Blood Kiss (18 page)

N
o wonder her name was Paradise.

As Craeg took long draws off of the single most incredible blood source he'd ever had in his entire life, all he could think of was how apt her name was.

Well . . . that wasn't
all
he was thinking of.

His body reawakened with lightning speed thanks to the strength she provided him, that heady wine of hers flowing down the back of his throat and pooling in his gut before being sent out in all directions like a restorative fire: Beneath his battered skin, deep in his aching bones, he began to fill up with power.

And with that power came a gnawing, grinding need.

Under the thin covers, he popped an erection as hard as steel and as long as his leg—proof positive that her solid groin hit hadn't castrated him. And between his ears, his brain latched onto the idea of getting inside her with the same tenacity as his fangs were locked on her vein.

He was slightly more decent than he would have guessed, however.

Instead of ripping her pants in half and muscling her up and over his hips, he forced himself to stay right where he was—because that kept her where she was.

His pelvis was not about to get the memo, however.

With great, rolling thrusts, he worked himself against the sheet and blanket, each push up offering a tantalizing stroke that was too soft to do much more than drive him fucking insane, each retreat making him more desperate than the last.

And then his hand started to itch to get involved.

No-go. Even if Paradise wouldn't have admitted it
unless she had a gun in her face, he knew she was already in way over her head. If he whipped himself out and started stroking one off? She was going to get one hell of a show to tell whoever her father was about—even if that hand job option was better than drilling her sex so hard she saw stars.

Which was what he really wanted to do.

Damn it, why did he have to be attracted to a nice girl?

“You can . . .” she started. There was a pause and her eyes flicked over her shoulder like she was checking to make sure the door was still shut. “You can do what you want.”

He frowned through the bloodlust, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“I see where your hand is. I'm not stupid.”

Craeg tried to shake his head, but he didn't get anywhere with that, because his mouth was not interested in breaking the seal.

Paradise nodded. “It's okay . . . do it. Take care of yourself.”

And that was when light dawned on Marblehead—shit, she wanted him to . . .

For a split second, his conscience threw out a hell-no, but with her eyes so steady on his, and the scent of arousal coming off her, that didn't last longer than the formation of the words.

Talk about your yes-ma'ams.

Drunk on her taste, stretched on a rack of lust, body whacked out and mind blown up, he had enough left in him to will the locks into place on every door there was—including the closet. It wouldn't keep people out forever—but certainly long enough so that her virtue wouldn't be completely—

Peyton.

As the other male's name popped into his head, she frowned as if she had read his mind. “What did you say?”

Guess he'd spoken it out loud—sort of.

Craeg loosened his latch enough to say clearly, “Peyton.”

“I told you, there's nothing . . . God, no. Not ever. He's like my brother.”

Staring up at her, he decided she was either utterly guileless and talking the truth as she knew it—and in fact had no idea the guy wanted her—or she was the best actress outside of Hollywood and playing him.

Breathing in, he caught no scent of subterfuge—and then he thought of Peyton's haughty act and his perfect accent and his expensive watch. He might actually be a true aristocrat—in which case, there was no way the male was going to hook up long term with a receptionist.

And apparently the motherfucker was honorable enough not to lead her on. And successful enough that she'd bought the act, even if he had reacted as a possessive male back in the break room.

Guess maybe Craeg didn't have to hate him quite so much.

“There's nothing with Peyton and me,” she repeated. “And there never will be.”

Good enough for his palm.

Next thing he knew, he'd disappeared his free hand under the—

Craeg groaned and arched up as he gripped himself. Slowing down on the feeding, he found himself wanting to prolong this moment between the two of them. He wanted the sex
and
the blood from her.

And it looked like, for this brief moment, he was going to have some of both.

It would be, however, the one and only time any of this happened.

•   •   •

There was something inevitable about it all.

That was the thought that went through Paradise's mind again and again as she looked down and watched Craeg's hand move under the covers. He was stroking
himself, his tremendous body torquing at strange angles as he rode waves of pleasure.

And yet, as inevitable as this felt, there was so much that was unexpected, too.

She hadn't anticipated feeling so . . . powerful: She got the very clear sense that as big as he was, as strong as he was, she was in charge—anything she wanted from him, needed from him, he would give her, do for her, find for her.

After he was finished with the sex.

