Chapter VII
Nicolai
The weakness running in my veins makes that offer—if it is one—far too appealing.
I don’t normally need to feed so desperately, never allow it to get that far, but that fall took everything.
It should have killed me. I’m not surprised that the werewolf survived it, but my bone structure isn’t the same as his.
A vampyre’s power isn’t from brute strength like them; we’re so much more than that. Better.
The lycan had only given me just enough to heal from the life-threatening injuries. I have nothing left to sustain myself, and I know that was the point. He took me from the brink of death but only so far so that he could control me, keep me chained. Clever for an animal.
After the fight with the ghouls, I have less than nothing left. Barely able to walk. Pathetic. I hate my own weaknesses right now more than he ever could. Knowing that I have to rely on him makes this even worse. I’m not sure that I wouldn’t prefer to die.
The lycan crosses his arms over his chest, corded muscles prominently on display. “You fed on me earlier.”
I’m not much for physical pursuits. It’s not worth the effort, and I’ll never trust another predator to be that close to my jugular.
When I do it, it’s quick, meaningless, and I’m in control.
Not the most satisfying activity that I can think of.
Even so, I can appreciate a fine figure, and this werewolf is thick in all the right places.
Strong muscles, considerable thighs, hairy, muscular chest, veins prominent and twisting up his arms. A thick beard that shapes his lips, dark-brown hair that curls at the edges, clinging to his temples.
His eyes are a warm brown, nothing but an illusion to hide the beast underneath.
That, if nothing else, signals how close to death’s door I’m standing. Ogling a werewolf. Hitting rock bottom has never looked so good.
Perhaps I’m already dead, and this is simply my punishment in the afterlife.
I was born a vampyre, tracing lineage far enough back that I don’t care about memorizing any of it, but I’ve done too many bad things in my life, isolated myself too much, to believe that anyone will feast to honor my soul.
I’m damned in this life just as I will be in the next.
“When I was half dead,” I’m compelled to point out. More than half dead, in fact. I barely remember any of it. “If I wanted to kill you now, you’re only giving me an opening.”
He stalks toward me, too damn fast, and my fangs drop in a snarl.
“You want to kill me now,” he says far too casually, given the large hand he’s wrapping around my throat.
I hiss at him in warning. I may have no reserves of energy, but that doesn’t mean I won’t find some just to take him down with me. Does he think I’m so easily dispatched? “Get your hands off me.”
He squeezes, cutting off my air supply, pulling me in even closer. Tugging viciously at his forearms does nothing. He doesn’t even flinch when my nails cut through skin.
“If you kill me, you die too. We need each other.”
“I don’t need anyone,” I choke out, hating the truth of his words. To have fallen so low as to require help from a werewolf is the ultimate shame. No one can ever know.
“Of course not,” the lycan sneers. “Cold bloodsucker is an independent killer. What a boring cliche. It won’t save you in here.” He lets me go, though he stays in my personal space. “I suggest a temporary truce.”
I roll the word around on my tongue. Disgusting. “Truce?” They don’t know the meaning of the word, and neither do I. I don’t make truces with their kind. I take calculated risks with my life; I don’t throw it away carelessly.
He lifts his arm, presenting his forearm to me. It’s almost as thick as my head. No wonder his werewolf form is so formidable when his human form is the same size as a regular transformed beast. “You want to kill me?” he taunts. “Go ahead. But you’ll be signing your death warrant too.”
The smirk on his face is what sets me off. So fucking smug and self-righteous. I lunge forward, sinking my fangs into his soft flesh, right where the thickest vein begs for me to drink. I suck hard, copper tang filling my mouth. It’s pure rich decadence, sliding down my throat.
I dig fingers into his forearm as I drink deeply, not allowing him to pull away.
Is his blood laced with something? I’ve never tasted anything like it.
It can’t just be because it’s directly from the source.
A heated heaviness makes its way through me, a blissful ache tightening my groin.
My entire body throbs with an uncontrollable need that’s completely foreign to me.
A large hand cradles the back of my head, urging me on. I groan and push my fangs in further, digging deeper.
It’s not enough. I need more.
