Blood Curse (16 page)

Pain shot through him—he expected it—but she gasped in shock. Her face contorted in pain. At once, he released her. If it would only hurt him, he would have kissed those marks tenderly, as if to make them better.

But his touch hurt her.

Guidon’s book had talked about that. As Raven began to attack her power—as he began to prepare her body to surrender it through sex—she would experience the pain of her power.

Damn, he couldn’t hurt her. The book had said the pain would eventually stop. If they took their sexual games far enough, they would both escape the pain.

But for now, she looked so stunned he let her go.

“Sorry, my dear. According to Guidon’s book this is what must happen for me to take your power—you will start to feel the same pain when we touch.” He related what that chapter had said. “But it will stop.”

“Why shouldn’t I know what it feels like? It is my curse, after all. Why should I be immune?”

“It isn’t your fault, and you should not have to suffer.”

Damn, Raven hated the thought of being destroyed now. Before meeting Ophelia, he would have welcomed it. But now . . .

He would love to spend eternity playing bondage games with Ophelia.

“I am pleased to know you like to be tied up.” He kept his voice soft to disguise the rawness of it. He had to fall in love with her, then die brokenhearted.

She shivered, and her breasts swayed. Tempting him.

After he took her power, she could be touched. But he wasn’t going to be the man to do it—he would be dead. A stab of jealousy hit his heart at the thought of the lucky man who would eventually have her.

It was irrational to be jealous.

Ophelia studied him, her head cocked to the side. “You are so gentle with me. It makes me forget what you said about yourself. That you said you were an assassin. My goodness, I can even trust you around me with a whip in your hand . . . trust you to give me pleasure and not hurt me.” She nervously licked her lips. “I’ve never had anyone I could trust—I’ve never been able to feel close to anyone, since I was so afraid of hurting people. I can’t imagine you as an assassin now, even though I’ve seen how dangerous you can be. I want to understand you. Why did you become an assassin? Why would you kill—you are a gentleman, aren’t you? I know gentlemen fight duels, but they don’t . . . do whatever assassins do.” She lifted her hands, as if to touch his shoulders, but she froze.

She looked so hurt that she couldn’t touch him.

To build her trust, he had to explain something. Give her something. “I was a soldier. For a long time. Killing was what I learned to do well.”

“You fought against Napoleon?”

“I fought against everyone. I fought Napoleon, I fought in India, I fought in the uprising in Ceylon. When there were no battles, I went in search of them.”

“Why?” Her eyes revealed how perplexed she was. “I should think battles are awful. I would be relieved when one was over. To be safe and—and normal again.”

He jerked his head up. She had spent her life wanted to be normal; he had spent his life looking for death and conflict. Two more opposite people he could not imagine. How could he capture her heart? She was looking at him like he was a dangerous beast or a strange creature she’d never encountered before. She couldn’t understand him.

“Did you find it exciting?” she whispered.

“No, it wasn’t that.” Or was it? “There was excitement, I suppose,” he said, considering. “Being in battle meant you spent a lot of time doing things like fighting, marching, setting up camps, cleaning your rifle. The basic job of survival took much of your time. It meant I didn’t have to think.”

Her indigo eyes widened. “That sounds terrible. How could you have wanted to be in the midst of battle simply so you didn’t have to think? What did you not want to think about?”

“Lady Ophelia, you’ve had graver troubles than I.”

“But I’ve hurt people, too, and it haunts me. I suspect it haunts you, too.”

He stared at her. “It does.” That made it a greater wrong that he had continued to do it as a soldier. Then he’d done it as a vampire, using mortals as his prey. There couldn’t be any man less deserving of a woman’s love.

“After you were a soldier, did you become an assassin of vampires to do good?”

Raven laughed at that. “No, it wasn’t that.” Damn, why had he said that? It was a statement that demanded an explanation. “I did it to pursue and destroy vicious vampires.”

“Are all vampires vicious? I knew some female vampires, and they seemed like ordinary girls to me.”

“Vampires claim they are not vicious.”

