Temptation at Twilight: Lords of Pleasure (5 page)

Unease skittered through him, quickly overtaken by his body’s baser urges. The predator in him wanted satisfaction now. He ate her slit hungrily, hardly aware of her fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to sting. He relished the slight pain and lapped at the juices teasing his tongue, fucking her channel until she moaned. She melted a bit, relaxing against him, urging him on.

The change in her was subtle, but the tide was gradually turning in his favor. She was putty in his hands now, trembling with need. This, at least, was familiar territory—Soren taking control and his lovers becoming slaves to their own desires, giving him everything they’d intended to take.

Confidence restored, he stood and turned her to face the table. “Brace your hands on the surface and spread those pretty legs for me, witch. There you go. Bend over a bit.”

She maneuvered into position, ass poking out, pouty sex slick from his attentions and begging for more. Quickly, he freed his aching cock from his jeans and gave the hard length a few strokes, knowing he wouldn’t last long despite his earlier session with the Chosen. Vampires were insatiable and had quick recovery periods between bouts of sex, which was either a blessing or a curse, depending on his mood and the situation.

At the moment, he was leaning toward curse.

He brought the head of his cock to her opening and pushed inside, hissing at the glorious feeling of her pussy clasping his rod, squeezing like a tight glove. When he was fully seated, he had to pause for a few seconds or risk spilling too soon.

And immediately he berated himself for wanting to draw out their intimate contact. He had to keep his bargain, but the cunning manipulator didn’t deserve his tenderness.

“Fuck me hard, damn you!” she shouted, reaching around to grab his ass.

Neither did she require sweet nothings, it seemed. Fine. Pumping fast, he pounded into her cunt without mercy, smiling a little at her fierce swearing. Obviously she liked it rough, which suited him.

“Bite me!” she cried. “Drink me! Do it now!”

The predator in him rejoiced, and he struck without a second thought. Dark delight flowed over his tongue, the same rich flavor as her pussy juices but a thousand times more intoxicating. The release that had been boiling in his balls exploded and he came deep inside her, cock spasming again and again. Leila screamed with the force of her own orgasm as he drank, her channel milking him of every drop.

When the waves subsided, he withdrew his fangs and collapsed onto her back, panting with exertion. His vision was doubled, his brain fuzzy with an incredible high. A very real high, not a metaphorical one. His mind felt weird. Altered. Already he craved more of her blood.

It was then that he realized a black thread was making its way through his veins, slowly connecting him to the witch. A tangible bond that pulsed with sickening life, demanding that he feed again.
Mother of all the gods, what’s happening?

“What have you done to me?” he rasped.

She chuckled, low and satisfied. “I merely took what you offered.”

The chill of her skin penetrated his awareness once more and this time bled into his very being, as well. Slipping out of her, he spun her to face him and dug his fingers into her shoulders. “What are you?”

“Why, I’m just the lowly priestess who can give you what you desire,” she said, blinking, the picture of false innocence. “Just as you can give the same to me.”

The bitch lied. Somehow she’d done the impossible and created a bond with him. Not a mating bond, but something similar. How? The female was more than she seemed, just as her bargain was much more than it appeared on the surface.

Smirking, she ran a fingernail down his cheek in a gesture he already hated. “Get dressed, my mate, and we’ll get to the first part of our deal—bringing your love back to you.”

Suddenly, he recalled an old short story called “The Monkey’s Paw,” in which the grisly severed paw granted the wishes of its owner, but did so in an evil way guaranteed to bring untold horror upon the unsuspecting fool.

Reaching for his jeans, Soren shivered, fearing that the consequences of what he’d just done might be a matter of life imitating art. Once they were dressed and seated again, she waved a hand at him.

“I’ll need something that belonged to Helena. A cherished item. A piece of jewelry or clothing. Something that was a gift from you is even better. I assume you came prepared?”

“Of course.” Hoping Leila didn’t detect the slight tremble of his hand, Soren, now fully dressed, reached into the inside pocket of his leather coat and withdrew a small, yellowed envelope. He handed it to her, and she opened the flap to peer inside.

“A cameo brooch?”

“My mating gift to her.”

“How cliché,” she purred.

“It fits your criteria,” he snapped. Damn, her snide tone grated.

“So it does.”

He leaned his elbows on the table, striving to look casual. It wasn’t easy with the anxious ball of hope and misery at war in his churning gut. With no little unease, he observed as she palmed the brooch and closed it in her hand, holding it suspended above the bowl of blood. Surely she didn’t intend to—

She let go of the brooch, and it fell into the bowl with a plop. Ignoring his muttered oath, she closed her eyes and held her hands palms down over the liquid and began a soft chant. After a few moments this ritual ended and she rose from the table, heading for a shelf filled with small dolls that all looked alike save for yarn hair of varying lengths and colors. Curious, he watched as the priestess selected a doll with long yellow hair and then proceeded to rummage through a chest, examining and discarding what appeared to be doll clothes, until she apparently found something that met with her satisfaction.

With unhurried movements, she worked a scrap of blue material onto the doll.
A dress?
Yes, a blue dress. Much like the one Helena had been wearing the night they’d met at a Council ball. A shiver ran through Soren. The long blond hair, the dress. How could the witch have known?

Stupid. Plenty of immortals knew what Helena had looked like, and it was clear the priestess made it her business to know things. And blue was a common color. He was being paranoid, letting his imagination run wild, thinking she had the talent to conjure those sorts of physical details in an instant. Wasn’t he?

