Lothaire (40 page)

When he was spent at last and she’d wriggled from his mouth, he fought to catch his breath. He didn’t trust his legs to stand, so he leisurely kissed her thighs before tracing into the bed. There, he lay back, drawing her to him.

She will curl up next to me, all but purring with contentment as she wraps an arm over my chest and smooths her leg up over my own. I’ll tuck her close, then she’ll fall asleep in my arms. Fitting me—

Elizabeth burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.

“What is
this
?” Aghast, he pried her hands from her face. “Are you still hurting?”

“Nooo,” she cried miserably. “I-I just want to go to my room.”

His ego was taking hit after hit this night.
My Bride doesn’t want me, and when I pleasure my mistress, the female weeps in anguish.

He’d known he was out of practice, but this was ridiculous. “Then what in the hell are you crying for?”

“You’re really g-going to do it. You have every intention of casting my soul out.”

“Why are you only now accepting this?”

“Th-this was my consolation prize. You wanted me to have that pleasure as a parting gift. Thanks for playing, Elizabeth? But game over?”

He clasped his forehead. Because she was probably right. And a couple of orgasms couldn’t atone for what he was about to do to her.

Nothing could.

Tears streaked down her cheeks. “But we . . . but surely this isn’t something that everyone experiences together. You have to feel
something
for me.”

In a toneless voice, he said, “Whether I do or don’t is immaterial. I use people and I discard them. That’s what I’ve always done.”

“Have you ever discarded someone and then regretted it?”

“Never.”

“But you will with
me
.” She ran her forearm over her eyes. “I could make you happy, Lothaire. You’re going to realize what you had too late.”

His brows drew together. Hadn’t Ivana yelled the same thing to his father?

Lothaire gingerly pressed Elizabeth’s head to his chest, rubbing his other palm over her lower back as he enfolded her in his arms. Strangely, she let him, even clutched him closer.

“You kidnapped me. You’re g-going to kill me. Why am I letting
you
comfort me?”

He stared over her head.
Because I’ve made sure you have no one else to turn to.

“Everything between us is sick . . . twisted. And it doesn’t
have
to be.”

“Shh, shh.” He rocked her in his arms. Never had he comforted another in such a manner. He was awkward with this as well.

“I h-hate you s-so much.” She sobbed so hard her body quaked against him, her tears wetting his chest.

“I know.”

“When I-I’m gone, will you . . . will you t-tell my children about me? Will you t-take care of them?”

“Just be at ease for now, Elizabeth.”

“Why couldn’t y-you and Saroya just leave m-me alone? I only ever w-wanted to live.”

Why was this making his gut twist? Either he was developing a conscience, or Ellie Ann Peirce was his Bride.

Both scenarios were ruinous to him. Because either one meant that it wouldn’t be Elizabeth who died—it would be him.

The only way out of his vows to the Lore would be his own death.

She’s not mine, she’s not mine. . . .

 35

L
othaire’s bellows woke Ellie at dawn.

She blinked, surprised to find herself naked—and in his bed with him, cradled in his arms. He was clad only in dark jeans, pressing her against his bared chest.

How had they gotten into this position? She had no memory past crying herself to sleep as he’d softly stroked her.

Sobbing
herself to sleep.

Though she’d always prided herself on never crying, she’d undammed an ocean of tears.

But how could she not? Last night, she’d gone from the most sublime pleasure to the rawest pain—both given to her by one male.

Now he was obviously in the grip of nightmares. Was he reliving some hideous memory?

Even after everything he’d done to hurt her—and would do in the future—she felt a pang of sympathy.

Untangling herself from his arms, she raised herself up on her knees to peer down at him. “Lothaire?” she murmured, her throat scratchy.

The muscles in his torso strained until they appeared knotted under
sweat-slicked skin. He yelled in Russian, his fingers twisting as if he were in agony.

What do I do? Should I touch him?

Though he yelled out again and again, he was eerily still, as if he
couldn’t
move.

“Lothaire, wake up—”

“No!” he roared, his eyes still closed. “Nooo!” He flung out one arm, sending her flying.

Landing with a thud some distance from the bed, she did a mental inventory of her body, surprised nothing was broken. Unsteadily, she made it to her feet.

I can’t do anything for him. He doesn’t deserve my sympathy anyway!

Shaking off her dizziness, she backed away toward her room, where she threw on a nightgown. On her own bed, she drew her knees to her chest, rocking herself as his yells grew louder.

Rocking, rocking . . . She’d never heard anyone in such pain.
Will I yell in pain when he casts out my soul? Will
he
pity
me
?

He’d told her he wouldn’t show her mercy—

“Elizavetta?” he yelled dazedly.

She closed her eyes as if to block out the sound. He’d called
for her
? Why her name and not Saroya’s?
Because he needs
me.
No, you ignore him, Ellie!

“Elizavetta?”

He sounded so . . . lost. “Dang it,” she muttered, rising to return to his room. “Wouldn’t let an animal suffer like this—”

She froze at the sight of him. Bloody tracks ran from his closed eyes.
My God, are those . . . tears?

