security blanket to warm his body and spirit.

“You’re a healer, Bastien,” she said, her voice as still and velvety as a young’s downy crest. “You live and so do those you tend.” Her fingers fluttered over her abdomen where the wendigo had sliced her skin. “Like me. You fight for them. For me.”

“Then why…” His voice dwindled and again he inwardly ordered himself to leave it alone. But evidently he had a masochistic streak that reveled in rejection and pain.

Sinéad’s lashes lowered and the black fringe hid her eyes. Quiet settled in the room, a heavy pressure foretelling the coming of a vicious storm. Instead of rain this tempest would contain the stinging downpour of truth. Bastien braced himself. After all, he’d asked—
begged
—her to confess even though the admission would torture him. Maybe a part of him wanted, needed, to hurt. Craved the pain he understood and accepted so much easier than the shimmering wonder in her gaze.

“I was—
am
—cruxim with empathic abilities. The only emotion I knew was the pain, hunger, hate and fear of others.” Suddenly, her electric stare struck his face, and in the silver depths swirled hesitation, insecurity…honesty. “From the first time I saw you on those rocks, you stirred something inside me. Despair. Sympathy—”

“Pity,” he spat. It still bore a gaping, burning hole in his pride. She’d seen him weak, defenseless. Fucking pitiful.

She shook her so head hard the fall of her dark hair slid over a shoulder. “Not pity,” she said. “Sorrow. And not yours, but mine. To see you near death, nearly gone from this world seemed almost…blasphemous. I couldn’t leave you. So, instead of continuing to hunt the vampire I was on the tail of, I saved you. Instead of rescuing dozens of humans from a murderous vamp, I rescued one hippogryph.” She sighed and her chest rose and fell on the tremulous breath. “You made me feel,” she confessed as if it were a shameful secret. “For the first time in my three hundred years, I had emotions of my own, not another person’s. And when you touched me…” She closed her eyes. Her lips moved. Maybe in a silent prayer to her goddess. “It was too much. Your emotions. Mine. I couldn’t tell the difference and the power of them overwhelmed me. After centuries, you were changing me, making me different with one touch. I was scared. So I left you.” Her frank, unflinching stare rested on him once more. “To save myself.”

“And since?” he asked, memories of her moving away from him, avoiding being near him shimmered in his head. Then he thought of their kiss. She hadn’t asked him to let her go then. “Is it the same?”

She nodded. “I’m learning to…” She paused and when she spoke again, her voice was lower, huskier.“ Submit to it.”

Fuck
. He closed his eyes against the erotic image those words elicited. Her kneeling before him, hands resting palm up on her thighs. Or on all fours, that beautiful ass thrust into the air, waiting for him to drive between the folds of her sweet, wet pussy. He opened his eyes and stared down into hers. A pall descended on the room, weighty with desire, questions, bald admissions and uncertainty. Again the gnarled mesh of bitterness, anguish and grief that had set up homestead in his chest for the past five months started to unravel, loosening bit by bit.

“I told you to stop, Sinéad,” he rasped. “I don’t need your healing.”

Gaze locked to his, she stepped forward, reclaiming the distance he’d inserted between them. A small, delicate palm cupped his jaw. The ghost of a caress crossed his cheekbone. He shuddered and barely refrained from turning his face into her touch, from grazing her tender skin with his lips.

He growled.

“I’m not doing anything,” she whispered. Then she shifted closer until her petite frame aligned with his harder, larger body. Lips brushed his throat. So soft, so gentle. Once. Twice. Before pressing to the tendon running the length of his neck.

He sucked in a breath.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice as hushed as the atmosphere, as strained as the tension stringing his body tight like an archer’s bow.

Her smile tickled his taut skin.

“Wooing you.”

* * * * *

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” Sinéad croaked. Shock rammed a fist into her chest and she slammed to an abrupt halt. Behind her, Bastien’s fingers curled around her waist, holding her steady. Which was a good thing or else she would have face-planted it on the floor. Even the electric tingle she was rapidly becoming accustomed to when he touched her couldn’t distract her attention.

“You’re not Christian.” Bastien chuckled next to her ear.

“I might convert,” she muttered and knew her eyes were as big as the breasts of the nearly nude woman bumping and grinding on the pole rising from the stage like a silver spear. Not that a stripper shopping her wares was a strange sight to Sinéad. They had exotic dancers in Ireland just as they did in all parts of the world.

But the
loup garou
with his fingers shoved down the woman’s black sparkly G-string and the vampire latched to her thigh were new. The dancer—obviously human from her lack of wings, fangs, fur, slitted eyes or pointed ears—didn’t seem to mind being the cream filling in the middle of this erotic Oreo cookie.

“If there is a hell, we’re all going to it.”

His fingers squeezed her hips. “Yeah, that is pretty hot.” He loosed another dark, sensual laugh and shifted beside her. His arm encircled her as they moved forward and fully entered the pleasure den.

Bastien guided her toward the back of the shadowed room and she tried hard not to gawk. Fascination, revulsion and a deep awareness vied for dominance as she skirted the edge of the glass stage. With the red halogen lights beaming from underneath the platform, the writhing trio appeared to be bathed in blood, gyrating in a crimson river bed. How could something so…so primal and raw be this
compelling
?

Like a-colony-of-ants-swarming-over-a-rat’s-carcass compelling.

But damn if she could look away.

This was the third pleasure den she and Bastien had visited. As Boston was a large city, it made sense the metropolis hosted several establishments that catered to the immortals who dwelled in and around Massachusetts’ capital.

The first den had been like stepping into a time machine and finding the DeLorean had stopped in a nineteenth century drawing room complete with dark wood paneling, glass sconces and archaic, uncomfortable-looking furniture. The second had reminded her of a Dublin back alley with a few chairs stuffed into it. Narrow, dingy, dark—it definitely catered to a certain clientele. The seedy toss-your-skirt-over-your-head-I-got-five-minutes-and-fifty-dollars variety.

But here… If the Christians’ devil had a salon, she would’ve expected Satan himself to be sprawled in one of the ruby-red, velvet wingback chairs. While the other dens had ranged from stuffy to sleazy, this place seemed to promise everything it advertised—pleasure, sin and debauchery.

“Good grief, it’s like Martha Stewart and Marilyn Manson had a love child in this place.”

Sinéad recognized Martha Stewart—she always had the prettiest food on television—but the other lady Bastien mentioned didn’t ring a bell. The Manson woman was probably responsible for the chrome poles, black and crimson drapes and leather booths, while Martha had contributed the beautifully crafted glass tables, the exquisite crystal and onyx sculptures scattered throughout the wide room and the plush cushions placed on every flat surface.

And there certainly were a
ton
of flat surfaces.

No one paid them obvious attention as Bastien paused next to a booth and motioned for her to slide in. Yet she could sense the eyes passing over them, inspecting, scrutinizing. The probes pricked at her head—delicate prods no oblivious human would notice. But she did. And pretense or not, she refused to allow anyone to feel up her brain. Just damn rude. She shored up her shields, gently rebuffing the questing mental fingers.

Lady
.
Had immortals grown so arrogant and condescending they violated others without conscience or remorse? What did their haughtiness say about them—about
her
? Though the cruxim could be called defenders of humanity, their heroic title was only by default. Her people killed the ones who considered mortals snacks on two legs. But cruxim possessed no empathy or even liking for the ones they saved. Tomorrow, if vampires decided to abstain from human blood and drink from the
sidhe
, then the mortals would be on their own, prey for the next predator.