Chapter 8
EIGHT
REMUS
I inhale the intoxicating scent of her released desire from outside her room, and every muscle in my immortal body strains with the overwhelming need to smash down this door and claim what’s mine.
My nose may not be as enhanced as some of my brothers’, but it’s still infinitely superior to any mortal’s pathetic senses.
I’d intended to simply walk past her room like a civilized being—well, as civilized as someone like me can manage.
But who am I fooling? I’m not civilized and never have been, and I have absolutely zero intention of starting now.
When the scent that hit the air earlier—when I whispered those deliciously filthy promises in her ear—suddenly saturates the entire hallway outside her door like the most potent aphrodisiac, there’s no fucking way I can keep walking.
I lean my forehead against the cool wood and inhale with every ounce of supernatural ability I possess.
Only to hear her little breathless squeal and realize, holy shit, she’s pleasuring herself.
I riled her up, and now she’s finishing what I started.
My hands clench into fists so tight I’m surprised I don’t crack my knuckles, and it takes discipline I rarely display—discipline that goes against every instinct I possess—to stay rooted in place.
I grind my teeth as that bastard Romulus threatens to burst awake and steal this perfect moment from me.
The parasitic asshole’s always taking advantage of any surge of emotion or stress, always ready to ruin my fun with his cold, logical interference.
I grab the ornate silver flask from my hip and take a generous swig of Layden’s bitter elixir.
The salty, metallic liquid barely hits my throat before I feel that familiar zing of crystalline awareness flooding my system—fully awake, fully present, and completely in control of my own body again.
I smile with savage satisfaction because I’ve never wanted to be more present for anything in my long, violent existence as I lean against her door, using every enhanced sense I possess to experience this moment.
I stay there through every gasp, every whispered moan, all the way until she cries out my name in that breathless, desperate way that hits me like a physical blow.
Then I stumble backward from the door, overwhelmed by raw, primal need that threatens to consume what little rationality I possess. I turn and pace away silently, my tail lashing behind me with barely controlled agitation.
But I won’t give myself the same relief she just found. No, I want to remain balanced on this knife’s edge of arousal until she’s screaming my name while I’m actually touching her, worshipping her body with my hands and mouth and cock. Not just the fantasy of me.
I swing back around and reach for the doorknob, so close—so fucking close—to shoving the door open and claiming what’s mine.
But then reality crashes back, and I remember my complete and utter lack of experience with human females.
That is to say, my entirely nonexistent experience with consensual pleasure.
It’s not that I haven’t wanted to lie with mortal women before.
But unlike many soldiers throughout the centuries, I was always disgusted by the taking of females as spoils of war.
The very concept made my stomach turn and my cock go soft with revulsion.
And the few times I approached willing prostitutes, they were so terrified by my appearance—my wings, my tail, the barely leashed violence that radiates from me—that even when they’d take my coin, it immediately killed any desire I felt.
But the thought of a woman who gasps my name with genuine pleasure instead of backing away in fear or disgust? That has me harder than I’ve ever been in my immortal existence.
I didn’t hide who I am from her. I showed her my monstrous nature, my violent past, my otherworldly appearance—and still, she writhes at the thought of me just on the other side of this door.
Silently, I press my palm against the cool wood, the rest of me burning with barely contained fire. She is a precious, irreplaceable treasure unlike any I’ve encountered in millennia of existence.
But one must be careful with treasure, or it will shatter beyond repair.
I must move slowly. Carefully.
As much as I despise it and as much as it goes against every impulsive instinct in my chaotic nature, I must have patience.
So I force myself to turn away with a wide grin, actually looking forward to a long night of exquisite torture, imagining all the delicious ways I plan to make her squeal and moan once I finally break through her defenses.
Because patience is indeed a two-way street, and perhaps if I continue to tempt my fiery little consort as I did tonight, I won’t have to wait nearly as long as I fear.
The next morning, I knock on her door with the eager anticipation of a schoolboy, armed with warm beignets and perfect coffee from Café Du Monde.
