A Hunger Like No Other (Immortals After Dark #2)(35)

His lips curled wickedly, and her breath hitched at the sight. “Then all you have to do next time is remove your wee fangs from my arm for long enough to tell me no. Long enough for one single word.”

She pulled her gown into place, yearning to hit him again. The bastard knew that tonight she could no more have taken her fangs from him than she could have stopped breathing. “You assume I’ll drink from you again?”

With a sexy smirk and a rumbling voice, he said, “I’ll have to insist.”

She turned her face away as the full import of her actions hit her. She’d actually taken living blood. She was officially a leech. And drinking directly from him was like coming home, like something had shifted into place. She feared she could never go back to cold, plastic sleeves. Just what kind of schwag blood had she been drinking before him?

“Why had you no’ ever before?”

Because it was forbidden. Yet she’d done just what her aunts had feared of her….

And his blood was a drug she could grow addicted to. She could become addicted to him. He could have that power over her.

No! If he tried to entice her to drink again, she wouldn’t be starving and she would have more control to deny herself.

In theory?

“Get off me, you brute.” When he didn’t let her up, she raised her hand again, but he caught her wrist.

“Doona strike me again, Emmaline. Mates never hit each other.”

“What do you mean by ‘mate’?” she asked slowly, the fear she’d ignored returning, making her tone grow desperate. “Like…like Australian for ‘buddy’?”

When he seemed to be deciding if he should tell her something, warning bells blasted. “You don’t mean like a Lykae mate?” The idea had occurred to her briefly, but she’d easily pushed it away. Because it was ludicrous.

“And what would you know about that?” He was getting angry again.

She remembered Lucia warning her never to walk between a Lykae and his mate. And if another male accosted his female or tried to separate them—get the hell away. They were as bad as a vampire with his Bride, if not worse. “I know you have only one, and that you never separate.” She knew if the other was hurt or was in danger, the beast rose up, and reason was lost. She’d seen him lose reason—and never wanted to see it again.

“What’s so wrong with that?”

“You can’t mean…You do want to separate from me? Right?”

“What if I dinna want to?”

“Oh, God.” She scrambled from him until he let her go.

He crooked his arm behind his head and leaned back. “Would it be that terrible to be with me?”

She feared he was acting deceptively casual. “Of course it would! Besides the fact that you can’t seem to make up your mind whether to be nice to me or to hate me, and besides the fact that we are…different, you’re a bully, you’re out of control, and you don’t care about how I feel whatsoever, and you do break your promises and we’re on the cusp of the Accession and—”

“Now, doona hold back how you feel, lass,” he interrupted. When she glared at him, he smirked. “It pleases me that you’ve obviously given us a lot of thought. Working out all the angles.”

She clenched her fists in frustration. “Tell me I’m not your mate, then.”

“You’re no’. You’re a vampire, remember? Think about it. My clan would want to rip you to bits on sight.”

She tilted her head, studying him, trying to determine the truth.

“Granted, with all your new curves”—he raked his gaze over her, then shook his head in that way men did, as if he was a goner—“I would no’ mind keeping you around as my mistress, but nothing so serious as my one mate.”

Why did that comment cut to the bone? “You wouldn’t lie about this?”

“Rest easy. I want you, but no’ for that.” He rose. “Now, unless you want to finish this evening properly with me bending you over the bed, you need to get dressed.”

With a gasp, she immediately turned on her heel for the bathroom, then locked the door behind her. She pressed her back and palms against it, body quivering, his blood still affecting her.

She frowned. The paint on the door was glossy and cool, smooth but for the left middle panel. Paint had bubbled there. Fascinating.

When she ran the shower and tested the temperature, the water felt incredible on her hand, tickling her palm. Naked in the water was even better—it was as if she could perceive each tiny drop sluicing down her body. Running her fingers through her wet hair felt lovely. She realized she had energy again.

Clearly, Lachlain’s blood was a cocktail full of Ritalin and Prozac. She should be awash in regret over her transgression and unnerved about the future, yet she couldn’t seem to muster either. She assured herself it was the pharmaceutical aspects of his blood that brought about this sense of well-being—not the unfamiliar feeling of connection she’d delighted in as she drank.

After the shower, she dried off, making a note to commend the inn for the impossibly soft towels. As she wrapped one around her, it grazed over her nipples. She shivered and flushed, remembering his mouth so hot over her breast.

Shaking her head hard as if to dislodge the memory, she padded in front of the mirror, reaching her forearm forward to wipe the condensation from the cool glass.