Prince of Twilight (19 page)

They made her thirsty, so she took her first large drink from the bottle, after a mighty struggle to remove its stubborn lid.

She drank, and then she choked. The fluid burst from her mouth, and shot from her nostrils. It was
strong!
And it
tickled!

She caught her breath, wiped her face, swallowed hard. The inside of her mouth still tasted of the remnants of sweetness from the drink. Drawing a
breath, she stared at the bottle and tried again, taking only a tiny sip this time.

Taken slowly, it wasn't so bad. She'd only been surprised. She supposed it took getting used to, and determined that it tasted better than the sour dark ale she'd mistaken it for. Each sip, though, made her belch. Disgusting. Why were the bubbles necessary at all? Surely the sweetness of the beverage would be as good without them.

When she finally made it back to the house where Vlad was staying, it was very, very late, or perhaps even very early—dawn might be near. She tried the door but found it locked tight, and a surge of anger rose up inside her, heating her face. How
dare
he lock her out? Didn't he know better than to make her angry again? Why on earth would Vlad push her to this extent?

She was tired and sore and thirsty, even though she'd drained the bottle of “Coke.” Her legs hurt and her back ached. She felt heavy, and her head throbbed. She wanted a warm bed and Vlad's strong body wrapped around hers. But as it was, she settled for a comfortable patch of deep, dry grass off to the left of the house's front door, near a large maple tree. She curled up there to rest for a while. She would figure out what else to do later on. When daylight
came, she thought, she would be able to find a way to get into the house. When the sun rose. She would be able to see then.

And he would be unable to stop her.

S
tormy stayed with Vlad, wrapped in his arms and wondering where the hell this insanity could lead. Okay, maybe he still desired her to some extent, even though Elisabeta no longer lived in her body. But he felt no more than that. And in all likelihood, that desire had only been spurred by the blood lust. She knew his kind, knew sexual heat and hunger for blood were one and the same to them. Beyond that, there was the bond he'd created when he'd taken her blood before. He would feel that pull, just as she did, though maybe not to the same degree.

She was in love with him, after all.

As she lay there holding him, she searched her mind for more memories of the past they had shared. And she was surprised when she found them there, though she probably shouldn't be. Had he released her from the blocks he'd created in her mind
deliberately? Or were they falling away on their own? Did he want her to remember, for some reason? Why had he wanted to make her forget in the first place?

It didn't matter. What did matter was that the memories were there, waiting for her to seek them out, retrieve them, relive them. And she needed them, needed to fill in the gaps in her past and to know what had really happened between them so long ago.

 

After Rhiannon and Roland had taken their leave from Vlad's castle, Tempest showered, put on a fresh nightgown and headed for the bed, to find Vlad already there, lying on his side facing her, his head propped up by one hand. He was undressed—from the waist up, at least. The rest of him was under the covers. But his shoulders and chest were unclothed, and the sight of him turned a switch in her that had no business being there. And the way he looked at her, his eyes moving up and down her and glowing with heat, didn't help matters a bit.

She didn't know why the hell she'd stayed. Being here wasn't helping her—if anything, it was only making matters worse. Elisabeta was stronger here, in her homeland. Taking over seemed to be getting easier for her here. Stormy felt almost sick, weak and achy, and she knew it was the constant fight for control that was to blame.

Rhiannon thought exorcism was the answer. And of all the vampires Stormy had ever known, none of them was more experienced or knowledgeable about matters of spirit and the occult than she. So why hadn't Stormy jumped at the chance to get out of here and let her try?

She thought she knew the reason. And she didn't like it, but she wasn't the type to hide behind self-delusion. Straight-up truth served her much better. And the truth was that she thought she might be falling in love. With Dracula. Which, to her mind, pretty much confirmed that her little red caboose was pretty close to chugging around the bend. She was freaking nuts. What kind of sense did it make for an ordinary mortal chick to fall in love with any vampire, much less Dracula himself?

Damn.

“Are you afraid to come to bed, Tempest?”

She shook free of her thoughts, realized she'd been standing there with her eyes glued to his powerful chest for a couple of minutes now, and forced herself to meet his steady gaze instead. “Should I be?”

“Given where you ended up last time you slept, yes, I would think you might be.”