She returned to the table and sat, laying the doll in the center of the table, and he put the matter from his mind. More pressing was what she would do next, how she’d make good on her end of the bargain. Reaching for a jar at her right hand, she unscrewed the lid, took a pinch of what appeared to be dark green herbs, and sprinkled them into the bowl. Next, she took a long-handled silver spoon and stirred the curious mixture, then lifted the brooch from the bowl with the spoon. The once-beautiful piece of jewelry looked gruesome floating in the puddle of crimson, but when she laid it on the doll’s throat, he had to swallow hard to keep from gagging.

Yarn became bloodied golden tresses. Cloth became flesh. Torn, mottled flesh where ivory skin used to be, dangling meat bisecting his mate’s delicate throat. Ripped out by the demon as she lay fighting for breath, poisoned by the bite. The cameo resting sadly there was a horrible reminder of love lost.

Soren bolted to his feet, sending the stool skittering backward to tip over with a noisy clatter. “What the fuck are you doing to me?” he shouted.

Desperately, he scrubbed at his eyes to clear them of the terrible image burning his retinas. When he focused on the doll . . . it was just an inanimate object again, presented in a gruesome parody of murder.

“I did nothing but what you asked,” she claimed with a shrug. “I called Helena’s soul back from beyond and back to you. How long until she arrives, time will tell.”

Another mistake on his part, not insisting she be specific on when his love would return. “If you’re fucking with me—”

“I’m not, vampire.” She smiled. “At least not yet.”

“Leila,” he began, his tone low with warning. “I’m serious. If you’re thinking of double-crossing me, I’ll make certain you regret it.”

“Threats before the honeymoon? How disappointing.” She didn’t appear concerned. “I’ll just pack a bag for now. Tomorrow you can send a few of your slaves to box the rest of my belongings and close the cabin.”

“We don’t own slaves,” Soren said shortly. “Though it’s perfectly legal and even economical, Aldric doesn’t believe in the caste system, and, frankly, neither do I.”

“Really?” She arched a brow. “That will soon change.”

With that cryptic statement, she went to gather her things, leaving him to scowl after her and wonder exactly what he’d gotten himself into. Already, he felt . . . different. The blood he’d drawn from her still tingled on his tongue, coursed through his veins like an illicit drug.

He craved more of it. Of her. And that need within him frightened him more than any dangerous enemy he’d ever faced. He couldn’t let it overwhelm him, couldn’t allow dark desire to obliterate his purpose.

Somewhere his true love waited. Soon he’d have her back.

Even if the price was far higher than he’d dreamed.

“Y
ou did
what
?”

Soren’s head throbbed as Aldric paced their large office at the resort, working himself up to an explosion of epic proportions. Luc caught his eye, mouthing,
I told you so
, and Soren shot him a glare in return.

Ever the peacemaker, Luc came to his defense, despite the fact that he’d tried to dissuade Soren from his course of action. “Hey, it won’t be so bad. So what if he has to fuck the witch’s brains out for the next sixty years? He’ll get Helena back, and all’s well that ends well. Right?” He tried an engaging smile on the fuming Aldric.

Which failed miserably. “Do either of you think I give two shits if Soren has to screw that vile woman until his dick falls off? He deserves it!” their older brother shouted. Whirling, he shook his finger in Soren’s face. “What I
do
care about is that you’ve played right into that scheming cunt’s plans and handed her on a
silver fucking platter
the very thing I’ve worked for the past four years to keep her from snatching!”

“The Council seat?” Luc ventured unwisely.

“Yes, the gods-damned Council seat! Where Leila will waste not one second lobbying—read:
manipulating
with every dirty trick she knows—to gain supporters until she has enough votes to pass whatever laws she sees fit for who knows
what
evil purpose!” He grabbed Soren’s shirt and yanked him close, so that they were nose to nose. “All so you can be reunited with that weak little mouse of a human.”

Soren had been fielding the abuse pretty well until then. His brother had very valid points and had every right to be angry, but throwing down insults on his dead mate crossed the line.

Rage descended in a crimson veil, and Soren lunged with a snarl. The suddenness and momentum of the attack took Aldric completely by surprise and propelled them both across the antique mahogany desk. Papers and pens scattered, and a lamp crashed to the floor alongside them. Soren’s strength, while great, was normally no match for his brother’s, but Aldric couldn’t shove him off. He tried bucking his hips, pushing Soren’s chest with both hands, but couldn’t budge him.

Finally,
an inner voice hissed.
It’s about time I got the better of you, showed you who’s stronger! I’ll make you pay for what you said.

On the floor, Soren spied something glinting in the morning sunlight filtering through the window. A letter opener from the desktop, the slender silver blade ready. Deadly.

In an instant, the handle was in his grasp, the blade raised high as his older brother’s eyes widened in shock.

“Soren, no!” Luc yelled.

His younger brother slammed him from the side in a flying tackle, sending them down in a tangle. Luc grunted and slumped to his side, where he lay unmoving. Pushing to a sitting position, Soren reached for his brother, intending to throttle him. . . .

And then he spotted the handle of the letter opener protruding from Luc’s chest. The haze of rage vanished, releasing him from its foul grip. He stared in horror at what he’d done. His brother impaled on a silver blade. “Oh, gods! Luc!”

Scrambling forward, he gently rolled his brother to his back and gasped at the sight of blood oozing from around the wound. “Luc?” he whispered, gripping his shirt and shaking him. “Luc, please.”

Beside him, Aldric cursed and shoved Soren out of the way. Gathering Luc in his arms, their eldest brother stood and rushed from the office while shouting for help, leaving Soren to follow. He trailed after them in shock, unable to believe what just happened. They’d all lost their tempers with one another before, but never anything like the choking rage that had overcome Soren moments ago.