When Wicked Craves (22 page)

“You had a passion,” she said.

“Some would say I was irresponsible.”

“Were you?”

“No. As you said, I had a passion. My younger brother took over the business, and it thrived. Had I stayed, he would have entered the priesthood, and I would certainly have run the business into the ground out of nothing more than sheer apathy.”

She couldn’t help her grin. “I don’t believe that for a moment. You have too much pride. You would have done it. But you would have hated it.”

“Apparently I really am transparent to you.”

She shrugged, feeling pleased with herself. “So you
skipped out on your family and hooked up with Ferrante. Then what?”

“He was already making great strides in alchemy, and his mind … dear God, his mind was so sharp and his thoughts so precise. I had been arrogant enough to believe myself to have a good mind and a quick wit, but I paled next to Marco. And Marco paled next to Giotto.”

“Who?”

“Giotto Marciello,” Nicholas said. “When I joined his household, Marco was already working with a partner, and he was even more brilliant than Marco. Just to sit and watch Giotto think was an education, and every day I thanked God that these two had allowed me to work with them.”

“What happened?” she asked, not wanting to rush him, but knowing that this story would end badly.

“For years I worked by their side—and for years we thought that we’d gotten close to finding the answer. To actually harnessing death and holding it at bay.”

An iron band seemed to tighten around her chest, and she realized that she’d been holding
her breath.

“I became frustrated by the delays. Angered by all the false paths leading nowhere. I stopped spending the evenings with Marco and Giotto and instead took my pleasure at a local inn, where the wine flowed and the women were eager. I had only a few friends, but they knew about my work, and would ask me about my progress, some inquiring seriously, others teasing. But we spoke of it in that inn, and I’m certain that is where she heard that I searched for immortality.”

“Who?”

“A woman. A dark lady. A vampire.”

Her breath hitched. “She changed you.”

“I wish she had right then, because then I would have no guilt. But no, she did not change me. Instead, she offered me a gift.”

She stayed silent, certain she knew where this was going.

“I went back to Marco and told him about the woman, about what she’d offered. He told me I was a fool to even consider it. That the lady was most likely a trickster who would steal my purse and leave me dead in an alley. That there were no such things as vampires, no shortcuts to immortality. And even if there were, I would be consorting with the devil.”

“You didn’t believe him.”

“Or maybe I did, but I didn’t care. He could see that he wasn’t getting through to me. He urged me to wait—assured me that Giotto was close to a breakthrough. That they hadn’t told me because they wanted to be sure. But I didn’t believe it. How could I, when we’d thought we were close so many times before?”

“You went back to the lady.”

“I did,” he said, then closed his eyes. He was silent and still for a moment, and when he finally looked at her again, his expression was dark and disturbed. “I went to her willingly, having been told of the consequences, but I didn’t truly understand. Or maybe I thought that I could control the daemon. I was certainly arrogant enough back then to believe that.”

“You couldn’t.”

“Few can in those first days, and upon my change, I tore through Florence, a whirlwind of destruction aimed right for Marco’s workshop. I don’t remember what
happened, not completely, but I know that I attacked Marco. He got away somehow, and I was angry—so angry that I ripped the place apart. I was searching for Giotto, you see. I knew that Marco couldn’t complete the formula without him, and the daemon wanted to hurt, and hurt deep. That’s what it does best—torment those you love the most.”

“You killed Giotto.”

“I did. Maimed him, tortured him, killed him. And although my daemon is now suppressed—although I am not now the man who did those things—still my guilt is as massive as my regret.”

“Nicholas.” She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. Instead, she simply held him close, and hoped that silent comfort would be enough.

“And that is why I never watched the sun rise through Serge’s windows before today. I chose the night with full awareness, and once I had battled the daemon down—once I learned to live with what I had done and what I had become—I swore to myself I would never regret my decision.”

“Do you?”

He shook his head. “Some vampires do. They look inside themselves at the daemon and hate themselves and what they have become. I’ve fought down my daemon, and I look now at what I am, immortal and strong with the entire world open to me, an eternity of knowledge and inquiry.” He drew in a breath. “I deeply regret what I did to Marco, to Giotto. But the choice? What I am now?” He stroked her cheek. “Most of the time I don’t regret it—after all, there is something soothing about searching the heavens. But after centuries, I do
miss the warmth of the sun upon my skin, and I think about Marco sometimes and am ashamed that I envy him for not being bound to the night.”

She pressed a kiss to his chest and smiled at him, wanting to lift the dark mood. “Tonight, we’re both bound by the night. I think maybe we should enjoy it some more.”

He brushed her lips with his fingertip, the heat in his eyes a counterpoint to such a gentle touch. “You wouldn’t rather sleep?” he asked, his voice teasing.

She swung a leg over him, then shifted so that she was straddling him. “No,” she said, breathless as his hands reached to stroke her. “I really wouldn’t.”

Nicholas was going out of his mind.

Her smooth skin, her responsive body, and her soft moans combined to take him so close to the edge that he wasn’t sure he could last much longer and not bury himself deep inside her. And yet he wanted to last—wanted to draw this out. Wanted to fill the night with touches and caresses and skin against skin. It might be years before another blue moon, and he wanted her to have this night to hold on to.

Which was all true, but completely discounted the fact that the woman in his arms had set his blood to burn in ways he hadn’t experienced in years. Hell, in centuries.

