Lothaire (Immortals After Dark #12)(16)

Fyodor had smiled thinly. “Your fair mother probably assumed you would have long since slain Stefanovich by now. . . .”

Impatient for power, Lothaire had begun targeting immortals. Yet their souls were much more decayed than humans’. And they had exponentially more memories. Ruinous to a cosa?.

His uncle had promised and delivered strength beyond measure, but had downplayed the side effect.

Insanity. Memories forever tolled. Lothaire balanced on the edge of a razor.

Though Fyodor, also a cosa?, had lost his mind long before his death last year, Lothaire had somehow pulled back, limiting his kills and memory harvests, scrabbling his way back to reason. All to serve my Endgame. . . .

He peered over at the mortal sitting on the couch. How long had he been pacing, his thoughts drifting? Her expression had turned from defeated to devious as she eyed the fireplace tools.

In another situation, he might have admired her tenacity. Now he snapped, “You must want them dead.”

She jerked her gaze straight ahead.

With a scowl, he continued pacing, pondering his reaction to her earlier. He couldn’t remember his body responding that wildly during his one night with Saroya.

For years, he’d remained apart from her easily, once he’d taken his initial release with her in the woods.

Now lust seethed inside him. Ignore it, Saroya will rise soon enough. And when she did, he’d touch her, taste her. Explore her new curves.

“Whoa! Your eyes are getting even . . . weirder.”

Behold madness in a vampire. Everyone in the Lore knew Lothaire was on the brink; no one knew how close he was.

Most of the time, he had difficulty discerning his victims’ memories from his own. When he slept, he uncontrollably traced to strange locales, as if sleepwalking. With increasing frequency, he’d been overwhelmed by rages.

One beckoned even now. “I want Saroya to rise,” he told the human.

“Can’t you take her from me instead? Maybe put her in the body of a red-eyed female demon—”

“She’s no more a demon than I am! Saroya the Soul Reaper is the goddess of death and blood, the Vampire Horde’s ancient deity.”

“V-vampires?” Elizabeth whispered as she unsteadily stood. “Are you . . . you’re not a vampire?”

He bared his fangs.

“You . . . you drink from people? Bite them?”

He enunciated, “Delightedly.” Though not without express purpose, not any longer. His last prey had been calculated—Declan Chase, his jailer. The man would know where the Ring of Sums had been taken. Lothaire needed only to sleep to experience Chase’s memories in dreams. . . .

Elizabeth put her hands to her knees, panting her breaths. “No sun. That’s why the curtains are drawn so tight. A vampire. Sweet Jesus preserve me.” Blood began trickling from the needle puncture on one inner arm.

His gaze locked on it, hunger racking him. He’d been injured repeatedly. Surely that was the only reason why he wanted so badly to sample her.

Not because the scent of her blood was exquisite . . . making his cock swell in his pants and his fangs sharpen. He ran his tongue over one, savoring the spike of his own blood.

Elizabeth cried, “Look at you!”

He hadn’t allowed himself a taste of her before. Her blood would serve no purpose, might put him over the edge. But gods, its call was irresistible.

“You’re not gonna bite me! Come near me with those fangs of yourn, and I’m gonna knock ’em out—”

He was behind her in an instant, one arm looped around her waist. With his free hand, he fisted the length of her shining hair and yanked her head to the side. Her pulse fluttered before his eyes.

How many times had he hungered for flesh but denied himself?

Yet never had his fangs throbbed like this, dripping to penetrate her. . . .

“Don’t touch me!” She thrashed, digging her nails into his arm, but he enjoyed his enemies’ struggles. Always had.

He raked a fang down the golden skin of her neck, cutting a shallow length, blood gently pooling.

Voice gone hoarse, he said, “I’ll like it more if you fight. You’ll like it more if you don’t.”

Scores of women—and men—had enjoyed his bloodtaking. It made them hunger, made them cling to him as if they wanted to sacrifice themselves on his fangs.

Mortals seemed particularly susceptible. Many came in his arms.

Would Elizabeth? The idea made him harden even more. He dipped his head, mouth closing over the fine wound. When his tongue touched a drop of blood, his body jerked as if lightning-struck.

A searing current seemed to electrify every vein in his body. . . .

Delectable.

“Wh-what are you doing to me?”

He licked the seam again and again, wanting to roar when she began trembling, her resistance easing.

She leaned into him, her back pressed against his aching shaft. When he snatched her tighter still and ground it against her, she moaned.

Yes, mortals liked his bloodtaking, but she was shaking with need.

“Oh! Ohhhh, no. . . . Oh, please!” Her voice was throaty, her breaths shallow.

Yet just when he’d widened his jaw to pierce her neck for more, she began fighting again. “No, not now!”

Lothaire tore his mouth away, saw her face go even paler.

She swayed on her feet. “Not now. . . .”