Out for Blood (17 page)

Mal thought a moment. Solving this problem was easy enough, but Chrysabelle wasn’t going to like his solution. Better keep it to himself until the time came. “I said whatever you needed me to do, I would do. That hasn’t changed.”

She smiled, leaned up on her tiptoes, and pressed her mouth to his for the briefest of seconds. “Thank you.” She tugged him forward again. “Let’s get you some blood.”

Once Mal found a clean glass and they’d settled at the table, she flicked out the tiny blade on her ring and nicked a vein, filling the glass. He held it while the blood level rose, savoring the warmth seeping into his palm. He couldn’t stop staring at her, even though he knew it would get him into trouble.

“Stop looking at me,” she whispered without making eye contact.

“I like to look at you. You’re beautiful. And you know how I feel.”
Fool.

“So you’ve told me.” Her mouth bent in a poorly repressed grin. “It’s just strange.”

He lifted one shoulder. “I’m a strange guy.”

“That’s for sure.” She smiled as she pulled her arm up and pressed two fingers to the tiny cut. She tipped her head toward the glass. “Drink up.”

“I get to kiss you afterward.”

Her cheeks colored, causing her signum to flare brightly against the rising pink. “I know.”

“And that embarrasses you?”

“No. But you talking about it so plainly is going to take some getting used to.”

“I’ll do my best to contain myself.” He lifted the glass. “Of course, my best isn’t very good, so you should probably just get used to it.” She rolled her eyes, making him chuckle. Torturing her was its own reward. He put the glass to his lips and drank, relishing every swallow of the sweet, rich liquid, but not nearly as much as he was about to enjoy kissing her.

Glass emptied, he set it down, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back to await the rush of power only comarré blood provided. One… two… three… It hit with the force of a full-body blow, first searingly painful as his muscles and tendons tightened with the burst of renewed strength, but then the pain vanished, leaving wakes of heat behind, heat that spread through him and erased his normal chill. He relaxed and blew out a breath as his lungs began to work again and his heart pulsed.

He lifted his head and opened his eyes to find Chrysabelle’s gaze fixed on him. He smiled.

She smiled back. “It’s amazing to watch the life come back into you.”

“Is that so?” He shoved the table out of the way, toppling the glass, and pulled her onto his lap. Damnation, but the weight of her body against his brought a maddening pleasure twice as intoxicating as the taste of her blood and the rush of power. “Feel for yourself.” He put her hand on his chest to feel its rise and fall as he breathed and the beating of his heart.

“I’ve felt it before,” she protested, but her hand stayed a few beats longer. Then her fingers traveled to his jaw. She narrowed her eyes. Something was on her mind.

That something, it seemed, was him.

“Open your mouth,” she commanded.

“Why?”

“I want to see your teeth.”

“I’m not a horse.”

She traced his bottom lip with her index finger, setting fire to a thousand other parts of his body. “I want to see your fangs.”

Tremors of pleasure running through him, he parted his lips and tilted his head to give her better access while still being able to watch her.

Her finger moved from his lip to the edge of his front teeth. Slowly she mapped his right fang, stroking the length of it, testing the pad of her finger against the sharp tip. He held absolutely still for fear he’d cut her. Despite the blood in his system, despite the emotion he felt for her, the opportunity to drink directly from her might still overwhelm him. Deep inside, the beast reared its head in agreement.

“They’re very sharp,” she whispered, pulling her hand away.

Was she delaying the kiss for a reason? “You had a patron. You know how sharp fangs are.”

“Yes, but not yours.” She stared straight into his eyes, which he knew must be completely silver with everything boiling inside him. She shifted a little and for a moment, he thought she was getting off his lap, but she only twisted to face him better. Then her hands came to his face again, this time to cup his jaw. She dragged him closer as her lids shuttered. Almost too late, he realized
she
was kissing
him
. Quickly, he forced his fangs away.

His heartbeat revved and he pulled her nearer so that their heat mingled. Too much time had passed since this had last happened. Her mouth was a revelation, a reminder of everything that was right in his world. Of how much he loved her and, even though she hadn’t said it, of how much she loved him back.

He was lost to her. Utterly and completely and he’d never been happier.

No matter what else happened in his miserable existence, he would remember the joy of this feeling and bask in the knowledge that it would remain his until the day he turned to ash.

Chapter Seventeen

T
atiana woke an hour before sunset, the urge to check on Lilith overwhelming. After watching her child face down the sun and live, she was ecstatic, but not without worry. She just needed to see Lilith again, to make sure the sun’s wicked rays hadn’t marred her petal-fine skin, to check her once more for burns or blisters.

The hunger of waking curled at the edge of her consciousness, but she ignored it. There would be time to feed later. She dressed in silence, not wanting to wake Octavian. With the imminent arrival of the Dominus and their Elders, he’d been working so hard getting things ready, always disappearing to handle one chore or another.

Bringing her mouth to his cheek, she kissed him, then slipped next door to the nursery. Oana sat in the rocker near the crib, Lilith on one shoulder, patting her back gently. “Good evening, my lady.” She nodded her head in deference. “Lilith woke about half an hour ago. I’ve just finished feeding her. Would you like to take her?”

“Just for a moment.” She lifted Lilith from Oana’s grasp. Lilith smiled and reached for Tatiana’s face. “Hello, my darling. How are you?”

Lilith’s tiny fingers patted Tatiana’s cheek. There wasn’t a blemish on her. Not a centimeter of skin that showed she’d been touched by the sun. Remarkable. “She slept well?”

“Yes, my lady.” Oana stood and straightened the crib linens. “Slept as sound as could be. Not a cry, not a whimper.”

