Chapter 10
Mortal-warm silk closed around him, her blood blazing afresh in his veins; he was hilt-deep before the snap of his control breaking registered. It was not what he had hoped for in a first time, certainly.
Yet mortals often took such pleasure after combat or disaster, affirming survival.
Fear was simply another arousal, and she was soaked in it, nerves primed, so slick and wet he had no trouble imagining her willing or at least compliant.
She writhed, instinctive protest against invasion merely seating him deeper, and exquisite glassy pleasure roared through every nerve, muscle, artery, and winding vein he possessed.
Something had sought to take her away; the animal crouching at the very floor of consciousness was enraged, restrained only by the sweet slack mouth he plundered with his own, only by the fact that he was in her, all the fragrant promise and thick honeyed musk drawn strangling-tight.
It was like lingering at the threshold of mortal death, the heart stuttering with strain, a few final syrup-drops wrung from aching thunder—yet it was his own oblivion he pursued, driving hard enough to print himself upon her fragile, lovely skeleton.
First the bite, then the claiming. So many layers to the proverb, whether in making fledglings or taking a leman.
Now he knew what true-death felt like for his kind, an insect struggling as tree-sap petrified slowly into amber, suffocating by centimeters.
Calcification’s bony, rigid grinning jaws had almost closed in his vitals, but a lamp in the night had saved him and he was fully, gratefully immolated.
Invisible flame obliterated every remembered sensation—even the strongest, like the stinging moment he found himself first capable of walking in cloud-weakened sunlight, or the still-raw thought of his mortal passing.
Objectively, it did not take long to please her—a mere short eternity, her mortal body snatching release after agonizing terror.
Her fascinating, trapped writhing stilled on the cusp; Lukas tensed, burying himself deeply as possible a bare moment before the crisis took her, concentric pulses shattering every universe so poor as to lack such a beautiful linchpin.
The temptation to allow his own release was undeniable, but that would be greedy. Not to mention dangerous; he could not afford the resultant temporary vulnerability.
Soon. He promised as much with a last lingering kiss, though she was far too mazed to respond. The noise was irritating—ah, the alarm for the elevator, hit almost as an afterthought. This is awkward.
Also, satisfying. His entire body protested another withdrawal, but it was done. She was claimed, the addiction holding his calcification at bay sealed. Her transition into the Gift could be accomplished in safe stages, bite by luscious, heated bite.
She was whole and relatively undamaged though trembling hard, fresh bruises rising on her shoulder and smooth, lovely thighs.
The change and healing agents would be busy repairing and beginning alteration; she was in little danger.
Still, his chest twinged internally once more as he set his clothing to what rights were possible, that wonderful if unpleasant sensation tugging at his old, obdurate heart.
All those centuries he had thought poets merely pretty liars; what they described, however imperfectly, was only stark truth. Lukas licked his lips, hungry for any remaining drop, and checked her slim, pretty neck.
Fresh but properly healing, bright as a brand, the fang-marks were pleasing indeed. He hadn’t even noticed the necklace, though the chain’s scintillation spoke of true silver.
He was no fledgling to flinch from that gleaming.
Still, the emerald and its setting caused him a single long pause, its sly green gleam peering over the nightgown’s silken, plunging neckline.
Naturally gems suited her, though the setting had pressed hard between her breasts, marking tender skin with pale divots he longed to kiss.
And that enchanting little freckle, as well.
“I see,” he breathed. A greisoul. No wonder they are so insistent.
She could stand, though only barely, and when he spoke she swayed as if about to swoon. The quietus was not necessary; she seemed stunned, Danae after a luminous visit or the Deer Girl waking to find the Sunwolf in her tent.
He had not thought of either tale in a very long while.
Lukas stroked her hair, smoothing tendrils from sweat-silken forehead; she neither flinched nor accepted the movement, just gazed slightly past him at the elevator’s frozen-open door, pursing the lush mouth he also longed to sample once more.
Soft and wavy, dyed black, the roots pale giveaways with a coppery tinge.
Strawberry blonde, was that the term? He also examined the greisoul closely, faintly envious of the gem enjoying such close living warmth.
Which led to another consideration. The nightgown was not nearly enough to keep a mortal from the elements, and he had torn the blanket—she was a resourceful lass, indeed—to shreds. His jacket was likewise in tatters, so he stripped it free.
The fungal excrescences were no friends to good tailoring.
He hadn’t gone through laundry like this since the incursion of a fellow sanguinant onto his Chicago territory, at the turn of.
..yes, the previous century. At least the brief burst of maneuvering and paroxysm of final combat had sharpened him for a short while, staving off slow creeping numbness.
Yet he could now trace how ossification had returned, fogging both mind and body by infinitesimal increments. She had arrived in the very nick of time.
His leman staggered sideways when he moved to drop the ruined jacket; Lukas’s hand blurred before closing gently, firmly on her upper arm. “Steady, now.” He found American words in his mental storehouse; he could teach any tongue she wished later, at leisure. “All is well, Beatrice.”
Such a lovely phrase, tasting pleasingly of her spice, musk, and gorgeous scorching presence.
She shook her head, as if denying her own name. Lukas bent, his arm sweeping behind her knees; she fit very neatly, cradled against him. In fact, her head drooped, mortal-feverish cheek resting against his shoulder, and he pressed his lips to her temple as he turned.
Her scent was dyed with his; he was ringed with the feel of her. The Everly cover had reached the end of its usefulness, and in any case he had very little time or desire for playing business games at the moment. Even the next few covers would have to neglect such things, though not entirely.
“We both need better cloth.” A calm tone would soothe, comfort—and, Lukas realized, he did wish to console, or at least pacify this fascinating creature. “And then we shall take a short ride.”
His driving might be a bit rusty, but all things considered, the afternoon had gone very well indeed.