“I suppose I could be called vicious,” she said, her brow furrowed. “They are no different from me—forced to do something against their will.”

“You are not vicious, and you are nothing like the vampires I hunt,” he said. “That’s enough questions.” He had a long way to go—many more bouts of pleasure before they would be ready for him to try to take her power.

Ophelia watched Ravenhunt stand and stretch. His bare back was beautiful—a play of candlelight and shadow on a broad vee of muscle. She ached to reach out and stroke his magnificent back, let her hands follow the broad shoulders and run all the way down to his lean hips and muscled bottom.

Of course she couldn’t.

She also wished he would not shut her out when she asked him questions. But it seemed as impossible a wish as the one to caress him.

His expression was one of dark, brooding gloom. He lived alone, in the darkness, and it was obvious the violence in his past troubled him greatly.

“Who are you, really?” she asked softly. “You put yourself in exile the way I was told I must. What are you that you had to do this?”

“Just a soldier.”

“I know that’s not true. When soldiers return from battle, they are happy to be away from war. They want peace and they—”

“No, love. On that you are wrong,” he said. “Many soldiers find they can’t live with peace. As I said, surviving keeps a man busy. Soldiers are used to the excitement and fear of fighting for their lives and for other men. They are used to making instant decisions and throwing courage or madness at a hopeless situation. Peace does not sit well after that.”

“How could you prefer that? I don’t understand.”

“Men have their reasons.”

“Yes, the things you don’t want to think about and that you will not tell me about.”

Of course he said nothing in answer. He lifted his hand, almost touched her bare shoulder. His hand stayed there, not quite making contact, but it felt as if little bolts of sizzling power jumped between her skin and his.

“Did you become an assassin to live as you did in war?”

“I—Hades, it’s complicated.”

Ophelia folded her arms at her chest. “I am going to find out what you are—”

“Love, I hunt and destroy vampires. The undead would want me dead. For my own protection, I have to live like this.” Raven stopped talking. Some of that was actually the truth, but the last thing he could let her do was learn his whole truth.

“Can you stop hunting vampires?”

“No.” He had to bring a halt to this conversation. He braced his arm against the bedpost. In this position he towered over her, and she gazed up at him. Their lips were close, and he took the whip and used its tip to caress her nipples. He drew them to full, erect points.

“You—oh.” Her sentence dropped to a moan as he lightly strummed her right nipple. “But you look so unhappy—oooh!”

He slid the whip down, rubbing it between her thighs, rubbing her clit.

“Goodness—the only time—”

She was still fighting to talk. The way to silence her would be to dive between her legs and lick her senseless. Or thrust his aching cock in her to the hilt. He’d been sporting an erection for hours, and his ballocks were in pain.

“The only time I’ve seen you smile is when we do . . . lovemaking things,” she gasped.

So demure and sweet. He owed her something, but not enough that he frightened her away. Stroking her clit, he murmured, “I cannot stop hunting vampires, love. It’s too late for me. But yes, carnal games with you make me very happy.”

He’d found her erotic triggers when he’d painted images for her of sex slaves and multiple partners. Raven withdrew the whip handle from the soft, damp cleft between her legs. “Get on your knees on the bed.”

Ophelia did so obediently.

“Bend forward and rest your cheek on the bed. Keep your bottom up in the air.”

“Oh yes. Tie me up again,” she said boldly. “I want more.”

“P
ut your hands behind you, crossed at the wrists.”

Ravenhunt’s dark voice sent a tumble of shivers down her spine. On her knees on the bed, Ophelia stuck her naked derriere up in the air. Vulnerable, true, but she felt so erotic.

She squirmed. She’d never ached so much between her legs. Desperately, she wanted to touch herself there. It was an insistent hunger, a screaming need to be stroked.

Ravenhunt eased the whip between her legs. She sighed in relief as the leather-wrapped rod ran along her nether lips. “Oh yes,” she whispered.

But relief was short-lived. He took the whip handle away, and something scratchy ran around her ankles. She squeaked in surprise, sat up, and turned to look, which meant she was no longer in the scandalous, naughty position that had thrilled her so much.