Nothing to indicate Lilith’s sun exposure had even registered. Tatiana kissed Lilith’s forehead. The scent of blood and milk lingered from her daughter’s breakfast. Her own stomach growled. She held Lilith out to Oana. “Make sure she has her bath.”

“Of course, my lady.” Oana planted Lilith back over her shoulder. “Any particular outfit you’d like her in tonight?”

The entire household knew the nobility would be arriving throughout the evening. Tatiana shook her head. “Anything is fine until dinner. Then she’s to wear the dress that was made.”

“Very good, my lady.” Oana curtseyed, then turned her face toward Lilith. “Time for a bath, little one.” Lilith clapped her hands against Oana’s back. “Anything else, my lady?”

“No, you’re dismissed.” Tatiana left as Oana carried Lilith in to the tub. Her hunger was now almost a palpable thing.

And a reminder that unfinished business remained. She shut the nursery door and strode down the hall. Servants scurried about, deep in last-minute preparations for her guests. One walked by with a mass of black cherry roses in her arms, no doubt on her way to Lord Syler’s suites. Lord Timotheius’s suite would get a fragrant mix of lilies. Lord Grigor despised flowers, but Svetla favored white orchids.

Each suite would be supplied with enough personal touches to impress. It was a game the Dominus played with each other, to see who could know more about the others without appearing to care. She’d spent enough time watching Algernon aid Lord Ivan. She hadn’t forgotten a thing, right down to Grigor’s disgusting combination of blood and vodka.

Deeper into the bowels of the estate, away from the guest suites and common areas, she traversed the corridors of the west wing. She’d kept Daciana confined in a suite here while her late husband, Laurent, and Tatiana had gone to Paradise City.

Now Octavian had secured Damian in this same wing until he could be dealt with. She reached for the door handle, then stopped. Her anger at him would solve nothing. If Daci had gone to the comarré’s under the pretense of asylum and ended up captive with Damian as a guard, that meant the comarré trusted Damian, that she’d taken him into her confidence, at least in some small way. What might he now be able to share with Tatiana? What new information could she glean?

This had to be played correctly, no matter how badly she wanted to punish his betrayal.

She schooled her face into a mask of pleasantness and opened the door. The waft of blood scent caused saliva to pool under her tongue. Her fangs punched through her gums. With effort, she retracted them.

He stood near the window but turned at the noise. His expression darkened into something more like anger than the fear she’d expected. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She jerked back in surprise. “You’ve been waiting for me?”

He shrugged and turned away, his gaze directed into the growing twilight. “I must be dealt with. After all, I ran from you.”

This was not how she’d imagined this going. “Yes, of course, that is not something that can be swept under the rug.”

He said nothing, just continued to stare outside.

“It’s well within my rights to have you punished.”

Still nothing. The anger she’d shoved down pressed against her spine along with the surging desire to feed.

“I could have you whipped.” She formed her metal hand into a tapered length of chain.

He shifted to lean against the window frame. Her flesh hand fisted at his insolence. She relaxed it and took a few steps closer, dragging the metal whip over the floor. The succulent perfume of his blood teased the edges of her good sense.

“Or beaten.”

At last he moved, turning his head just enough to make eye contact. He exhaled with what could only be exasperation. “Or you could sell me or trade me for another or return me to the Primoris Domus and have the blood rights repaid. Which will it be? I don’t need a litany of possibilities, just the decision.”

She stared, frozen by the hot rush of rage building inside her.

He shoved away from the window and came toward her, suddenly twice the size she remembered him being. “Did you expect me to cower? To plead for your forgiveness? To beg to be returned to your good graces and the life I used to have with you?” He snorted. “I’m not Saraphina.”

His insolence was too much. She snapped her hand forward, the chain hissing through the air. It caught him around the neck. She yanked hard, bringing him to his knees. He clawed at the chain around his throat as she stalked forward. “How dare you—”

“How dare I,” he gurgled the words out. “Because you are a contemptible patron. A comar would have to be insane to want to serve you.”

She raised her good hand to strike him just as the door opened.

Octavian stuck his head in. “Forgive me for interrupting, but Lilith is crying. She wants you.”

Tatiana almost forgot the impudent comar at her feet. She morphed the whip back into a hand. Damian sagged to his knees. “Be grateful my child needs me or—”

“Grateful for what? For being treated as your chew toy?”

She struck so fast, her hand was a flash of silver light. He fell onto his side, blood trickling from where she’d split his lip. Her stomach knotted in appetite. She grabbed him by his shirtfront and pulled him up until only a narrow slice of blood-scented air separated them. “I paid your blood rights and that means I own you.”

Without turning away, she spoke to Octavian. “Tell Oana to feed my child and I’ll be along shortly.”

“Oana says she isn’t hungry. I think you should—”

She snapped her head toward Octavian, her words little more than a growl. “Leave us.”

A short nod and he was gone.

She peered into Damian’s blue eyes, searching for a hint of regret or fear, but found nothing but contempt. Her anger spiraled higher. “Owning you means I can do with you whatever I please. And what I please right now is to feed.”

She fell on him, taking him to the ground in one rough stroke. Her fangs descended and she sank them into his neck. The ritual and pleasantries of drinking from his wrist no longer mattered. Not when he’d disrespected her so thoroughly.

She drank deeply and without care, bringing him to the ash-flavored cusp of death before allowing him to fall from her grasp. She rocked back on her heels and wiped the corners of her mouth.

“If the idea of begging for a return to your previous life here appeals to you, let me save you the effort. There is no chance for that.” She stood and brushed herself off. “You’ll be lucky if I let you live, you foolish cow.”

She kicked him in the ribs and, satisfied with the sharp crack of bone and his grunt of pain, marched out.