Eternal Demon: Mark of the Vampire (10 page)

“Yes, it is, but I cannot assist you in taming that heat,” he said, shifting her in his arms, pulling her closer. “So this will have to do.”

“So, I’m a demon in distress.”

“Stop being ornery and just relax. Enjoy the ride.”

The ride.
His words brought back the dream she’d just had. Him against the tree, her straddling his waist.

As she’d revisited that foolish fantasy, she hadn’t been noticing where they were going. Or where they weren’t. Not outside as she’d assumed, but up several flights of stairs.

Her hot skin prickled and her muscles tensed. “Where are we going?”

“I asked you to relax.”

“You said it was time.”

“No,
you
said it was time. I said I was releasing you.” He reached the top of the staircase, breathing easily as if he carried nothing at all. “Before we go we need to clean you up a bit. Don’t want your lover seeing you like this, do you?”

“Like what?” she said, suddenly indignant.

“Ravished.”

“I wasn’t ravished.”

“Yes, you were. I saw it with my own eyes.” His voice dropped to a ragged, husky whisper. “Don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. It was one thing to push against the need, the heat, the desire snaking through her system, but having Erion remind her what had happened in the dungeon—what he had witnessed, what his eyes and mouth and skin had looked like when she’d claimed her orgasm, was something else entirely. It not only inflamed the already debilitating heat, but it made her yearn for something she should never want.

She just had to keep reminding herself that soon she’d be with Cruen, soon the draft would cleave to her veins, cooling her blood and making her rational once again.

“It wouldn’t help either of our causes if you met him looking like a woman of the streets,” Erion continued, stopping before a heavy wood door.

“I don’t know what a woman of the street is,” she said as he carried her inside a large, well-lit room. “But I don’t think I like the sound of it. I’m sure I look decently presentable—”

She stopped speaking because he’d crossed the room and placed her in front of a mirror. Her sisters used mirrors in the Underworld, but Hellen never had. It had always seemed like a waste of time and, frankly, just another reason to feel bad about her appearance.
Kind of like now,
she mused, her eyes moving from foot to face in a slow progression.

“Oh. My.”

Erion grunted. “Indeed.”

She whirled on him, the vision of her wild hair; tear-soaked face; and dirty, wrinkled gown still weighty in her mind. “Let us not forget whose fault it is that I look so improper and so . . . ugly.”

The violent look that crossed his features made her heart stutter, and she drew back.

“Call yourself that again and you will be back in chains,” he said. “Do you understand me?”

She gaped at him, stunned at his words, his passion.

“You need a bath, yes,” he continued, “your hair combed, and a new gown, but your beauty is irrefutable and not to be insulted.”

Hellen had said but minutes ago how weakness was not a part of her person. She had been schooled by her mother to not only never show weakness, but to smile in the face of fear. That advice had served her well in the Underworld. It had kept her clearheaded and brave when dealing with her father, while allowing her to look at her future without resentment. But this male and his impassioned opinion regarding her appearance was not something she could smile at or write off. Perhaps because instead of making her feel weak, his words filled her with a strange new sense of strength.

She caught his gaze, resolute yet concerned, and knew it was vital that she get to Cruen as quickly as possible. This demon bloodsucker who kept her prisoner, scolded her for self-flagellation, looked at her as though he’d never seen anything so intriguing or so desirable, could be her downfall if she allowed him to be.

If given the opportunity, he could do great damage to the house of cards she’d built. He could have the power to make her see herself differently, change her opinion of herself. Want for more than she believed she deserved.

“We don’t have much time,” he said, yanking her from her thoughts as he walked over to a white oval structure that stood about five feet off the ground. “I have had this drawn for you.”

Hellen stared at the oval and at the steam that rose from its center. It was filled with hot water. “What is it?”

“You’re not serious.”

She looked up at him blankly.

His mouth lifted at the corners. “It’s a bath. For washing.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen such a thing before.”

Erion looked amazed. “How do you clean yourself in the . . . ?”

“Underworld,” she provided, then shrugged. “We have rain, hot rain, and a fragrant flower that grows and provides us with a powder to wash with. It’s all we need.”

