A Hunger Like No Other (30 page)

If the timid vampire Valkyrie returned home aching for her
Lykae
?

The disgust and disappointment they would feel. The hurt in their eyes. Besides, she believed if she gave this up, she'd have no power between her and Lachlain—surrendered with a whispered, “Please.” If she succumbed, she wouldn't be going home. Ever. She feared he had the power to make her forget why she'd ever wanted to.

The bed spun more wildly. She frowned as realization hit her.

He'd gotten her drunk.

The bastard had gotten himself . . . so that she would . . . when she drank . . . Oh, that son of a bitch! She hadn't even known this was possible!

She'd get him back for this. Uncalled for, tricking her like this. She couldn't trust him. He'd said he wouldn't lie, but she found this just as dishonest.

In the past, she would've just accepted this, taken it meekly as yet another time her wishes and feelings were ignored, but now
she refused.
Lachlain needed to learn a lesson. He needed to learn that sometime in the last seven days, she'd become a creature with which one did not fuck.

When she licked her lips for the thirtieth time since he'd gone, a nebulous idea formed.

A wicked, evil idea. She glanced around, embarrassed, as if someone could hear her thoughts. If he wanted to play dirty, if he wanted to throw down that gauntlet, she'd swoop the thing up . . . .

She could do it. Damn it, she could be evil, she
could.

A hazy memory arose of when she was younger, asking
her aunt Myst why the vampires were so evil. She'd answered, “It's their nature.” Now Emma grinned drunkenly.

Time to get back to nature.

*  *  *

Emma woke to the sound of the phone ringing. No phone in the history of telephonics had ever sounded so annoying. She yearned to crush it with a ball-peen hammer.

She blearily opened her eyes, turning in her blankets to see Lachlain leave the bed and limp over to answer it.

She reached a hand up and ran it over the warmed bedcover. He'd been lying there, stretched out on top of it. Had he been watching her sleep?

Lachlain picked up, then said, “He's still no' returned? Canvass farther out then . . . . I doona care. Call me the minute you find him.” He hung up the phone and ran a hand through his hair. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen anyone look so exhausted as Lachlain. She heard him exhale wearily and noticed his shoulders were tense. She knew he was searching for his brother and was sorry that he didn't know where he was. After all these years, Lachlain still wasn't able to tell his brother he was alive. She felt sympathy for him.

Until she rose.

Her head began pounding in a rush, and as she stumbled to the bathroom, she realized her mouth was bone dry. Brushing her teeth and showering helped her head and mouth, but had minimal effect on her dizziness.

He'd given her the mother of all hangovers—a run-in with the wrath of grapes. Her very first. If he'd truly had “a dram or two,” surely she wouldn't have been
that
tanked and wouldn't be this hungover now. Last night, as she'd dressed and set out to explore once more, she'd been buzzed
all the way up until she collapsed in her blankets at dawn. And the floor of the massive castle had spun. She was sure of it.

He must have drunk like a frat pledge before coming to her.

Bastard.

When she exited the bathroom in her towel to go to her closet to dress, he followed, leaning against the doorframe as she picked out clothes. There were new pieces everywhere. Purses and shoes as well.

She padded along, checking out the offerings, analyzing them with a discerning eye. She was picky about her clothes and had always eschewed anything that didn't conform to her hipster/contrarian fashion style. She'd found that any garment not vintage or D.W.O.T.B—
damn well off the boat
—didn't conform . . . .

“Do you like everything?” he asked.

She tilted her head, a flare of anger bubbling up when she saw that her own luggage was conspicuously absent. “Oh, I'll be sending for everything when I go home,” she answered with absolute honesty.

With her forefinger pointed down, she made a spinning gesture indicating he should turn around. When he complied, she hastily donned underwear, a bra and jeans for running, and a loose sweater.

She ambled past him and sat on the bed, only now noticing that every window was covered in shutters. Of course, he'd had this done. After all, he didn't believe she was going anywhere—because he didn't think she could escape him. “When did these come?”

“Installed today. They will open automatically at sunset and close at dawn.”

“They're closed.”

He eyed her. “Sun's no' fully set yet.”

She shrugged, though she did wonder why she'd been rising so early. “You haven't asked me to drink.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Will you?”

“Right after a Breathalyzer test.” When he frowned, she said, “Measures how drunk you are.”

He did not even look guilty. “I've had no liquor tonight and only want you to take.” He sat down, too close beside her.

“Why did you rush to the shower last night? Do you find the act so unclean?”

A short laugh. “Emma, it's the most erotic thing I've ever experienced. In the shower, I took release so I doona break my vow to you.”

She frowned. “You mean you—?”

“Oh, aye.” His lips curled as he looked down into her eyes. “Every night you've got me like a randy lad.”

He was completely unembarrassed to admit he'd stroked himself to orgasm mere feet away from her. At that exact time she'd been rolling in his bed, struggling not to touch her own body. How . . . titillating. She blushed as much from his admission as from her own thoughts.
I wish I'd seen him doing that.

No, no, no. If she kept staring at his sexy smirk, she'd forget her plan, forget the hurt she'd felt upon realizing he'd nicked himself and tricked her and
held her in place
against him until she drank.

Consequences. Messing with vampire Emmaline Troy now brought consequences.

When the shutters opened with a smooth hum, revealing the night, she said, “Lachlain, I have an idea.” Did she truly
have the mettle to retaliate? Consequences. Paying in kind. Surprising herself, she found the answer was yes. “I think there's a way we could both ‘take release' while I drink.”

