Lothaire (Immortals After Dark #12)(45)

Those weaker than Lothaire didn’t make a habit of insulting him. Of course, she wanted to die. “You won’t provoke me into killing you,” he said, adding, “this evening. But court my wrath, and I’ll punish you in other ways.”

His wrath was at the ready, his mood foul. Though he’d slept for hours, the only memories he’d dreamed—or experienced firsthand—were his own, something that hadn’t happened in ages.

Which meant he’d reaped no new information about the ring’s whereabouts.

If he couldn’t access Declan Chase’s memories, he’d be forced to set off searching for the ring all over again.

When he’d first taken his uncle’s advice and drunk “live” immortal blood from the flesh, Lothaire had accepted the risk: madness.

But he’d convinced himself that his mind was too strong to be overly afflicted. Perhaps he’d grow more fiendish, his conscience further eroded.

He’d never expected the sleep-tracing and the rages, the times when he couldn’t hear an enemy sneaking up on him because of the thundering of his heart.

He’d never expected to lose his strategic abilities. In the past, he’d easily contrived multiperson, decades-long plots, foreseeing each player’s move as if they were chessboard pawns.

Now mere puzzle solutions eluded him. He could rarely sleep. When he did, he couldn’t filter through his dreams to get to the information he needed.

Also strange? He hadn’t experienced Elizabeth’s memories at all. She was his latest take, so why hadn’t he seen hers?

The only good that had come from his rest was that his injuries had healed completely. At his age, he could go weeks between feedings, but regeneration had left him starved.

He poured more of the cool blood into a glass—glug, glug. He would leisurely drink it in front of the mortal, just to f*ck with her.

But she didn’t comment on his breakfast, only said, “I didn’t find anything in here that I’d care to eat.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll feed my new pet.”

“Pet?” Her eyes glittered. “I never knew I could hate someone as deeply as I do you.”

“I often help others discover the outer limits of their hatred. It’s a talent of mine.” Musing on his own perplexing situation, he said, “It must confuse you to desire a male you despise.”

“No, I figured out what’s happening.”

“I’m unwillingly intrigued. Tell me what your little mortal brain fie-gered out,” he said, imitating her drawl.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve always liked men. Before prison I had boyfriends enough, went parking every weekend.”

Jealousy flared inside him, though he’d be damned if he knew why. Elizabeth wasn’t his.

As if remembering a former boyfriend, she gazed past Lothaire. Her eyes gone languid, she twirled a lock of hair, running it over her plump bottom lip.

That hair. Those lips—

“Miss me some parking,” she absently murmured, a blush spreading along her high cheekbones. “Hot, hectic . . . parking.” Just when he was about to smash something, she met his gaze. “In the last five years, I’ve seen a total of nine men. Think about that for a second. Then you’ll understand how even you can look good.”

“Even I?” His tone was scoffing. “My natural attributes would have nothing to do with that?” He gestured at himself, indicating his faultless physique.

He’d grown to be perfectly wrought.

Exactly as promised.

But, by all the gods, what will it take to keep my own promises?

“Lothaire, just because I’m sexually desperate doesn’t make you a peach.”

Sexually desperate? His mind flashed to that time he’d seen her in the water eagerly kissing that boy, her fingers biting into his shoulders as her mouth had moved on his. The male’s expression had been one of wonderment before his eyes had slid closed, lust overwhelming

him. . . .

Red covered Lothaire’s vision. Elizabeth had writhed against the boy, as if unable to get close enough to him—

Lothaire hurled his glass across the kitchen, blood and shards exploding against the wall. He traced before her, clutching her upper arms to yank her out of her seat.

Her heartbeat raced, her eyes widening with delightful fear. . . .





17


Ellie’s hands flew to the vampire’s chest as his mouth descended to her neck. “What is wrong with you?”

“This body belongs to me now! It will never be touched by another.” Against her skin, he grated, “Damn you, allow Saroya to rise!” His lips parted, and his tongue flicked out.

“Oh! I-I can’t—she’s not even trying.” Is he gonna drink from me again?

His skin was warmer than it’d been earlier, growing hotter and hotter beneath her fingers.

Another wicked lick on her neck sent shivers coursing through her. Ellie’s nipples tightened into sensitive points, her breasts swelling.

“You’re in need of my touch. Fade back and make her come to me,” he commanded, his voice gravelly. “I’ll pleasure this body, and then you’ll be relieved of this ache when you wake.”

“I don’t know how to fade back,” she cried, her accent growing thicker. He was kissing her neck so greedily, not biting, but still with an urgent hunger. “Oh, God, I can’t think when you’re doin’ that.” Had she moaned the last?