Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(29)

She thrashed as he made her arch up to him, digging her nails into his skin under his chainmail, scarcely breaking the surface. “Damn it, stop this!”

With his free hand, he tugged her hair to the side. When he leaned down to nuzzle her collar higher, she . . . shivered?

Before she could analyze her response, he gave a wretched groan and pierced her.

As he snarled in bliss against her skin, she cried out, trembling in confusion.

It doesn’t hurt this time.



Malkom drank deep of her blood, a rich stream of heat sliding down his throat. Shuddering, about to come from her taste, he clutched her closer for more.

Her essence inflamed every inch of his body, stoking his need. Searing and sweet . . . His cock swelled, throbbing.

So sweet . . .

He groaned into his bite as he found his release. Over and over, the dry spasms racked him until his eyes rolled back in his head.

The mindless frenzy began to recede, leaving him with that awing sense of closeness, with a satisfaction he’d never known before her.

Once the pressure had finally subsided, he withdrew his fangs. Catching his breath against her neck, he felt her shivering beneath him.

Her head had fallen back, her lips parted. Could she . . . could she have enjoyed his bite?

When she angrily shoved at his injured chest, he rose up with an exhalation. Or not at all.

Staring straight ahead, she swiped her tangled hair out of her face, streaking her cheek with grease from the rope. Had her bottom lip trembled?

Could any female withstand all that she had without tears? The imprint of his hand on her chest was a glaring bruise. Her fatigue weighed on her so plainly, and his bite had weakened her even more. Now her face had paled.

He’d taken too much. He vowed that he would not suck her so greedily next time, would take but a few sips. Have to get control of myself.

Surely she would cry now. Damn it, if she cried, it should not be by his doing. Nay, he dreamed of collecting her in his arms and comforting her. He would ask her if she wanted him to take away her troubles, and she would softly nod against his neck.

She could give him purpose.

Yet he didn’t have a way of asking her that.

Do I not . . . ? He’d once known her language but had buried it so deeply. He couldn’t remember it without recalling his torture—and his childhood. Centuries had passed since he’d spoken it.

With a swallow, he concentrated, staring at her lovely face while struggling to recall words from a language he associated with torment and misery. How to tell her that he didn’t wish for her to cry? That he needed to see her safely to his home?

That he would endeavor not to hurt her again?

When she squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her hands, he realized this female wasn’t on the verge of tears.

She was on the verge of attack.

And he suspected she’d just become even more powerful than the night before.

Once she opened her eyes again, they were glittering with wrath, brilliant starbursts flashing.

Glorious female. And not a little fearsome.

When she raised her glowing hands, he exhaled, tensing his muscles, bracing for his woman’s unholy pique . . . .





11




Slaine’s bite hadn’t been horrible. And that made Carrow furious.

Luckily, she could now vent her fury because she’d sucked in his happiness as if through a straw. Power! A swift, scorching infusion of it. She was even stronger this time.

“You shouldn’t have done that again.” Was she just like the bite whores in New Orleans who got off on having their blood drunk?

The bite whores Carrow loved to ridicule.

With a wave of one of her glowing hands, the rope around her ankle disintegrated, allowing her to stand. Another wave brought her missing ring flying to her as though magnetized. As she slipped it on, she gave him a cruel smile. “Double, double toil and trouble,” she murmured. “Where do you want it this time?”

His tone stern, he said something in Demonish that sounded like an order. Carrow didn’t like orders, was accustomed to giving them.

So she fired on him, propelling him across the clearing. He staggered to his feet, looking disappointed with her.

“You think I should respond differently?” She fired again. “Though I warned you to keep your fangs to yourself?”

When he growled at her, frustration stamping his rough features, she cried, “Then treat me differently, goon! I’m as simple as that.”

On her third strike, he tensed his body, bowing up to take the hit directly in the chest, almost proudly. Then he narrowed his gaze on her neck and smirked, as if to say, It was worth it, honey.

Her eyes went wide. “Oh, you are so dead,” she vowed. “You don’t even know how dead you are!” Using the last of her strongest magic, she launched another shot and heard something snap that time. Maybe his ribs? A collarbone?

Yet he was still standing! She’d tapped herself out—no more spells, no more cloaking or firing—and for what?

Gnashing his teeth, he held out his hand to her. As if with great difficulty, he sounded out, “Home.”

Though shocked that he knew even one word of English, she said, “Go home with you? Not likely.” But her curiosity got the better of her. “Oh, so now you know English?”

He frowned.