Craeg's eyes were heavy lidded and violently hot as they stared up at her from his battered face. And the straining muscles in his neck and his chest seemed ready to break through his skin. And his scent had bloomed into a roar of something spicy and delicious.

And then he started moaning.

God, she wanted to be the one with her hand on him—she'd never done anything like this before, but come on, it wasn't like she couldn't go up and down like that . . . the trouble was, her good hand was by his face, and her bad one with its finger splint wasn't gripping anything at the moment—

Without warning, Craeg released her wrist and let out a sound that was all animal, not even a little civilized. Then his free hand grabbed onto the sheets next to her hip and twisted them into a wad. His chest pumped once, twice . . . he arched again, this time with a groan . . . and then his hips jerked hard over and over, raw grunts coming out of his mouth as his eyes focused on her face.

The stillness that eventually came was just as surprising as the rest of it: After what seemed like an eternity, his body went lax and he collapsed back onto the bed, eyes closing, breath sawing, sweat gleaming on his chest.

“Lick . . .” he mumbled.

“What?” God, her voice was hoarse. “What did you say?”

“You're . . . bleeding. . . .”

Paradise looked at her wrist. He was right. The
multiple puncture wounds were only partially closed. Bringing her arm up, she sucked on the—

The soft growl that rose up from him made her freeze.

That hot stare of his was focused on her lips.

Except then he turned away. “You need to go.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Go.”

Paradise exhaled as a surge of pissed-off ushered out all the lust she'd been enjoying with the efficiency of a bulldozer. “Why are you always dismissing me?”

“Because I don't think you're going to like someone coming into this room as it is now.”

She glanced around. Okay, fine, there was a small amount of blood on the sheets by his mouth, but other than that, nothing was out of place. “There's nothing—”

“It smells like sex in here,” he muttered. “I just came all over the place—and if anybody walks through either of those doors, they're going to know you're the reason. Leave with a little virtue left in you, will you?”

Paradise lowered her brows as her mouth fell open. “I
beg
your pardon.”

“We're done here.” He shrugged. “You asked me to give myself a hand job. I did—and you got to watch what it looks like when a male orgasms. So we both got something out of this sesh. What did you expect, a mating proposal?”

Pain lanced through her chest as she fell momentarily speechless. And then the only thing that went through her mind was something involving “Fuck” and “You.”

Pushing herself back, she squared her shoulders and walked away from him. When she came up to the door
to the corridor, she was surprised to find the thing locked. She hadn't done that.

Perhaps he had.

Who the hell cared.

As Paradise unlatched things, she glanced over her shoulder. “I can't pretend to be sophisticated, or worldly about sex, but I know damn well that the need to diminish others when one is threatened is the mark of a coward, not a hero. Have a good rest of the night. I'll see you tomorrow—if you decide to show up.”

Stepping out, she let the door close behind her and walked off a couple of feet, a couple of yards . . . halfway back to the gym.

She intended to keep going.

Her feet refused to cover the rest of the distance back to class.

With a curse, she leaned against the concrete wall, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared at the polished pavers that formed the corridor floor . . . then the inset fluorescent ceiling lights above her . . . then the doors, the many, many doors. Off in the distance, she heard shouts coming from where the sparring continued. There was also an ambient hum from the HVAC system. And after a moment, her stomach let out a growl, reminding her that the calories she'd taken in at the quick-stop First Meal she'd had were long gone.

That had been her first sexual experience.

And when it had been happening, it had been wondrous, exciting, beyond tantalizing.

Craeg had just ruined all that, though. With only a couple of sentences, he had blown the whole thing up and made her feel ashamed of herself—

“I'm sorry.”

Jerking her head around, she recoiled. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Craeg shuffled out of his room, seeming to rely more on the IV pole than his own legs for ambulation. He was
determined to come over to her, however—and God knew he'd already proven he would go until he dropped.

Walking toward him, she put both palms out to stop him. “You need to get back in—”

“Look, I . . .” He cleared his throat. Scratched under his nose even though there was nothing there. Rubbed his thumb across one eyebrow and then fiddled with his hospital johnny. “I can't be anyone other than who I am right now. Maybe in a different time, maybe if certain things hadn't happened . . . maybe I'd have the energy to try to file down these edges of mine. The problem is, I just don't have that extra effort in me at the moment—and there's not a lot of anything warm and fuzzy in here.” He pointed to the center of his chest, his IV line draping across the front of him. “I'm not saying I'm right or that I'm proud of myself. I'm just telling you like it is. And that's all I can give you—tonight, tomorrow . . . next week. That's all I have to offer anybody.”

