Which made the loss of five temperature-controlled trucks—a drop in the logistical bucket for a vampire like Oleg Sokolov—a huge loss for Tatyana.
She heard the terrace doors open, and the scent of crisp winter air flowed into the hallway along with the scent of burning cedar and a hint of dark rum.
Rumi headed toward the door. “I’m leaving now.” She kept her voice low. “The guards are stationed in front. Don’t break anything too hard to replace.”
Tatyana turned her head and saw Oleg Sokolov, vampire lord of the Kievan Rus, fire vampire, and her blood mate striding down the hall.
“Hello, wife.”
The smirk on his face eliminated every deep breath she’d taken.
“Five trucks andfiveinjured drivers?” Tatyana hissed. “Are you fucking kidding me, Oleg? This petty, vindictive little play you have going on with your brother?—”
He strode to her, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her into a ferocious kiss that had the hairs on her arms standing on end.
She felt his hunger streak through her blood, the wanton need for her touch twisting with pure sexual frustration.
Tatyana threw her arms around his neck and dug her fingers into his skin, her nails digging so hard she smelled the blood rise.
Oleg pulled her away from the fountain and lifted her, backing her into the wall and shoving his tongue into her mouth. Her fangs were already down, and the taste of his blood filling her mouth ignited the fire that was already burning through her body.
He tugged at her hair, fisting the knot in his hand as he angled her head so he could plunder her mouth, then pulled back, and Tatyana gasped for breath as his fangs pierced the delicate skin of her neck.
She cried out, the combination of his fierce embrace and his bite throwing her into a sharp climax.
The scent of her arousal filled the air in the foyer, and within moments, Oleg had her skirt shoved up and his pants down, entering her in a swift thrust that cracked the plaster behind her back.
Every thought, every argument, every angry word left her when their bodies were joined, and she gave in to the harmony of their blood.
No matter how they argued, their blood sang the truth.
There is my love.
There is my mate.
There is my home.
“Too long,” he growled. “I can’t?—”
“Come.” Her body was still convulsing with pleasure. “Please come.”
He let out a deep, guttural groan, and the hair on the back of his neck sizzled under her fingers as she drew the water in the air around them.
Her husband never lost control of his fire.
Save for this moment.
This release.
He let out a stream of guttural words in a language that had probably been dead for centuries, holding her to his chest with an iron grip. He peppered kisses against her neck, licking at the wounds he had left and healing them so her skin was unmarred.
“I ruined your suit.” His voice rumbled against her chest.
“You can buy me another one.”
Now his fingers danced over her thighs, delicately playing with the flesh he’d been so eager to plunder. “I like this one. The color suits you.”
“Thank you. Rumi hired a new stylist for me. She takes these trips to Paris and Milan.”