“Oh. That.” She shrugged and tried not to shiver at the memory of waking up on a cliff, so close to the edge. “Not much that can be done about it.”

“There is, actually.” He nodded toward the door.

“I've locked it. And the windows. You won't be able to sleepwalk any farther than the confines of this room.”

“Yeah? And suppose I decide I want to get out?”

“Why would you want that?”

She shrugged. “The castle could catch fire, I suppose.”

“Then break a window.”

“Lovely.” She moved closer, and he flipped the covers back. The nightgown she wore was like all the others she'd found in the drawers. Flimsy and sheer, black this time rather than white, and shorter. She started to wonder if she should have just worn one of her T-shirts to bed.

She got into the bed, lay down on her back, not touching him, tugged the covers over her and stared at the ceiling. Vlad sat up long enough turn off the bedside lamp, then returned to his former position, on his side. It wasn't fair. The room was black as pitch now, and she couldn't see a thing, but he could. She knew all too well that he could.

“You were wrong before,” he said. Something trailed over her face, down her cheek, then. She thought it was the backs of his fingers.

“About what?” She managed not to stammer, but the words emerged a little breathy.

“About me wanting her and not you.”

“Was I?”

“Yes.” Those fingers trailed over her jawline and then down her neck. “I was surrounded by memories of the past, Tempest. I misspoke when I said her name. It didn't mean anything.”

“I doubt that very much.” He was lying. He had to lie, to keep her here long enough for him to get what he wanted. His precious Elisabeta, in full control of Stormy's body.

“I only wish there was more time before dawn, so that I could prove it to you.” His hand drifted across her chest, along her collarbone. Then his palm rested there. “As it is, though, we only have twenty minutes, give or take.”

She shrugged. “Don't assume we'd be doing anything else, if we had longer. I do get a vote in that, you know.”

“You wouldn't refuse me.”

“That sure of yourself, are you?”

“I know when a woman wants me, Tempest.”

She shrugged. “What I want and what's good for me are two different things, Vlad. In fact, in this case, I think they're polar opposites.”

He said nothing, but his palm moved very slightly, a caress so light she could only barely detect it.

“Twenty minutes, huh? I suppose we could talk.”

“Of course.”

She nodded, rolled onto her side to face him, but kept enough space between them that he wouldn't get distracted from the subject. “Tell me about you and Rhiannon.”

He was silent.

“You said you were her sire.”

“How is this information going to help you remember your past life with me, Tempest?”

She shrugged. “It's not. I'm curious, is all.”

He was quiet for so long that she thought he wouldn't reply at all. But then he did. “She was one of The Chosen. You know how powerfully vampires feel the instinct to protect and watch over them.”

“Yes.”

“And do you also know that for each vampire there is one of The Chosen with whom that bond is even stronger?”

She nodded in the darkness, knowing he could see it. “She was that one for you?”

“Yes. I sensed her need while traveling near Egypt and went there in response to it. She was the daughter of Pharaoh, but he'd wanted a son and considered her a curse from the gods, punishment for some crime, imagined or real. He'd sent her to be raised and trained by the priestesses at the Temple of Isis. She was never to be allowed to leave there, even when she fell ill. She was a virtual prisoner to them.

“The Chosen always die young, if they're not transformed,” she muttered. “She must have been younger than most when the symptoms kicked in.”

“Yes. At any rate, I went there, and I took her away. Not without effort. Both of us were nearly killed when another organization intervened on behalf of the priestesses. Still, we escaped with our lives. I told her what I was, what she could become, and she accepted the offer.”

She wished to God she could see his face in the darkness, because she was sure there was more to the story. “I've seen the bond between vampires and their special Chosen ones. It's pretty intense.”

“Yes.”

“Even if they don't get involved sexually—”

“Are you asking, Tempest?”

She licked her lips, then lowered her eyes, because she could feel his probing them. “No. I only meant—you must have been close. Powerfully connected. It's a special and potent bond.”

“It is.”

“And yet you were willing to ruin it tonight. Because of Elisabeta.”

He said nothing. And that told her as much as a full admission would have.

