Blood Rights

No, Mal had been turned at the prime of his manhood. Not a strand of silver tarnished the rich black of his hair, not a wrinkle cracked his treacherously handsome face. His sizable frame wore the thick muscle of a body used to physical labor. Certainly used to guiding a heavy sword through flesh and bone. He must have been something to behold as a human, because the beauty that suffused all vampires at their turning had outdone itself with him.

If the serpent in the garden had looked anything like Mal, Eve’s sin would have been far worse than devouring a single apple.

Chrysabelle’s index finger traced the line of her lower lip. She bent closer to study the mouth that had kissed her and inhaled. Her eyes closed involuntarily. His dark spice whispered promises to her blood, awakening the need she’d worked so hard to temper.

Thump, thump, thump. Her pulse sang in her ears, a demanding anthem all comarré knew. The desire to feed the vampire who claimed her was inborn, but the personal cost of feeding this one outweighed the intrinsic urge. He was not the proper, austere vampire that Algernon had been. Mal didn’t care about rules and propriety. He would not – could not – simply drink from her as if she were nothing more than a vessel. She doubted he would ever be satisfied with taking from the wrist as was the custom with most patrons. No, Mal would want much more intimate access than that.

A cold realization straightened her. He would take and take until he killed her. Or worse, until he possessed her mind, body, and soul. Parts of her had already begun to weaken. Why had she never felt this way about Algernon? Shoring her defenses against Mal had become an hourly job.

And yet, she must sustain him until her life was freely hers again. How long would that take? How long could she keep herself from wanting more? How long before she fell completely into his darkness? Was this how Maris had felt for Dominic?

Already the veins in her wrists grew fat and ripe, the blood thickening with an intoxicating yearning to be spilled. Mal was not the only one with demons.

Oh holy mother, protect me from this creature. Bind my heart in ice. Numb my body. I cannot walk my aunt’s path. Please.

A knock came at the door and she jumped, yelping like a startled child. Mal didn’t move. She flattened a hand over her heart, willing it to slow as she moved away from the bed. The door opened, and a male remnant, hybrid indiscernible, entered carrying a tray laden with covered dishes, a large bottle of water, and a goblet. Behind him, Ronan stood in the hall, arms crossed. He raised his brows over eyes hot with messages she had no desire to read.

‘Shouldn’t you be sleeping?’ She glared back with as much frost as she could manage. How dare that fringe think himself worthy of her? How dare he think himself better than Mal? Her sacre and wrist sheaths, slung over one of the dining chairs, seemed miles away.

Ronan nodded toward the bed. ‘You mean like lover boy there?’ He laughed. ‘What a knacker.’ His gaze slipped south of her face. ‘Sleeping’s the last thing I’d be doing with a fancy piece like you in the room.’

A wanton thrill zipped through her belly, but it was not lust for Ronan she felt. ‘You’re right about that. You’d be too busy dying to sleep.’

His gaze snapped back to her face, some of the previous fire snuffed out. ‘You need to learn your place.’

She walked toward him a few steps, unwilling to quench the angry heat nipping at her spine. ‘You mean like those pretenders in the club? I am as different from them as Malkolm is from you, fringe. He and I are superior creatures, not poorly crafted copies or inferior kin.’

‘He is anathema.’ Ronan spat the word like a curse.

‘And yet he is still your better.’ Anathema or not, Mal was still noble.

Ronan’s upper lip curled, showing his fangs.

She laughed softly. ‘Fangs neither impress nor scare me. Noble vampires are capable of a great many things far more terrible than a simple show of teeth.’

Behind her, the remnant who’d brought in the tray cleared his throat. She moved to let him pass, then with a condescending smile closed the door on Ronan. The lock clicked a second after. Her shoulders slumped, and she exhaled through her mouth as the tension in her body melted. That exchange had served no purpose but to antagonize a fringe who already hated Mal, so why had she done it? With a sickening realization, she knew the answer. Because she’d begun to consider Mal’s enemies as her own. The feeling was a symptom of the protectiveness a comarré felt for her patron. Although she’d never felt it that strongly for Algernon.

Foolishness best forgotten.

She tipped her head back to stare at the coffered ceiling. Hard to believe they were underground, but she’d pulled the curtains back from the tall windows. Nothing but brick on the other side. This suite, for all its rich appointments, was nothing more than a glorified cell.

The scent of meat reached her nose, and her stomach growled. She hurried to the table and removed the silver dome from the first plate. Her mouth watered. Pale red juices pooled around a thick porterhouse. A snowy mound of truffle-flecked mashed potatoes and a lattice of slim haricots verts accompanied the steak. She flicked her napkin open, settled it onto her lap, then lifted her knife and fork to the task.

‘Something smells good.’

For the second time in just a few minutes, she jumped. Her knees bumped the table, clattering dishes and glassware. Composing herself, she glanced toward the bed.

Mal lay propped on his side, still wearing his true face. Eyeing her much as she imagined she’d just stared down the slab of beef on her plate.