As he stared down at her, his eyes were steady and grave.

And there was no doubting his somber voice or his carefully chosen words.

In the silence that followed, she thought of the great human writer and orator Maya Angelou's statement about people: When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.

Or something to that effect.

“If you want a male, go hang out with your boy, Peyton,” he continued. “You're so spectacular, there's a chance he'll end up overriding that dumb
glymera
stuff. And hey, you wouldn't have to be a receptionist for the rest of your life. I couldn't offer you anything close to what he can—even if my personality did a one-eighty.”

As he continued to speak, his words didn't sink in much. All she was thinking about was how unfair it was that she finally met a male she was attracted to at the precisely wrong time in the precisely wrong context for anything meaningful. And then there was his
I-am-an-island stuff. Which she wanted to call bullshit on, but which might, actually, sadly, be the truth.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Thank you for being honest.”

There was an awkward pause—as if he'd expected some kind of protest from her, some indignant marching around, maybe some harsh words.

Then his lids lowered as if he didn't want her to see what was behind his eyes.

The hand that wasn't on his IV pole lifted toward her face. But then he dropped it back down and shook his head. “I have a lot of regrets in my life. Next time you wonder whether anyone cares about you . . . know that you're on that list.”

Craeg turned away and limped back down to his hospital room.

She watched him until just before he opened the door and disappeared.

Pride made it important for her to go her own way first.

Bracing herself, Paradise headed for the gym, for class, for learning and self-discovery. After all, like him, her future was with the training center. Not some pipe dream with a male stranger that was never going to happen for so many reasons.

T
wo hours later, Paradise rode a bus back out of the training center. There was only one leaving, as there were just the six of them, Craeg having not been medically cleared to go home.

Looking across the aisle, she met Peyton's eyes. He had stretched out across a row of seats, his back on the bank of blackened windows, his legs fully extended and crossed at the ankles.

It seemed like a lifetime since they had argued on the way in the night before.

You okay
, he mouthed.

She nodded and mouthed back,
You?

He shrugged, grimaced as he rearranged himself and closed his lids.

Nobody else was talking much, either.

Several rows in front of them, Boone sat with his head bowed, a set of Beats helmeting his ears, shutting out the world. He didn't seem to be able to find a song he liked, his thumb hitting the screen of his iPhone every second or two, the covers of albums flashing briefly before they were rejected. Anslam was asleep sitting up across from him. Novo was closest to the driver, staring out the windows through which you could see nothing.

Axe was all the way in the back, keeping to himself.

From time to time, Paradise shifted her body, and found herself pulling a Peyton with the wincing. She was exhausted; she was aching all over; she was worried about what the next night would bring in terms of tests.

She also kept thinking about what had gone down in Craeg's hospital room. And then what had been said between them out in the corridor.

“Stop it,” she murmured to herself.

It wasn't like reliving the stuff was going to change the outcome, and if she was honest with herself, she did want that. It would have been amazing to be free to explore that kind of connection.

Not in the cards, though.

Hoping to distract herself, she looked down at the Bally leather satchel she'd checked with a
doggen
when she'd signed into the program. She remembered exactly what was in it: the protein bars, the extra socks, the change of clothes and underwear, her wallet, phone, a picture of her parents in an old gilt frame. She recalled quite vividly packing all of those things, too—the drawers she had opened in her walk-in closet, the choices she had agonized over, the stuff that she had wanted to bring but decided to leave home.

The disturbing thing . . . was that none of what was in there felt like hers anymore.

It was more like it was all owned by some kind of little sister or something, some younger relation who looked like her from a distance, but who, up close, was totally different.

Peyton shifted his feet to the floor and shoved his body across the aisle. This time, when he sat next to her, she was grateful.

“You don't look okay,” he said softly.

The concern threatened the dam that was holding back her emotions, but she kept that wall in place for fear of losing it in front of her fellow classmates.

Primus
, my ass, she thought.

“I don't know.” She shook her head when the words came out. Not what she had meant to reply. “Actually, I'm all right.”

“Last night was a lot to go through.”

“We made it,” she murmured. “Go, us.”

“Yeah.”