Pulling away with a harsh gasp, my eyes lock onto the lycan’s.
The brown is gone, replaced by the gold of his beast, molten liquid gleaming and heated.
His canines are peeking through his lips.
My gaze is drawn to his throat, where I can feel the pulsing of his heartbeat.
I want to take from there. Will it taste better?
The lycan stumbles back and sits heavily on an intact pew, dragging me down with him.
If anyone attempted to manhandle me, they would find themselves on the pointy ends of my daggers.
This time I let myself tumble across the werewolf’s lap, too distracted by the line of his neck.
The erratic thrum of his vein calls to me.
I want to feed so badly. The hum of arousal is a new feeding experience.
No one’s ever mentioned it before. Surely it would be noted somewhere? What the hell is happening to me?
It’s a distant question, all my focus on the need to get my fangs back inside him.
“Do it,” he says hoarsely, tone deep and curling lust in my gut.
I don’t need to be told twice. The second I pierce the delicate skin of his neck and sink deep, a shudder of pure bliss rolls through me. Fuck, so sweet, so good. Like honey nectar. How?
My dick fills as I rock involuntarily against him. Hands grip my ass and take over, increasing the pressure, a low guttural groan rumbling from his wide chest.
There’s no thought, only the visceral need to consume and be consumed.
Any time a hint of rationale tries to enter, it’s swept away on a cascade of sensations that pull me back under.
I can’t think of a single reason why this doesn’t make sense, why we shouldn’t do this, why I can’t keep drinking and feeding and everything feels so good.
Every swallow of the lycan’s honeyed blood is like energy directly transferring to my throbbing dick and the need that’s growing exponentially inside me with every suck.
I barely notice hands tugging at the buttons of my leather pants, deft fingers making short work of them.
I simply arch my back and lift my hips, giving him leverage to pull them down enough to expose my ass.
The skin-on-skin contact brands me, heightening the overwhelming feelings that are riding me hard.
“I want to fuck you,” he says in a low, gravel-filled voice.
All the reasons why that’s a terrible idea elude me. In fact, it’s the only thing that makes sense, the only reasonable conclusion to the ache that’s taking me over. I want to get deeper, take more, get drunk on the taste of this werewolf’s incredible thick essence.
I can’t speak, unwilling to let go and retract my fangs.
That would mean I have to stop feeding, and that’s not going to happen.
Instead, I free his cock from the flimsy sweatpants that don’t hide anything and give it a stroke.
It’s thick and heavy in my palm, nothing like the few male vampyres I’ve slept with.
He’s warm and throbbing, and my hole clenches at the mere thought of feeling it split me open.
I’ve never fed during sex before. Not that vampyres don’t feed from each other; I simply haven’t.
There’s no benefit of doing it other than for the pleasure of it, and I don’t derive pleasure from it. At least, not before now.
Now? I can’t think of anything more appealing than drinking while this werewolf is inside me.
An inhuman growl rises from the lycan, and he lifts me with one hand curled over my hip.
I lock my knees against his thighs and help until the tip of his cock slides across my rim.
A moan slips out, and I suck more blood, rolling my tongue around it.
I’m so lost in the taste of it that I forget to hold myself, and his length slides past my hole, resting in the cleft of my ass.
I rub against it, almost unconsciously, and slide a palm over his broad shoulder, holding him in place.
How much blood does he have? Can I take it all?
Would he let me? How much can a lycan lose before they’re compromised, before life drains from them?
I need it all. I want to gorge myself on it until I’m filled with it.
The pew breaks, wood snapping and bending under our combined weight and frantic movements.
The lycan flips us instantly, pressing my back against the cold stone floor.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders to stop from being dislodged.
I don’t care what position we’re in or what he’s doing, so long as I can keep drinking.
He pulls away from me, and I growl a warning at him.
How dare he move and deprive me? My attempt to pull him back is resisted, and then my corset is being ripped off and pants roughly tugged down until I’m left in nothing but my undershirt and boots.
The loose fabric teases my skin as he yanks my hips down, slotting us together and positioning himself between my legs.
When he covers my body, my cock is pressed against his warm stomach, the hair adding friction. My hips automatically rotate against him.