She licked her lips, focused on his face again, barely able to make out more than the shapes and lines of it in the darkness. She was quiet for a moment, as she lay there working up the nerve to ask the question that was burn
ing in her mind. Minutes ticked past. Finally she drew a breath, closed her eyes and blurted it. “Are you going to make love to me when the sun goes down tonight?”

She lay there, eyes still closed, awaiting his answer. But it didn't come, and finally she rolled onto her side and touched him. “Vlad?”

Nothing. She frowned and slid out of the bed, hurrying to the nearest window, which was heavily draped, and shaded besides. Going to the side farthest from the bed, she carefully lifted the drapes and saw the first rays of morning sunlight, cool, dim and gray, slowly lighting the sky beyond the thick old glass.

Sighing, she arranged the drape back in place again and returned to the bed. He was at rest, then. Probably hadn't even heard her question. And she wondered what answer she'd wanted to hear that time. Because she honestly didn't know.

Hell, maybe she did know. She wanted him. Burned for him, and was growing increasingly frustrated with having to wait and wonder.

Maybe she should stop waiting and wondering. Maybe she should just give in to what she knew they both wanted, get it over with and see what happened.

Maybe it was time she stopped trying to be smart and logical, and just tried listening to the demands and hungers of her own body.

Yeah. It was time.

By the time the sun set and she hadn't slept a wink, she was ready. Her time with Vlad was coming to a close. This would be their last night together, assuming he kept his word and let her go. She wanted him. She could get through life without him, if she just had this one time with him to cling to, to remember.

He raised his head from the pillows and turned it her way. She lay on her back, the covers over her all the way to her shoulders, which were visible. His eyes moved over them, then over her neck, which seemed to tempt him. Swallowing hard and cursing herself for her own nervousness, she forced herself to lie still when he lifted the sheet and comforter as one and peered underneath.

She was naked. For him. And he knew that now, if he hadn't already sensed it.

He peeled the covers away, folding them back. She rolled onto her side, curling up a little in response to the chill in the room. He couldn't seem to take his eyes from her; they moved over the curve of her hip, the length of her thigh.

He put his hand on her shoulder and stroked a slow path down her upper arm, then slipped to her waist, and she shivered at his touch. Then he moved it lower, to cup her hip, slide his palm gently over her thigh.

He left his hand there, where it kneaded and ca
ressed, but drew his gaze back to her breasts and finally to her face, staring into her eyes.

“Surprise,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She couldn't have spoken aloud had she wanted to.

He pushed with his hand until she rolled onto her back again, and his body moved with hers, his chest pressing her to the mattress as he finally took her mouth. She opened to his kiss, welcomed it and responded in kind. Their mouths locked, taking and releasing, suckling and freeing, over and over; a mimicry of the mating their bodies would be indulging in soon.

Soon.

He clasped her hip to hold her to him as he shifted his lower body over her, nestled himself between her legs. He moved against her there, rubbing her with his erection as he fed from her mouth. Then he slid one hand there, as well, and caressed her folds, felt the moisture, the dampness, there.

“Tempest,” he whispered.

“Yeah. Tempest. Not Elisabeta. Remember that, Vlad. You're making love to me, not her.”

His fingers moved inside her, and she sucked in a sharp breath. “I know who you are,” he told her.

“It's been killing me to wait, to want you so badly, Vlad,” she whispered. “Torture. Pure torture.”

He delved more deeply with his fingers, kissed her
again, then moved lower to take a breast in his mouth and tease its peak until it went tight and hard. She arched her back to him and shivered with pleasure.

“Take me,” she told him. “Do it now, Vlad.”

“I want it to be good for you.”

“I don't think that's going to be a problem.” She moved her hips, rocking herself over his fingers, rubbing against them.

“I promise you, it won't be.”

He taunted her breast again, then replaced his mouth with his hand and slid lower, until he could press his head between her legs and taste her there. He licked deep, and her entire body shuddered. Her hands closed on the back of his head, clasping his hair and holding him. He took that as consent to ravage her, not that he required it at that point. She thought he was beyond holding back, and he lapped and suckled and invaded her mind with his own. She felt him there, feeling every sensation he caused in her. He knew when she was on the brink of orgasm, and that was when he stopped, drew away, gave her a moment to come back down.