As her friend went quiet again and stared at the back of the headrest in front of him, she could only imagine
what he was thinking of: throwing up, getting bagged over the head, the pool . . . the longest walk of their lives.

That fight with Craeg.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “You seem better.”

“I'm going to need to feed.”

As he rubbed his face like he was trying to stop more memories of school, she felt a stab of guilt—because unlike Craeg, who she'd been in a big fat hurry to offer a vein to, helping her friend wasn't foremost in her mind.

Plus also, she wasn't sure she could go through that with Peyton . . . if he had the same response Craeg had.

Not that she was some sexpot to males, but because maybe that kind of lust was just a natural by-product of feeding and she didn't want to cross that line in her friendship.

“I texted my dad.” Peyton patted the front pocket of his coat. “He has someone waiting for me. Gonna be the first time I don't have sex when I take a vein.” He frowned and glanced over at her. “Sorry. TMI.”

What was he talking about? Oh, right. “It's okay. I'm not offended.”

You want to cover the TMI bases? she thought. What was
really
TMI was what she and Craeg had done in that clinic. Or rather . . . what he had done to himself.

She looked away just to be sure the blush that hit her face didn't get noticed.

“You're different,” he remarked.

That brought her head back around quick. “How so?”

“I don't know. Maybe it's because I remember how great you did.”

As he stared over at her, she knew he was saying sorry again, and without thinking, she leaned in and gave him a hug. “Thank you for that—”

A series of bumps and then a noticeable decrease in speed made her break away. “Are we there already?”

Peyton took out his phone and checked the time. “Forty-five minutes since we left. So yeah, probably.”

The
doggen
who was driving announced over the
loudspeaker that their destination had, in fact, been reached, and one by one, they all stood up, filed out, got off.

The night was cold, very cold—and for some reason, she thought that if the color light blue had a scent, it would be what was in her nose as she breathed in the bracing, dry air.

Turning to the others as the bus left, she found that everybody was just standing around in the open farm field as if no one quite knew what to do.

Anslam was the first to say good-bye, although only to Peyton, and then he took off. Axe didn't speak to anyone before dematerializing.

“Until tomorrow then,” Peyton murmured as he looked at Novo and Boone.

Before he ghosted out, he came over. “You're going to be hearing from me in about two hours. I really hope you answer that phone.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

With a brief smile, just like that, he was gone.

Paradise said something to the others; she didn't know what—and they said something to her; which she didn't quite track.

And then she shouldered her satchel and was gone, gone, gone, spiriting away in a jumble of molecules that somehow fit her mental and emotional state far better than being in her corporeal form.

As she came back into her body on the lawn of her father's mansion, she stayed where she was and stared up at the magnificent facade of the Tudor's great sprawl. Lights glowed from indoors, the buttery illumination passing through the diamond-paned windows, creating the illusion of a fireplace's warmth. From time to time, through parted silk drapes, she saw a
doggen
walk past, carrying a silver tray, a feather duster, a bouquet of flowers.

The wind was fierce here, and the longer she stood on the browned, frosty grass, the more it got through her jacket, her clothes, her skin.

She and her father had lived on the estate for a very long time, and there wasn't a room that she didn't have a memory in—even the hidden ones.

Yet tonight the manse seemed as the objects in her satchel were: someone else's.

Amazing . . . how a journey that started and ended in your hometown, and didn't actually require you to leave your own zip code, could distance you so completely from your life.

When she began to shiver, she forced herself to walk forward. It was about two a.m.—and though it made her feel guilty, she was so glad her father would still be working down at the audience house. She just didn't have the energy to tell him all about her “studies.”

More to the point, she hadn't really processed anything for herself yet—so it was just too early to explain the experience to anyone else.

Coming up to the front entrance, she reached out for the doorbell—and had to stop herself.

Really, she thought. You're going to ring the bell on your own house?

And yet she felt like a stranger as she put her forefinger on the print reader and sprang the lock.

Stepping into the warmth, she closed the heavy door behind her and took a couple of deep breaths. There was no sense of calm as she looked around at the familiar oil paintings and the Orientals. Instead, she felt a creeping unease—

“Mistress! You return!” As the butler, Fedricah, rushed over to her, he was all smiles—and he bowed so deeply his forehead nearly Swiffered the floor. “What may I get you? Would you care for a meal—no, a bath. I shall have Vuchie run you a—”

“Please, no.” She put both hands out as his face fell so
fast, so far, he was liable to start talking out of his bow tie. “The Brotherhood fed us very well—and honestly, I need to retire to bed.” Words, she needed the right combination of words here. “Will you please tell my father it was a wonderful learning experience . . . tell him I'm okay—I'm very well, in fact, and I made it into the program. We're doing classwork. It's all very safe.”