What kind of misery could bring this callous vampire to tears? Ellie’s own eyes welled, and she found herself climbing in bed with him once more.

“Don’t hurt, vampire!” She brushed pale hair back from his forehead.

What was wrong with him? What was wrong with
her
? She felt the need to take away his pain, and she didn’t understand
why.

“Lizvetta?” he rasped, beginning to calm somewhat.

She caressed his heartbreakingly beautiful face. “I’m here.” More of his tension ebbed.

The vampire might think he could do just fine without her; she wasn’t so sure about his prospects. He could scorn her all he liked, but clearly he did
need
her.

And realizing that affected her. As she continued to pet him, she again imagined what it’d be like to be loved by Lothaire.

If he’d ever stop planning to kill her, she might be tempted to find out.

Ellie shook her head hard.
Best not be dreaming of things that will never be.

Then she frowned down at her hand. He’d begun slowly
disappearing
. “Oh, no, no!” He’d said he could be killed if he traced in his sleep. “Wake up!”

The survivor in Ellie thought,
Send him off, girl.
But some other part of her—one she didn’t know too well—made her grab his shoulders and shake.

No response. “Lothaire, don’t go!” Ellie knew she should abandon him and save herself.

She shook harder.

Yet instead of bringing Lothaire back to her, all she’d done was ensure she went into the unknown with him. Her last thought:
Dear God, what is his nightmare about . . . ?

Stay sane,
Lothaire commanded himself as earth weighed down on him. How long since his father had buried him here in his eternal pit?

How many centuries since he’d been left to rot within a forest of bloodroot trees? His punishment for attempting to assassinate Stefanovich.

The attempt that failed
. Because I was betrayed.
By the only friend he’d ever known.

Chains bound him here in the ground. He was unable to trace from them, too weak to break the links. Unable to die from sunlight or a swift beheading.

He could tell another root had met his skin, had begun probing. Soon it would burrow
through
him, seeking any regenerating flesh, any drop of blood from the husk of his body.

Roots threaded all his limbs; worms forever feasted.

He burned to yell in agony and frustration, but he was trapped fast, couldn’t move any part of his body. Not even to open his jaw or part whatever was left of his lips.

How long since his father had punished him thus?

One parent had buried him to save his life, the other to torment him—

Movement from above?

He could sense vibrations. Sometimes Stefanovich would slit a mortal’s throat over this grave, soaking the dirt with blood—so close Lothaire could smell it, but it never reached him.

Always out of reach. Losing his sanity, surrendering it hour by unending hour. The surface always out of reach—

Did he hear spades rending the earth above?

No, no one is digging.
How many times had he imagined just such a scenario?

Who would dig for him, who the hell would care enough to? His friends, family? Lothaire had none he could count on.

At every second, his torment reminded him that no one in this entire world gave a damn that he suffered.

Yet then he felt some of the pressure above him ease. Could that be tension on the manacle around his neck?

Like a shot, he was hauled upward, the roots violently ripped out of his body, stripping scabbed flesh from him.

On the surface at last?
Too bright, too bright!
After darkness for so long, even the starry black night pained his sight. He tried to hiss, tried to cover his decayed eyes with what was left of his arm.

“Ah, Lothaire!”

Fyodor? My uncle?

“I have been searching for you.”

Saved.
My uncle is come to save me.
If Lothaire had possessed any blood to spare, tears would have tracked down his face.
I did have someone out there, someone loyal to me.

“Six centuries I’ve searched.”

Six hundred years! In the ground that long?
I never imagined. . . .

“And now, Nephew, I’ll free you from your bonds. On two conditions.”

Conditions? Lothaire wanted to rasp, “Anything! Will do anything!” but his lips and tongue had been eaten away. He would bargain for damnation—it could not be worse than his current plight.

“Otherwise, I will plant you directly back into the ground, never to return.”

Uncle, how can you say that to me?
The betrayal . . .

“My brother did you ill these centuries, Lothaire. But you should not have faced Stefanovich until you were stronger. I will help you heal from this, will teach you how to become powerful enough to defeat him. All I ask for in return is your fealty—and his head. I am Stefanovich’s royal heir. The Horde will accept me because he has no legitimate son. I will find a way to leave you the throne if I die.”

He frees me only to hunt his brother, loosing me from my cage like a creature from hell.

Fyodor gave Lothaire blood to heal, pouring it into his crusted mouth, just enough that he could speak once more.

“Do you vow your allegiance to me, your future king, until the day I die?” Fyodor said.

Though Lothaire wanted to howl with fury, to tell his uncle to do his worst, he couldn’t. “I-I vow it”—gasping, vomiting dirt and new blood—“t-to the Lore.”
I will never forget this betrayal, Uncle, never.

“Then welcome back to life, Lothaire, to a new beginning.”

Against the blinding white starlight, Lothaire had squinted past Fyodor and seen the one he’d once called friend, secretly watching from the woods. . . .