“The Underworld,” he repeated, looking thoughtful. “That’s where the coach emerged from, and the horses, their skin as thin as paper. That is where you live?”

Hellen felt a bite of pain near her heart. “Where I used to live,” she corrected. “This is my world now.”

His gaze narrowed and his nostrils flared. “You should wash while the water is heated.” He gestured to her. “Remove your dress.”

Her eyes shot to his. “No.”

“You cannot bathe with clothes on.”

She lifted her chin. “Then perhaps I will not bathe at all.”

His fangs dropped all the way, and as they stared at each other, the room seemed to grow very dim, as if the sun were afraid to emerge.

“If you do not wash yourself,” he said in a soft, deadly voice, “I will be forced to do it for you.”

Fear and heat fused inside her. “Do you enjoy humiliating me?”

His jaw tightened, but his eyes held no ire. “No.”

“Then why this brutish, caustic, egotistical way of yours? The inappropriate demands?”

He stepped toward her, invading her space. “I only want what’s mine returned, and I will do whatever it takes to make sure that happens without incident.”

Her hands went to her hips. “Cruen will be fine just to have me returned.”

“I will not risk it.”

“You will not risk your treasure!”

“No, I will not!”

Hellen bit her lip, bit back the wave of heat that was assaulting her. His treasure. What was it? Who was it? And why did it make her hurt and angry and jealous that it meant so damn much to him?

“If you want to see your beloved today or ever again,” he said with quiet vehemence, “you will do as I say.” He nodded at her feet. “Shoes first, then stockings, then your dress.”

Hellen fought with the idea of telling him to fuck off, telling him she wasn’t about to get naked in front of him—that if he wanted her clothes removed, he was just going to have to do it himself. But she knew her words meant nothing and her threats gave him permission.

Gods, she needed to go home. She needed her draft. She needed to seal this bargain with Cruen. And this was her chance—probably her only chance. Lest she forget, Erion had seen her touch herself, cry out in orgasm. What was a few feet of skin compared to that humiliation?

She hissed but began to undress. First she toed off her shoes, then tossed them over her shoulder. A canine yelp sounded, and she glanced over to the bed where the mongrel slept. Her shoe now lodged in his mouth, the little beast jumped from the bed and tore across the room and out the door.

“The canine is still here?” she said, staring at the open door, her feet bare.

“He refuses to leave me.”

She turned back to face him. “Perhaps you do have a soft heart beneath all of that battle armor, Erion.”

“No, demon girl,” he said. “Never be foolish enough to believe that.”

Hellen looked at him curiously, but he wouldn’t allow her to study him. He pointed to her feet. “Stockings, please. We waste time.”

She heaved a breath, pulled off one stocking, then the other, and deposited them in a little pile on the rug.

“Now the dress,” he said.

This was madness, and yet what choice did she have? She gave him an impertinent glare. “I need help with the laces.”

He made a circle with his index finger. “Turn around.”

“You are getting entirely too much pleasure from bossing me around,” she said, giving him her back.

Pleasure.

Erion growled softly. Pleasure was the last thing he was feeling in that moment. Pain, frustration, desperation, concern, desire . . . nothing even remotely close to pleasure.

He came to stand behind her and tried like hell not to breathe her in, but it was impossible. His lungs had tasted her scent in the dungeon and ached for more, ached for their fix. His nostrils flared and he pulled her in.
Ahhhhh
 . . . Her scent was intense, intoxicating, and the heat poured off her body in waves. He wondered if it had been wise to draw her a hot bath. Perhaps cool water was needed to soothe her skin.

She was nape to waist laces, and he made quick work of them, easing them out two at a time with his index fingers until her back was exposed. Erion hated Cruen more every second, every pale, smooth inch that was exposed to his greedy gaze. But though his hands itched to touch her, encircle her waist, rake up her stomach and ribs until he captured her breasts, she wasn’t his prize to claim.

His cock strained against his zipper and he forced himself to remember what they were doing in his room. Getting her clean, getting her perfect for the one who held Ladd.