Rough, hemp rope was wrapped around her ankles. Humming casually, Ravenhunt tied a knot, securing her legs together at her feet.

She loved the pressure of the rope. Even the scratchiness—such a contrast to the silkiness of the sheets beneath her.

“Hands behind you,” he instructed. Clipped. Curt. Demanding.

She returned to the position he had commanded, her hands clasped and resting against the swell of her bottom.

He slid the rope around her wrists. Her hips wriggled, which worked the rope at her ankles. Excitement spiked through her, rushing from her tied-up ankles, up her legs. Exploding between her legs.

“Oh!” she cried out. Not quite a climax, but she felt a rush of wetness.

Ravenhunt pulled the rope encircling her wrist tight. “Being tied up makes you free,” he murmured. “For I am doing this to you, and you have to do as I want.
Whatever
I want.”

“Yes,” she whispered. Panting so hard she could barely speak.

“Now this.” He took a strip of black silk and twisted it, turning it into a column of wound silk. He pressed it to her lips, and when she lifted her head, gasping in surprise, he gagged her. It took him moments.

“Not too tight.” His deep, smooth tones were filled with satisfaction.

Ophelia let her cheek sink back against the bed. Another strip of silk was quickly fastened around her eyes.

She was gagged, blindfolded, and bound for him. But this was a game, and she wasn’t scared. She liked it. She remembered the sort of fantasies she used to have—about being taken by a forceful, dark man, one who was immune to her power, and who would haul her roughly into his embrace and press his hard, strong body against hers.

She shouldn’t want such things in reality. But this—

“This is fun, harmless pleasure, Ophelia.”

She couldn’t see him, but his voice was soft and close. Her nape tingled—she was sure he whispered by her ear. “Many women dream of this. You did so because you wanted to be taken by a strong man. It’s natural, my angel, because you believed you couldn’t accept a man’s touch. Many women who know they cannot be naughty dream of having pleasure forced on them. It’s exciting to be out of control and subjected to enticing, erotic acts.”

The whip stroked along her spine and she quivered. It caressed the cheeks of her bottom.

Was she really quite ready to be utterly out of control? Would he whip her there? She couldn’t ask, for she had the gag between her lips.

Then shockingly he slid the firm, long handle between her cheeks, so it glided horizontally in the valley of her rear. He left it there, stuck between the globes of her bottom.

“Now for your clit, angel.”

Rough rope sawed between her thighs. She squawked in protest, but the gag muffled it. His hands firmly rubbed it until it seated beneath her nether lips, lightly abrading them with each fierce breath she took. When she moved, the rope did, too, sliding over her clit.

Oh! She saw sparks shooting in front of her closed eyes.

“There’s more. Would you like more?”

He was tempting her to take a bite of wanton pleasure and she couldn’t resist. She couldn’t speak for the gag. She nodded and she accidentally jiggled the rope against her oh-so-sensitive clit. She cried out into the silk strip.

“Warmed oil,” Ravenhunt said softly. A soft drizzle hit the base of her spine and she jolted. Something massaged it gently downward, coating the valley of her rump. Pain stabbed her quickly and the soft stroking stopped.

“I won’t hurt you. I’ll use a wand instead. Coated in oil.”

There was a pause and then something warm and firm tapped her bottom.

For one thrilling moment she thought: It must be his erection. Then she felt the rigidness of it, pressed against her botto m.

No, the wand he’d used on her before. Gently, he traced along the valley of her derriere. Until he reached the entrance there.

She tried to jerk away, but he slid a rope around her waist and held it so she could not roll or wriggle in escape.

Lightly he traced around that place, that forbidden place.

“You are sensitive in there, too.”

Ophelia shook her head. How could she be? This wasn’t . . . well, proper.

“I will show you.”

The wand, slick with oil, penetrated her bottom. Just a bit. Her muscles clenched in refusal. He eased it back, but when she took a deep breath, relaxing, he pushed it forward again. Over and over he did this, and it stopped hurting, stopped making her tense. Her bottom was slick with oil. Her muscles no longer clenched.