And the last two things technically weren't a lie. Rhage had said they would be in the classroom tomorrow evening, and no one had gotten seriously hurt.

“Oh, of course, mistress! He will be so pleased! I do not believe he slept during the day—but please ring if you require aught. We are always at your service.”

“I will, I promise. Thank you.”

She escaped up the stairs quickly, some irrational fear of her father getting home early driving her to her room. When she closed herself in, she looked at the canopied bed and the needlepoint rugs and the antiques . . .

...and really wished she were crashing in an anonymous, clean hotel room.

Walking over to her bed, she sat down on the super-soft mattress and put her satchel down by her feet. Then she laid her palms on her knees and stared at the wall.

Craeg wasn't the only thing she thought about. But there was a whole lot of him in her brain.

Shoot. Now that she was up here hiding, she felt trapped—

As her phone went off in her bag, she cringed. Undoubtedly Fedricah had called her father the moment she'd come up here, and the question was whether it would be worse for him to go to voice mail . . . or for her to try to force an everything-is-normal across the connection.

Later was not much better, she decided: If she didn't talk to him now, he was liable to come knocking on her door as soon as he got home. And then she'd have to do it face-to-face.

Fishing her iPhone out, she frowned as she saw the
picture of a five-pointed weed leaf on her screen. “Peyton?”

“Hey. I couldn't wait two hours. I've got a serious case of the heebs.”

Even though he couldn't see her, she nodded. “I know. Me, too.”

When there was a pause, she waited for the customary sound of a bong being drawn on. Instead, there was only silence.

After a moment, he said, “I feel like I've been gone for a decade.”

“Same for me.”

“I don't want to even smoke up. How fucked in the head is that?”

She pushed herself back until she was leaning on her pillows. “Maybe that's a good thing.”

“Just one more part of the weirdness, you know?” There was some rustling, as if he were doing the same thing. “Okay, so what the fuck is up with that Axe guy. I mean did you see him when he was fighting with . . .”

As her friend launched into all kinds of commentary, Paradise closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

Funny, this was just like after the raids. The two of them talking in the night, tethered by two phones, an invisible connection open between them that was nonetheless tangible.

He was her only friend, she realized.

And she was very grateful they'd come out the other side of their argument—and also that first night of training.

Suddenly things didn't seem so foreign anymore.

•   •   •

“Damn, I'm good,” Marissa said as she sat back and looked at the stack of five-by-seven card stock in front of her.

It had taken her hours, but she had managed to computer-generate one hundred color invitations to the Twelfth Month Festival Ball. Yes, it would have been so much better if the damn things were engraved, but they were out of time: There were only about fourteen days before the event on its mandatory first full moon of December, so nobody was in a position to get fussy over cutting corners.

Next stop was addressing the envelopes, and Mary and Bella had offered to help with that at the mansion. After that, Marissa was going to talk to Fritz about whipping up the food, and ask around for some of the traditional Old Country musicians to cover that hole.

Oh, and may the Scribe Virgin bless Abalone forevermore: The male had agreed to let them use the ballroom at his estate. It was a much better option than that other venue at the rich-old-male/gold-digger-female combination's place: That pair had hosted the secret Council meeting to plot against Wrath, so there was no way any of the Brothers were going back there unless it was with a bunch of flamethrowers—and by extension, she didn't think Butch would have been all about her spending time under that particular roof.

So, invitations. Venue. Food. Entertainment.

She was on it, but she wasn't fooling herself. She knew why she'd been asked to chair the event, and it wasn't her competence: The people pushing for this were having trouble drawing the
glymera
out after all the drama around Wrath's democratic election. As there was nothing that the aristocrats loved more than a scandal, what could be more fun than watching her in action at the party?

Her presence was going to up the acceptance rate through the roof.

And it was funny. In a sick way, she found herself
looking forward to holding her head up high in that bunch of sharks—and at least Butch wouldn't have to deal with the bullcrap. He was going to be out working and teaching. Besides, he'd have no patience for that party kind of thing.