Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(50)

At night, as they lay together on his pallet—no need for a second one after all—he pulled her close, enveloping her in his warm arms, pressing her against his chest. The first two nights he’d slept with her collar clutched in his hand. But now he’d begun to accept that she wasn’t going anywhere. At least not yet, her mind whispered.

During the days, they ate the phickens and some rock-hard type of tart berry. Just yesterday, she’d gotten him to use a napkin and some plasticware from the packs. Now we’re getting somewhere, she’d thought. Until that same afternoon when he’d drunk blood from a bird’s neck again. She’d sighed. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

In one of the packs, she’d found clothes for him—black combat boots to fit his big feet, camo pants that actually hit his ankles, and a black T-shirt that could stretch over his brawny chest. Apparently, Hostoffersson had been an immense bastard.

Malkom rocked the tacticool. With his golden hair in those warrior plaits, his firm lips and chiseled features, he’d made her heart thump. She’d thought, I’d have to pry witches off him.

Now she gazed over at him writing F-o . . .

Was she really considering keeping him? As if he’d want her after she betrayed him. In any event, she had no place for him in her world.

He’d be like a bull in a china shop, and her life was already about to change radically because of Ruby.

Hey, from what she’d seen of Oblivion, the Order’s facility would be a lateral move for him. Maybe if she told herself that often enough, one day she’d believe it?

He glanced at her then, as though he sensed the serious nature of her thoughts, and she swallowed.

She’d begun to desire all of him, fantasizing about making love with him. But two things held her back. He could get her pregnant, and he might hurt her, possibly biting her again.

He’d been working on maintaining his control and was making such strides that she no longer feared when his eyes turned black, now associating the color with his desire. Steady blue flickering to wicked black.

But could he maintain control when they had sex?

Merely to cohabit with such a strong being took care on her part, and she’d been using magic just to lessen the risk of an accidental injury. Yet for their “claiming,” she would have to surrender herself fully to him, trusting him not to hurt her. She didn’t know if she could take that leap of faith.

And of course, there was still the issue of his biting. So far she didn’t think he’d dreamed her memories, not that he could have revealed that development with words—or miming—anyway. Yet every time he drank her, it increased the likelihood that he would see them.

For her to explain her predicament to him was one thing. But she feared his seeing bits and pieces out of context. Which again would make him lose control.

She knew he wanted to drink her. She’d caught him gazing at her neck, not necessarily with hunger, but almost with yearning.

One night, she’d awakened to find him pacing, running a hand over his mouth. Keeping her breathing deep and even and her lids barely cracked open, she’d watched as his gaze had darted over her, then up to the ceiling, as if he were seeking guidance. With another look at her, he’d raised his arm to his mouth, sinking his fangs into his own wrist, groaning against his skin. Had he been imagining it was her?

He’d bitten himself to keep from breaking his vow to her.

How much longer could a need like that be contained?



Can I keep my vow another night?

Malkom needed to drink her, not because he thirsted for her blood or wanted to “dine on flesh,” but because with each hour, she grew more distant.

She was slipping away from him.

Even as she let him enjoy her body, she often appeared lost in thought, closing off her mind. The more she did this, the more he gazed at her neck, craving that connection that had so amazed him.

Now a disquiet had settled over him, and he couldn’t concentrate on the letters anymore. He laid down the stick. She didn’t even notice as she stared at the fire.

Malkom was so damned accustomed to loss, yet he knew he would never recover if he lost her. To not have her in his keeping? The mere idea sent his rage climbing.

If only he could communicate with her freely. Yet the more he remembered of her language, the more punishing nightmares of his childhood and torture surfaced.

Still he pushed himself, needing to understand. At times, just before he brought her pleasure, she’d murmur at his ear. What was she telling him when her voice was almost sad? It made him crazed.

And he wanted to ask her why she’d been showing this affection to him. Was it just so he’d protect her? His confidence that she would want the strongest male had now turned to desiring more from her.

Until they could communicate, he’d decided to learn as much as possible about her. Life with the witch was wondrous . . . and odd.

She seemed to have a fixation on cleanliness, scrubbing their eating utensils with her magic and continually washing their clothes.

Each morning and night she’d used the blue stick brush to rub her teeth. She kissed him madly each time he did the same. The scent was sharp but pleasant, and the brushing felt good, as if his mouth were being petted.

He’d stopped swallowing it the second time she’d crinkled her nose and muttered, “Ooh.”

And every day, she’d given him writing lessons. He could potentially live for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, and he’d recalled what Kallen had once told him: “Of course you’re intelligent enough to read! Who the devil convinced you otherwise?”