*  *  *

“I'm listening,” he said quickly.

“I mean from the act itself.” Her voice was a purr as she glided to the floor to kneel before him. With delicate, pale hands, she tentatively eased open his knees.

His jaw slackened as realization hit him. “You doona mean—?” He should be recoiling. His cock stood stiff as a pole.

“I want all of you, Lachlain.” Purring words. Lovely Emmaline with her plump lips gazing up at him with beseeching blue eyes. “All that you have to give.”

He wanted to give her anything she desired. Anything. With a shaking hand, she unfastened the top button of his jeans.

He swallowed hard.

Shouldn't he at least be
hesitant
about this? Lord help him, he was fighting to keep his hands off the back of her head to rush her. He sensed she could easily lose her nerve, knew she had never before given a man this pleasure. To begin the night of the full moon with this . . . ? He was dreaming.

She slowly unzipped his jeans, gasping when he sprang forth, then gave him a shy but seductive smile, seeming pleased by his erection. She held it with two hands as if she'd never let him go.

“Emma.”
His voice was broken.

“Hold out for as long as you can,” she said, stroking his length once. His eyes closed with pleasure.

He felt her breath first, making him shudder. Then her
slick lips, then her tongue darting and flicking over his flesh. Ah, she had a wicked little tongue—

Sweet God, her
bite.

He gave an anguished groan, falling back on the bed, only to immediately raise his hand to cup her face and his head to watch her mouth on his cock. He was a twisted man . . . . “I had . . . no idea.
Always like this,”
he growled.
“Always.”

He didn't know if he was going to come at once or pass out. Her hands were everywhere, cupping, teasing, driving him wild. She moaned against him, and her sucking grew greedy. She'd never taken this much, but if she needed, he would give. He was weakening, yet he never wanted it to end. “Emma, I'm going to—” His eyes rolled back in his head and everything turned black.

D
on't look back, put on my shoes in the car. Run like hell.

She did. Straight to the extensive garage, scanning for keys to the many cars, finding nothing. Frustration welled up. But then words were whispered in her head, like silk fluttering down.

Run.

She was trying to! No keys. She sprinted back and scanned around the castle for a work truck, a freaking tractor at this point.

She stilled and frowned, feeling warmth from just above the horizon. As if in a trance, she lifted her face to it. The full moon. Rising tonight.

She
felt
the light. Like she'd always imagined people did with the sun.

Her hearing was sensitive; things called to her from the forest beyond. She'd avoided that dark place in all her exploring. The sight of it had defeated even her newfound sense of courage.

Run there.

She had to fight the urge to sprint headlong into the abysmal-looking forest. Lachlain would catch her there—he was a hunter, a tracker. That's what he did. She had no chance of escaping.

Still her body twitched from the battle, as if she missed running within the forest, though she'd never been. Was she going mad even to think of this?

Run!

With a cry, she dropped her shoes and obeyed, fleeing the manor and a soon-to-wake, irate Lykae. She plunged into the woods and realized she could see. Her already strong night vision was perfected.

But why was
she
seeing? Did his blood affect her so much? She'd taken a lot. Now she knew Lykae could see as well at night as by day.

She smelled the forest floor, the moist earth, the moss. She even smelled rocks wet with dew. Dizzying. She might have swayed, but her feet fell perfectly placed to the ground as if she'd run this way a thousand times.

The scents, the sound of her breaths and her heart beating, the air rushing over her . . . heaven. This was like heaven.

Then she became aware of something new. The running was an aphrodisiac, with every footfall vibrating up her body like a long stroke. She heard his bellow of rage echoing from miles away at the manor, seeming to shake the whole black world around her. As she heard him crashing after her, she felt the need for release. Not fear of what he would do to her when he caught her, but anticipation. She could hear
his
heart pounding furiously as he neared. Even when weakened, he ran headlong for her.

He would chase her forever.

She knew this as if he'd spoken it in her mind. He would claim her and never let her go. That was what his kind did.

You're his kind now,
her mind whispered. No! She wouldn't give in.

A Lykae mate would've let herself be caught. Would be waiting for him, naked and spread in the grass or leaning back against a tree, hips offered up and arms overhead, reveling in the fact that he was chasing her, anticipating his ferocity.

Emma was going insane! How could she know these things? She would never welcome ferocity.
Give a cry early, at the first sign of pain.
That was her rule.

She'd just reached a clearing when she heard him lunge for her. She tensed for the impact with the ground, but he turned and took it on his back, then moved her bodily to lie in the grass. When she opened her eyes, he was above her, on all fours.

He was larger. His eyes weren't their golden color. That eerie blue flickered across them. His exhaled breaths were low rumbling growls. She knew his body was weakened,
she
had felt how much so when he ran, but his obvious intent made him strong.

“Turn . . . over,” he bit out. His voice was distorted, grating.

Lightning streaked the sky above him. He didn't seem to notice it, but she stared at it like one might a comet. Could she be more Valkyrie than she knew?

Sane Emma said, “No.”

The lightning also illuminated in flashes what he was inside. Fangs of his own, the ice-blue eyes, his already incredibly powerful body rippling with more muscle. He yanked her bag and jacket from her, sliced open her clothes to strip her, snarling and growling while she beheld the lights above in a daze.

“Arms . . . over . . . your head,” he grated, while tearing his jeans from himself.