They were still on Serge’s sofa, a huge down-filled monstrosity roughly the size of a small bed. He’d found a blanket and they were wrapped in it, loosely, though, so that he had the freedom to touch her. He’d discovered that he had to touch her after the first stroke of his finger upon her skin. It was as if that moment embodied every desire he’d felt since he’d been around her, desire he hadn’t wanted to examine, much less act upon. Now, with her naked and beside him, he couldn’t imagine how he had lasted this long without the feel of her.

“How often?” he asked, twining a stray curl around his finger. “How many blue moons have there been in your life?”

“My life?” she asked, with a mischievous smile. “Or since I was old enough for this?”

“This.”

She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug, but he caught the shadow in her eye. “Four,” she said. “Only four.”

The sadness in her voice cut straight to his heart, and he shifted so that he was balanced on top of her, his lips finding the hollow of her neck and his tongue tasting her sweetness. “We’ll make sure this blue moon is particularly special,” he whispered, then captured her lips with his kiss.

“Nicholas.”

He trembled, his name on her lips arousing him as much as the taste of her. “I can’t wait any longer, Petra,” he said, his hands stroking her body, caressing every smooth inch of her. “I have to be inside you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, but he saw hesitation in her face.

“Petra, if you’re not sure …”

“I am! But we need … I mean, I can’t risk getting pregnant.”

He stroked her face as he looked into her eyes, and realized that her words surprised him. From what she’d told him earlier, childbirth would release her from the curse, yet she worried about it now?

“I can’t do that to a child,” she said. “Not even to be free.”

“No,” he whispered, overwhelmed with awe and respect for this woman. “No, you couldn’t.”

“Do you have something?”

“I don’t,” he said, and was flattered by the desperate regret that flashed across her features. “But Serge is careful, and he wouldn’t have wanted to sire any dhampires
with the vermin he brought in as founts and other entertainment.”

“Dhampires?”

“Half vampire, half human. Rare, but they’re around.” He pushed himself off the couch, absurdly grateful for Serge’s more colorful methods of fighting his daemon. “Don’t go away.”

“Never.”

It took him less than three minutes to find what he was looking for, and he returned with a box of condoms to find her smiling at him on the couch, her expression so joyous upon seeing him that he felt humbled by her desire. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t wait.”

He couldn’t have waited if he wanted to. He sat beside her, his body humming with anticipation merely from the proximity, and when he touched her, electricity shot through him, as if every secret he’d ever longed to understand was right there in her touch, and the universe opened to him through this woman.

Slowly, he dipped his hands between her thighs, sliding over soft skin, making her even wetter, even more open for him, and when he was certain she was ready, he sheathed himself, then leaned over her, taking his weight on his arms, and found her inner core.

She moaned, parting her legs, and he thrust inside, groaning at the pleasure of her tight fit, relishing the fact that he was the first man to explore the woman.

“We’ll go slow,” he said.

“No.”
Her hands cupped his rear, and she pulled him toward her, lifting her hips in response. She tilted her head back and moaned, a sound of pleasure combined with pain, and she begged him not to stop, not to hold back.

He didn’t. Hell, he couldn’t. It was as if he was fire and she was oxygen, and he couldn’t stop until he’d consumed her completely.

He wanted her, no doubt about that. But as much as he wanted to take his pleasure of her, he wanted even more to draw her up. To bring her to amazing heights. To experience everything she had so far not felt.

Hell, he wanted Petra to make up for lost time, and he wanted to be the one who brought her that gift.

Beneath him, her body bucked and her breathing became more rhythmic. Her face flushed. She clutched him tight, her fingernails digging into his skin, and she pulled him closer as if she couldn’t get there without touching every part of him. Her passion spurred his own, and he thrust harder, deeper, until his climax hovered before him, hanging on a precipice as he waited—desperately—for her to go over the edge. He would follow—by the gods, he would follow—but in this, she would go first.

“Petra,” he whispered, and as if her name were an incantation, she exploded beneath him, crying out his name as her body tightened around him, pumping and claiming, draining him dry with the force of her passion.

When the orgasm subsided, she lay beside him, her fingers lazily stroking him, and a sense of contentment and wonder enveloping her. He closed his eyes, basking in the scent of her pleasure, only opening them when she shifted position and gently brushed his cheek.

He opened his eyes to find her smiling down at him. “That was wonderful.”

“It was,” he agreed.

Her eyes danced with mischief. “Want to do it again?”

He laughed, surprised by her as always. “Desperately,” he said.

“Good.” She shifted, urging him onto his back, then moved to straddle him. She ran her hands over his chest, then wriggled her hips in a manner clearly calculated to drive him completely insane. “This time, I’m in charge,” she said, then lifted her brows and gave him a saucy look. “Think you can handle it?”

He managed to stifle a laugh. “I look forward to the challenge,” he said, but the words faded into a moan as her hands slid down and her mouth closed over his nipple.

He closed his eyes, relishing the sensations. Relishing her.
Petra.

With sudden clarity he saw how deeply she’d affected him. Affected his heart. He told himself that he didn’t want to be affected.

He told himself all of that, and yet right then, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. More than that, he knew that he didn’t really want to.

Someone was watching.

Even with its eyes closed, the monster that used to be Sergius knew that someone was watching it, and it sat for a moment longer, nostrils twitching as it judged this new enemy.
A werewolf
, who carried the stench of loss and pain, but no fear.

The weren did not fear the monster, and that would not do.

Abruptly, it opened its eyes.

The werewolf stood there—
Rand.
He had brought
no food, no comforts. He had come without purpose. And now he stood and watched, his dark skin allowing him to fade easily into the shadows that surrounded the cage of glass and concrete.