No Rest for the Wicked (Immortals After Dark #3)(8)

Affection. Another ecstasy for him. He hadn’t been touched in so long.

He rested on his elbows as she gazed up at him with her eyes soft, flickering between silver and dark hazel, her expression satisfied. Holding her face with both of his shaking hands, he brushed kisses over her eyelids, her nose. She was the loveliest creature he had ever imagined—and the most passionate—and she was his.

His voice hoarse, he said, “I have not told you my name. I am Sebastian Wroth.”

Still seeming entranced, she murmured, “Bastian,” making him want to squeeze her.

He grinned down at her. “Only my family used to call me that. It pleases me that you would.”

“Uh-hmm.” She scratched his neck in languid circles.

Excitement was still drumming in him. The idea of learning everything about her filled him with anticipation, but first he had to know—“Did I . . . did I . . . hurt you?”

“I’ll be sore.” Her lips curled, then she rubbed her face against him once more, this time as if grateful. “But only in the most delicious places.”

His cock was still semi-hard in the wet heat of his jeans, and the way she purred that one simple word, delicious, made it swell once more. He didn’t understand how she could simply shrug off being hurt, but there was no way he’d act on the need welling once more. He fought to ignore how good she felt beneath him.

He brushed back her hair, revealing her pointed ears. The tiny fangs, the claws, the eyes . . . “Katja, what are . . .” He cleared his throat. “What are you?”

Her brows drew together. “I’m a—” She tensed in an instant. Her eyes cleared completely, as though she’d just woken up. All the supple muscles of her body that had gone soft and pliant after her orgasm now grew rigid.

With a sharp inhalation, she kicked him off her—hard—sending him to the opposite wall, then shot to her feet. “Ah, gods, what have I done?” she whispered, bringing a tremulous hand to her forehead. Her face was cold, but her eyes burned wild as she backed away.

He stood, hands in front of him so as not to startle her.

But then she roughly ran her sleeve over her mouth, infuriating him. He recognized her disgust, recognized the sentiment.

He’d shared it about himself ever since he’d been turned.

*

“We’re going to forget this happened, vampire.” She couldn’t believe she’d just felt gratitude toward him. Because he’d given her relief from desire? What the hell had happened? Reality was seeping in, and with it came shame so hot it stung her.

“How can I possibly forget this?”

Maybe a capricious power had played with her, forcing her to do things she would never do. Or had she caught a spell? She had to leave at once. “Vow not to tell anyone, and I’ll let you live for now.”

“Let me live—?”

He didn’t finish the sentence, because in the space of three words, she’d collected her sword, then shot behind him to tuck it menacingly between his legs. She’d moved so quickly she was a blur.

“Yes, let you live,” she hissed at his ear.

“You are unused to this.” He traced across the room and stood, arms out, a hand on each side of the doorway. “As am I. We will find our way with this together. But you are my Bride.”

She closed her eyes, struggling for calm. “You’re not my husband. And never will be.”

“This can’t be random, Kaderin.”

Enough. As she started for the door, she could sense apprehension building in him. They both knew the sun would protect her. All she had to do was get past him—

Suddenly, she doubled over as sorrow for Dasha and Rika ripped through her like barbed wire dragged through her veins.

“Kaderin?” He strode toward her. “Are you hurt?”

Gulping air, she shoved her hand out to stop him before he reached her, and forced herself to stand. All Valkyrie were related, but she and her two sisters had been born together. Triplets. Inseparable for one thousand years, until two had died in battle. Because of Kaderin’s weakness . . .

“Kaderin, just wait—”

She charged for the door, but he traced back to it and held his ground. She feinted left and ducked right, moving so fast she knew he couldn’t make out her form. As he blinked, she swooped around him, bringing the sword handle crashing back into his chest, deciding at the last minute not to crack his sternum.

He gave a bellow of fury when she barreled past him. She darted down a rotting landing, toward the three sets of winding stairs, running through massive cobwebs so thick he must have traced through them for centuries.

Half staggering, half tracing, he was right behind her as she bounded down the stairs. But she pushed a hand on the railing and vaulted over to the next flight of stairs, then once again to the ground floor.

With a hoarse yell, he leapt down behind her, lunging for her. At the last second, she shimmied out of his grasp, reaching the heavy front doors. She burst through them, wrenching them off their rusted hinges and sending splinters arcing into the air.

Even outside under the morning sun’s protective watch, she didn’t slow. She raced down the valley toward the village—ragged breaths, leaves crackling beneath her boots, the warmth of the light. Don’t look back.

Tears blurred her vision as she fought not to sob. The sorrow ached as unbearably as it had when she’d collected and buried the... pieces of her sisters. She ran away as if to forget that last night, as if to leave that memory back at that desolate castle. Don’t look back. . . .