She stepped away from him then, turned, and held the bodice of her dress to her breasts. “You can go.”

“No.” He was foolish, reckless, but unable to deny himself.

“Dammit, demon! My body is not for your eyes.”

“I know perfectly well who your skin belongs to,” he ground out. “But I won’t allow you the chance to escape.”

She looked nonplussed. “Why would I escape now? You are bringing me to Cruen.”

His head cocked to one side and he had to force himself to remain still. “I wouldn’t dare to guess what goes on in your brain, female. What games you play, what tricks you pull. Now remove the gown. We don’t want to be late.”

Her cheeks flushed. “You are acting like an animal.”

“I believe I am acting like a demon.”

Her jaw went tight and Erion wondered if she would fight him on this—and how he would respond if she did. But just as he took his next breath, she lifted her hands and let the gown fall. Perhaps it pooled at her feet, a great puff of white. Erion didn’t know. He didn’t care. His eyes were nowhere near the floor. They were wide and hungry and feasting on every inch of her creamy white skin. He’d suspected she was utter perfection beneath her gown, and he’d been right. Her legs were long, her hips round and ripe for a male’s hands to grip and guide toward his own. Her waist was small and flared upward to a set of the most beautiful, mouthwatering breasts he’d ever beheld.

His hands no longer itched at his sides.

Now they ached.

“All of it, demon girl,” he said quietly.

He heard her swallow and take a quick, nervous breath as she hooked her fingers in the waistband of her white silk underwear and eased them down over her luscious hips. The moment she stepped out of them and stood before him completely and gloriously naked, Erion lost his mind. He turned and roared, stalked toward the open bedroom door, and slammed it shut with a bone-clattering bang that was meant as a grave warning to all who dwelled within his castle.

Come near this room and die
.

When he rounded on her again, Hellen was standing there, staring at him, tall and beautiful, her chest rising and falling, her nipples beading in the cool air.

“What now?” she asked.

His jaw clamped shut, his molars grinding with frustration. He chastised himself.
You did this, foolish male. You brought her here, made her undress, and now you can barely breathe for wanting her. Remember your purpose—remember her purpose.
He had to get her clean, had to deliver her to Cruen just as he’d found her, as he’d taken her. Unharmed, untouched.

“In the water,” he growled.
Now. Before I bend you over the side of my bed and finally make use of it.

She gripped the side of the tub and stepped in. Her hiss as skin met hot water drove blood to his groin and heightened his foul mood.

“Sit down,” he demanded.

“No.”

His gaze ripped to her and narrowed. “Why not?”

She stood there, a goddess, a demon goddess in white skin and flaming curls both on her head and between her legs. Erion licked his lips.

“I don’t like the feeling of sitting in water,” she said. “I won’t.”

“You are trying to be a pain in my ass,” he growled, crossing the room and grabbing a small towel and a bar of soap from the table beside the bathtub. He knelt down and plunged the washrag into the water, scrubbed it with the soap until he created a substantial lather, then uttered the terse command, “Don’t move.”

Her hands fisted at her sides, but she stilled, remained silent as he reached down and dragged the hot, soapy cloth over her calves, then behind her knees. When he moved up her thighs, avoiding the red curls that called to him like a lover, she gasped and his cock pressed hard against his zipper. She was so close, heat surging from every pore of her skin and entering the atmosphere around them. He gritted his teeth against the growl of desire that wanted to escape his lungs and throat. He wanted to go slow, hours if he could manage it, explore every inch, let the cloth be his excuse to know her. Shit, this was madness. Though his nostrils were heavy with her scent and his tongue ached to be heavy with her cream, he forced himself to remain on task.

That is, until the rag brushed against her belly and she moaned deep and pained and sensually, and she stepped wider apart, granting him a perfect view of her pink pussy lips.

He fisted the wet rag and cursed blackly, violently.

“I am holding as still as I can,” she said, mistaking his desire for irritation. “You are rough. I can’t help shifting to keep my balance.”

His eyes lifted to meet hers, and he knew they were pitch-black and untamed. “Your scent makes me insane.”