A Hunger Like No Other (Immortals After Dark #2)(5)

She was freezing. Being low on blood did that to her. Being tackled into the wet earth and soaked through hadn’t helped. But she feared that wasn’t why she shivered. “Y-yes.”

He raked his gaze over her, then gave her a disgusted look. “And filthy. Mud all over you.”

“But you…” She trailed off under his lethal glare.

He found the bathroom, yanked her inside, then tilted his head at the fixtures. “Clean yourself.”

“P-privacy?” she croaked.

Amusement. “You have none.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall and crossed his muscled arms, as if awaiting a show. “Now, undress for me and let me see what’s mine.”

Mine? Bewildered, she was about to protest again, but he jerked his head up as though he’d heard something, then bolted out of the room. She slammed the bathroom door, locking herself in—another laughable gesture—then turned on the shower.

She sank down on the floor, head in her hands, and wondered how she would get away from this lunatic. The Crillon boasted foot-thick walls between the rooms—a rock band had stayed next door to her and she’d never heard them. Of course, she didn’t envision calling for anyone—never scream for a human’s help—but she was contemplating digging her way out through the bathroom wall.

Soundproof walls, ten floors up. The luxurious room that had been a haven, protecting her from the sun and nosy humans, was now a gilded cage. She was trapped by some being, and Freya only knew what.

How could she get away when she had no one to help her?



Lachlain heard a scarcely squeaking wheel, smelled meat, and limped for the room’s door. In the hallway, an old man pushing a cart yelped with fright at the sight of him, then stared wordlessly as Lachlain snatched two covered plates from the cart.

Lachlain kicked the door closed. Found steaks and devoured them. Then pounded a hole in the wall at a sharp memory.

Flexing his now bleeding fingers, he sat on the edge of the strange bed, in a strange place and time. He was weary and his leg pained him after running the vampire down. He pulled up his stolen pants and inspected his regenerating leg. The flesh was sunken and wasted.

He tried to push away memories of that loss. But what other recent memories did he have? Only those of being burned to death repeatedly. For what he now knew had been a hundred and fifty years….

He shuddered, sweating, and retched between his knees, but kept himself from vomiting the food he needed so badly. Instead, he ripped his claws through a table by the bed, just preventing himself from destroying everything in sight.

In the last week since his escape, he would be doing well, focusing on his hunt for her and his recovery, seeming to acclimate; then something would put him in a rage. He’d broken into a manor to steal clothes—then destroyed everything inside. Anything he didn’t recognize and understand, destroyed.

Tonight, he’d been weak, thinking unclearly, his leg still regenerating, and still he’d gone to his knees when he’d finally picked up her scent once more.

But instead of the mate he’d expected, he’d found a vampire. A small, fragile female vampire. He hadn’t heard of a female being alive in centuries. The males must have been secretive about them, cloistering them all these years. Apparently the Horde hadn’t killed off all of their own women, as the Lore told.

And Christ help him, his instincts still said this pale-haired, ethereal creature was…his.

The Instinct screamed inside him to touch her, to claim her. He’d waited for so long….

He put his head in his hands, trying not to lash out again—to get the beast back in its cage. But how could fate rob him once more? For more than a thousand years, he’d searched for her.

And he’d found her in what he despised with a hatred so virulent he couldn’t control it.

A vampire. The way she existed disgusted him. Her weakness disgusted him. Her pale body was too small, too thin, and looked like she’d break with her first stiff f*cking.

He’d waited a millennium for a helpless parasite.

He heard the squeaking wheel, going much faster past his door, but his hunger was sated for the first time since the ordeal began. With food like tonight’s, he would shake off any physical trace of the torture. But his mind…

He’d been with the female for an hour. Yet it had been an hour during which he’d only had to push the beast back twice. Which was a considerable improvement, since his entire existence was of constant bleakness interrupted only by sharp rages. Everyone said a Lykae’s mate could soothe his any woe—if she really was his, she had her bloody work cut out for her.

She couldn’t be. He must be delusional. He seized on that idea. The last thing he’d regretted before they forced him to the fire was that he’d never found her. Perhaps this was a damaged mind playing tricks. Of course, that was it. He’d always pictured his mate as a buxom redheaded lass with wolven blood who could handle his lusts, who would revel in the raw ferocity with him—not this fearful wisp of a vampire. Damaged mind. Of course.

He limped to the door to the bathing chamber and found it locked. He shook his head as he broke the knob easily, then entered a room so thick with steam he could hardly spy her balled up against the opposite wall. He lifted her up by her arms, scowling to find her still wet and dirty.

“You’ve no’ cleaned yourself?” When she only stared down at the ground, he demanded, “Why?”