Lothaire (Immortals After Dark #12)(13)

Even as she stared in disbelief, a heavy candleholder found its way into her grip. Two minutes. So damned close. She lobbed it overhand.

He . . . dematerialized, and it flew through his hazy form.

She gave a shriek of fury. Another candleholder went flying, a paperweight, a lamp.

He just dodged the missiles.

Can’t be happening! She was out of breath, desperate to hurt him, to punish him.

Eighteen hundred and twenty days without seasons, without snow or blooms, without friends or family. Her baby brother didn’t remember her. While Josh had been steadily growing toward manhood without her in his life, Ellie’s existence had been stagnant, punctuated only by bouts of evil.

She no longer felt like a . . . person.

I’m not a person, I’m Virginia DOC Inmate #8793347. I’m Saroya’s host.

Because of him.

Ellie’s gaze landed on a sword in a display cradle. She leapt for the weapon, yanking it free from its ornamental sheath.

The glimmering metal reflected light into her eyes. In that instant, clarity came.

She knew what she had to do.

Clutching the hilt in both hands, she turned on him. “I’m gonna gut you, demon!”

He drew back his lips so she could see his horrifying canines, then flicked two fingers at her. Come on, then. . . .

Her eyes widened and she charged, sword poised to sink into his chest.

At the last moment—she turned it on herself.

“No!” he bellowed. Then somehow he was between her and the sword tip, wedged against her body.

The blade slid into his lower back until it met bone.

She gasped, feeling his muscles tensing against her, sensing his escalating rage. The red of his irises bled over the whites of his eyes completely. He bared those fangs down at her. “This makes twice that you’ve defied me, súka. You’ve erred for ill.”

With a snap of his wrist, he sent her flying to the floor.

Stunned. Flat on her back. Hysterical tears threatening.

She heard him removing the sword from his body, then tossing it away. Won’t cry in front of him. Won’t surrender to his bitch.

For courage, she recalled the years spent staring at cinder-block walls. Counting the blocks, the grout lines, seeing patterns and shapes. She’d called it the Cinder-Block Channel.

All block, all day. No interruptions. Ever.

Gritting her teeth, she twisted to her side, working to rise. Her hair had come loose, spilling over her face. She shoved a lock from her eyes.

“Stay—down,” he ordered, towering over her. He was a fiend, an animal, still had blood sprayed on his face. How many had he murdered today?

“Go back to hell, *.” Then she spat on his boots.





4


Lothaire snatched her upper arms, yanking her against him, ignoring the pain from his new wound. She tried to end herself again. Almost succeeded . . .

“Let me go!” She thrashed against his hold.

Elizabeth had nearly robbed him of his coveted Bride, had disobeyed his orders—twice—and had stabbed him.

Yet she was furious with him?

When she continued to flail, his grip tightened until a cry was wrenched from her lips, and she stilled.

Control yourself. He inhaled deeply. Else forfeit your Bride. He was far too strong to lose control when she was near. The rage . . . madness . . .

Inhale. Exhale. Saroya was in his keeping, safe for now. Disaster averted.

After long moments, he found his wrath ebbing, the haze dissipating somewhat. He eased his grip but kept her close to him. “Are you done?” he snapped.

Expression mulish, she muttered, “For a spell.”

Challenging me still? Lothaire knew he balanced on the very brink of insanity; now he realized this human might already be there.

But in the wake of his anger, the pain of his injuries lessened, drowned out by an excruciating awareness of her. He gazed down into her striking eyes with bemusement.

The feeling was almost . . . hypnotic.

She permeated all his senses. His Bride’s body was giving off an unbearable heat as it trembled against him. Her rapid heartbeat was a siren’s call to him, flaunting its coursing rush. A vein in her neck pulsed invitingly.

Pain? He felt none.

His gaze fell on the silky spill of her hair flowing loose past her shoulders. Dark brown waves made the color of those eyes stand out: smoky gray, framed with thick black lashes.

She’d grown prettier in the intervening years. Curvier. Her hips rounded enticingly, her high breasts straining against that threadbare top.

He rubbed his tongue over a fang as he recalled the first night he’d seen Saroya. She’d been in the woods at a makeshift altar, covered in blood beneath the light of the full moon.

One look at her, and his heart had awakened from its long slumber. Breath had filled his lungs. His shaft had stiffened with a swift heat, demanding its first release in millennia.

He hardened now, remembering how he’d licked her victim’s blood from her sweet skin as he’d stroked himself. She’d stood passive against him—a giving female, the softness to his strength—as he’d shuddered and spilled his seed upon the leaves. . . .

Whatever Elizabeth saw in his expression made her suck in a breath, her cheeks pinkening. “What do you want from me?”

His gaze fell on her neck, his fangs throbbing for that tender flesh. To touch you. To drink you and make you grow wet from it. . . .