“I saw everything,tesoro,” he ground out, pupils dilating as he stared down at the growing puddle of red. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as brave, or as foolish, as you standing in front of my sire, debating whether or not to slit his throat in front of the entire Dynasty.”
He turned my hand, splattering blood over the sheets, the rose petals, before pressing my hand to the sheets and smearing crimson all over them, creating a garish painting, so brutal in nature, it was almost beautiful.
“Well, in the end, I failed, so I suppose I wasn’t brave after all, just foolish.”
“What stopped you?” He released my wrist, and we both stepped back, inspecting our handiwork.
“Your father’s eyes,” I admitted because we were still alone, and I didn’t have to pretend. “He looked… accepting. Like he knew what I was about to do and welcomed death.”
“We’re vampires.” He was staring at me now, mouth slightly parting, fangs down. “We don’t welcome death. We fight it with every cell of our being.”
“Maybe I was seeing things,” I breathed, as Dante caught my wrist again and lifted it, bringing my palm closer to his face, taking a deep inhale.
“For the record,” he whispered, gaze tracking the slow healing of the cut, “I doubt you were. My father has beenalive a long time. Perhaps even immortality gets tiresome.” His voice was slurred, drugged, pupils barely a pinprick in a sea of blue.
Then… a delicious shiver chased down my spine as he raised my hand to his mouth and licked, while I hyper-focused on every last miniscule detail—the way his warm tongue flattened out over my skin, the rough drag against my palm, the way his fingers tightened down like a cage around my wrist, nails digging in.
How it might feel to have him do that same thing between my legs.
My breath stuttered, heat roaring inside me, my pussy throbbing and wet. Humiliatingly wet, soaking the tiny white slip of silk between my legs, the sharp points of my nipples scraping against my cotton dress, every inch of my skin crying formore, more, more.
I didn’t understand these dark, dirty thoughts invading my head right now.
Magic tingled up my arm, not his harsh, thrumming power from the chapel, but something quieter, something almost insidious—because this felt so good. A thread of connection tightened between us, strengthening the bond the ceremony had already forged.
I knew so little about magic—about males—I didn’t even know if these feelings were normal.
They didn’tfeelnormal.
My mind told me they were depraved and filthy, but my body was on fire, trembling, aching in places it had never ached before.
I jerked my hand back, the cut gone, nothing but a thin pink mark left.
“Consider this a rehearsal,” Dante rasped, voice rougher than ever. “Tomorrow morning, before they unlock the door,you will feed from me. Between the fresh wounds on my neck and the blood,” he nodded to the bed, “the vultures should be satisfied.”
“I’m sleeping in the chair.” I headed back to the fireplace and curled myself into the tightest ball I could manage, trying to ignore the throbbing pressure between my legs that only seemed to increase the more I moved around.
“Go ahead and play the martyr. I’ll take the bed,” he teased, with a wicked grin, gathering up my knives and dropping them on the night table. “I trust you won’t stab me in my sleep?”
“Can’t make you any promises,” I muttered.
“That’s my girl,” he said cheerfully, dragging the shirt over his head, unfastening his pants like I wasn’t standingright the fuck here.
“What are you doing?” I hissed, swinging my gaze to the ceiling. Even so, the sight of his obscenely toned abdomen and the line of hair leading down to… Well, that dark line of hair was now burned into my brain for the rest of my existence.
“Getting comfortable. I’ve been traveling for days to get here in time, and this is the first bed I’ve slept in… for a long while. I’d be a fool to pass up a good thing. Of course, I’d be happy to share…” His lips curled. “We could really give them something to talk about.”
My glare must’ve been lethal because he lifted both hands in surrender.
“Joking,” he said. “Mostly.”
“Fat fucking chance.” I dragged in a breath. Then another, and by the time I took my third, my pretend husband was already snoring, a wall of scarred, tattooed muscle stretched out on a bed of blood and rose petals, one brawny arm thrown over his eyes.
I sat there, staring up at the frescoed ceiling, listening to the sawing rhythm of his breathing from across the room. My life had been derailed, my plans ruined, and now I had to play a waiting game—with no end in sight—to get what I wanted.
But one thing was certain.
Dante Dominico thought he’d stolen me tonight.
