Lothaire (Immortals After Dark #12)(41)

“If you weren’t woefully poor, you’d know that money doesn’t buy happiness.”

“Spoken like a man who’s always had cash.”

“What would you do if you were me? To have fun?”

“I’d spend money on my family. And I’d travel.” She gazed at the ceiling, as if imagining all the places she would go. “I’d see all the Greats: the Great Wall of China, the Great Pyramids, the Great Barrier Reef. Hell, I’d visit the coast for the first time ever.”

She’d never been outside of Appalachia, had never seen an ocean, a beach. He could scarcely imagine that. She had no idea what sea air smelled like, no idea what waves lapping at her feet felt like. How would she react?

Probably not as he would expect her to. “I’ve seen the world, Elizabeth, several times over. It’s overrated. I’ve no family I’ll acknowledge.”

“So now you read your book for enjoyment?” She skimmed the design of the settee’s fabric, red nails trailing lightly. “What’s the last entry in your ledger?”

“It will be a mortal named Declan Chase. If he lives. He’s the one who possesses memories of the ring.”

“If he lives. Did you hurt him?” she asked. Had she stifled a yawn?

“Not I. A demon gutted him with a sword yesterday. But I gave him my blood to make him immortal.”

“Isn’t that a really big deal? Since mortals beg you to do it and all. I believe you said it was priceless?” She rested her head on the arm of the settee.

“I wanted a tie with him very much. Though I acted as if put out to tender my blood.”

Lothaire recalled the subterfuge, a simple but elegant plot, and then the culmination—Chase unconscious, his mouth pried open as he was forced to accept a vampire’s blood.

Even though the Blademan would consider it a defilement, a poison in his veins. . . .

“Now I can locate him anywhere in the world, at any time,” Lothaire continued. “Can read his mind if he’s nearby. Yes, mortal, under the right circumstances I can read minds. Yet another way that I’m superior to you.”

She’ll gasp with astonishment, raising her hand to her temple, fearing that I’m reading her mind right now. . . .

Silence. He glanced over at her; his hands clenched into shaking fists.

Elizabeth was sound asleep.

He’d finally opened up and actually talked with someone—had shown her his f*cking book—and she’d fallen asleep? Had he bored her?

Súka! He was tempted to trace her into the middle of a ghoul cage fight, see if that would wake her up!

He loomed over her, staring down, confounded by this mortal’s behavior.

And why he could never predict it.

Over the pounding of his heart, he heard Elizabeth’s even breaths. In sleep, she looked soft, even younger. So beautiful, but profoundly lacking in potential.

She seemed intelligent enough—except when challenging me—yet other than her looks, there was nothing noteworthy about her, no accomplishments she could boast of.

She’d been athletically inclined with all her wilderness expeditions and such, but she wasn’t a distinguished athlete. She played no instrument, and she spoke only one language—poorly.

If not for Saroya, Elizabeth would have lived a wasted existence, just like her loathsome mother. Thrift-store clothes and cheap perfume in a dingy, leaking trailer.

At least now Elizabeth served a higher purpose.

As her breaths deepened, her lips parted and her heartbeat grew lulling. Like a metronome . . . like the waves she’d never see.

So young, this mortal. Gazing at her now, he could almost forget how much he detested humans.

Almost.

His thoughts were interrupted by his sudden yawn. Watching her sleep had calmed him. His Bride—or at least her body—could soothe him. A tool I can use?

After unfastening his sword, he kicked off his boots, drew off his shirt. Now I sleep. Now the memories would come.

As he traced to his bed, he thought, Your days are numbered, young Elizabeth.





15


Ellie woke to a groan. A male’s groan.

She cracked open her eyes, found herself curled up on the couch in the vampire’s bedroom. She groggily reached over and turned on a nearby lamp, lighting the area enough for her to see Lothaire.

He lay asleep in his bed.

She rose and crossed to him, curious to see if she’d find him so handsome now that she was rested—and not acutely traumatized.

At his bedside, Ellie exhaled in resignation. How could he be so damaged mentally—and morally—and yet so stunning on the outside?

Clad only in dark jeans that hung low on his hips, he reclined on his front, the side of his head resting on his forearm. His longish blond hair was tousled, those unnerving eyes concealed.

His face was hauntingly flawless, with his proud, patrician nose and broad cheekbones. Even the stubble covering his bold jawline was enticing to her. Her fingers itched to trace his lips, to determine if they were as firm as they looked. She’d never really noticed men’s lips before, but his were sexy.

Now that his wounds had healed, the smooth skin of his back seemed to demand her touch. Those brawny shoulders . . .

He groaned again, his brows drawing together sharply. Dreaming?

If he truly experienced the memories of all his victims—thousands of years’ worth—how could he not be going insane?