She opens the door looking so beautifully rumpled and sleep-tousled that I want to do all sorts of wicked things that go directly against my newfound determination to take things slowly.
Don’t terrify the exquisite woman, you magnificent disaster.
I feel something entirely foreign coursing through me—hope mixed with genuine fear.
Fear that this miraculous possibility of her actually wanting me back is as fragile as spun glass in morning sunlight.
Because yes, I am a god, but I’m beginning to understand that what we have between us could be destroyed so easily by one wrong move.
Yes, I am divine, but I’m also undeniably a monster. And she is so beautifully, achingly delicate. I don’t have any sort of history with being gentle with delicate things. But by all the gods that came before me, I will learn.
I hold up the breakfast bounty I’ve procured from halfway across the continent and feel my chest swell with satisfaction at the way her gorgeous eyes light up with surprise when she spots the familiar logo on the paper bag.
“Did you really fly all the way to—?”
“A quick morning flight to New Orleans is an excellent way to stretch my wings,” I say with deliberate casualness, as if transcontinental breakfast runs are perfectly normal behavior.
Her eyebrows arch high as she accepts the steaming coffee from my hands and inhales the rich, chicory-laced aroma with obvious pleasure.
“I was thinking you might enjoy taking a walk by the lake today,” I suggest, fighting to keep my voice level despite the way she’s unconsciously licking her lips. “Perhaps explore the grounds a little, see more of your new home.”
“I’m not even dressed yet,” she protests, and I can’t help but notice the faint blush creeping up her neck.
I take my sweet time looking her up and down, drinking in the sight of those gorgeous, thick thighs and shapely calves exposed beneath the hem of her sleep shirt.
“Hey,” she says sharply, stepping behind the door for cover.
When I drag my gaze back to her face, her cheeks are beautifully flushed, but her eyes are still bright and alert.
I’m reminded of the tortuous night I spent replaying every little sound she made, the intoxicating scent of her pleasure that lingered in my nostrils like the most addictive drug.
Thank the gods for that long, cold flight through the pre-dawn hours—it was the only thing that got my body back under any semblance of control.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she says, her voice deliberately sharp, like she’s trying to regain her composure after the way my appreciative gaze affected her. “But you do realize that if I’m actually going to stay here long-term, I’ll need more than just gourmet food delivery?”
“Anything you need, you have only to ask,” I promise immediately.
“I need clothes. Real clothes, not just what I’m wearing. And a toothbrush—God, I desperately need a toothbrush. You know, basic necessities?” Her eyes narrow dangerously. “And I swear I will absolutely murder you if you bring me back size six clothing or some other ridiculous bullshit like that.”
I frown, genuinely puzzled. The intricacies of purchasing women’s clothing have never occurred to me in all my centuries of existence. But I can see her point—for all my elaborate planning to acquire a consort, there were certain practical considerations I apparently overlooked completely.
But she’s here now, in my castle, and that’s all that truly matters.
“I can have a complete wardrobe delivered by tonight,” I declare with absolute confidence. “Along with anything else your heart desires. Simply make me a list of requirements.”
What I’ve learned throughout every era I’ve lived in is that wealth can triumph over virtually any obstacle.
Whether it’s been gold bars, paper currency, or these modern plastic cards that connect to bank accounts, money has always been the ultimate problem-solver.
And my brothers and I have accumulated our fair share over the millennia.
Romulus had the foresight to invest our accumulated wealth in Italian banking houses during the early seventeenth century—one of his few genuinely useful contributions to our existence.
The returns from those investments have made us one of the wealthiest, if most secretive, families in all of Europe.
My methodical twin also arranged for a human accounting firm to serve as the public face of our assets, along with connections to a specialized fixer who handles our more unusual requests.
Like when we need modern appliances and conveniences delivered to remote locations with no surveillance, no questions asked.
She studies me skeptically from behind the partially closed door, then shuts it completely in my face.
I’ve waited for her all night. I don’t mind waiting a little longer.