“Yes, killed.” He shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders, as though it’s no big deal to put out a hit on my manager. “Don’t worry, lovely one—it won’t be a problem. I already have Shadow Agents in place to deal with the other male at your work—the one who pinched you without your consent.” His face goes dark as a thundercloud. “That one will die slowly—this I can promise you.”
Oh my God. Oh. My. God. Now he’s talking about killing Donald Pugh! And don’t get me wrong—not that either he or Mr. Philbens don’t deserve to get some of their own back—personally, I would be happy to see them both fired. But killed in cold blood? No—that’s too much. It’s going too far. He’s talking like a Mob boss—a vampire Mob boss!
Suddenly, I have a revelation—I understand what’s going on here. I’ve been suspecting it all along but now I know for sure—I’m dreaming.
This is what I get for reading Midnight Hunger before bed. My subconscious has mashed it all together—the book club…the vampire romance…the creepy blood test…my stress from work—and here I am, naked in front of Count Tall, Dark, and Fangy who’s offering to off my coworker for pinching my ass, while also claiming that I am the woman he’s been searching for—the one who can complete him because of some ancient prophecy.
There’s no way this isn’t a dream.
The realization frees me of my fear and I straighten up, stop trying to hide, and put my hands on my hips. Why bother to cover myself in a dream?
“Well,” I mutter, lifting my chin in defiance. “One thing’s for sure. I’m never reading another vampire romance again!”
Lucian—(I know, my subconscious even came up with a kick-ass vampire name for him)—frowns down at me, gray eyes flashing scarlet for just a moment, a red glow curling like fire in the center of his pupils.
“Who do you think you are, anyway?” I demand, poking a finger at his ridiculously broad chest. “And what gives you the right to send someone to drag me out of my own home and traffic me into this…this…whatever this place is?”
“This ‘place’ is the Shadow Realm,” he answers, frowning. “And you stand in the kingdom of The Bleeding Court, which I rule. This tower is The Crimson Spires, the tallest in the Shadow Realm. It is mine.” His lips curl in a smile, slow and dangerous. “Just as you are now mine, my lovely Curvy Queen.”
He reaches out, his hand coming toward my face, his fingers long and strong and elegant. His fingertips brush my cheek and I feel a strange flush of heat go through me. My nipples are instantly so hard they ache and my pussy feels wet and hot.
Even though I know this is a dream, the reaction freaks me out—what the Hell is going on?
“Don’t touch me!” I snap, jerking my head back. “I don’t even know you!”
“Ah, but I know you,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet over steel. “I have watched you for months, planning…waiting…hungering. And now that I have you, you are mine.”
His hand drops to his side, but his eyes burn into me, unwavering.
“You are mine, my lovely one. And I will never let you go.”
13
Lucian
At last she is here.
The moment my gaze falls upon her, all the long centuries of waiting, of hungering, of cursing my father’s name, seem to collapse into a single point. My heart clenches and my fangs ache and grow razor sharp.
My Curvy Queen—my salvation.
How long have I dreamed of this? Too long.
The curse has burned in my blood since the hour of my birth. My father—damn his soul—bound our line to darkness when he seized a cursed relic even fouler than the Crimson Eye. He thought it would make him invincible. Instead, it doomed us. Doomed me.
The Endless Thirst…The Red Madness. Call it what you will, it amounts to a terrible, unquenchable Blood Lust. It gnaws at me day and night. My veins scream for blood, but no blood truly quenches it. Not human, not Fae, not demon. I drink and drink and still I burn, still the void inside me widens… hungers…devours.
And now she stands before me. Bare…trembling…eyes wide with terror and disbelief.
Her blood sings to me. I can smell it beneath her skin—rich and sweet, carrying the spark of the Sanguis Vita. The little bit that I tasted from the vial Whistler brought is nothing to the delicacy drinking straight from her vein will be.
The prophecy comes rushing back to me—every cursed syllable:
“He of the endless Thirst shall fall,
To she of curves and Sanguis’ call.
Her blood shall bind, her heart shall tame,
