How much more terrible to break a leman, then? To mar a creature so exquisite, so very finely made, would be a greater sin than any he had ever committed, remembered or forgotten.
She trembled yet more as he drew her from the wall, her muscles quivering at the edge of seizure-lock. His true-teeth sliced at his own wrist as his knees folded, blood welling up to quiver with surface tension, refusing to leave the opened flesh; sanguinant and leman spilled to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and he pressed the cut against her mouth.
A fledgling in such dire anguish required careful care; shemustfeed. More importantly, she must be calmed, soothed so far as possible. Even a leman driven past sanity was priceless, to be protected and assiduously nursed. Severe mental unrest could cause physical degradation, triggering a killing catatonia—a superbly sensitive instrument, treated too harshly, reduced to splinters.
He would die with her, of course, but that was beside the point. To lose such a prize through incompetence, ill treatment,thatwas another unholy thing. Her innocent shameless flanks filled his lap, her satin weight too cold in his arms, her lovely head lolling on its slender stem.
“Feed,” he whispered, barely aware he spoke in a language she could not possibly know. How long since the tongue of Elam had been uttered by a living mouth? It did not matter. “O my beloved, the cup is at your lips; merely drink, and all shall be well.”
I willmakeit well. I am sorry, sorry, sorry.
Sorrow was useless. He must keep her, and if it took every last drop in his veins, he would give gladly, thankful for the opportunity.
CHAPTER 11
She wasin the church basement again, the monster’s growl filling her skull, a man on her back doing what men inevitably did, the rattle of handcuffs as her wrists flared with hot slicing agony, theteethin her flesh, champing and tearing. The smell of rotting cardboard and damp concrete, the strobe-flickers as her eyelids fluttered, the deep sickening knowledge that she was about to die but even worse, what if she didn’t? And the things… the other things the monster had done…
Someone was talking, low and gentle. “—jane delam, all’us well, nothing will harm you. Nothing will e’er hurt you again, I promise, little leman,atashe delam,jeegaram, you must feed. Feed, and all will be well.”
Which was strange, because she wasn’t hungry, and the monster in the church basement hadn’t spoken. Just growled, and bit, andhurt?—
“Light o’ my eyes, little darlin’, shh,feed. You must feed.” More strange rolling words, but there was something in her mouth now.
A trickle of heat against the back of her throat. The taste—flaky golden buttermilk biscuits, fresh and dripping withhoney. Then it was hot chocolate, the cheap kind with crunchy marshmallows administered after a skinned knee on the playground, and how long had it been since she’d thought aboutthat?
“Very good,” he whispered, almost crooning. Fever-hot skin slid against hers, scorching; it was strange to be held on someone’s lap like this. Almost enclosed, almost… safe? “Just like that, m’darlin’. I hunted well to feed ye, take what y’ need.”
Her mouth was full. She swallowed, automatically, and instinct took over. Her body knew what it wanted, fastening upon what was offered. A sweet piercing almost-pain as bones moved, the fangs springing free and sliding into flesh, bitinghard. Did that make her like the monster?
But there was no screaming, no ragged pleading, none of her own voice echoing against bare walls, cries rising to an uncaring God. No insane, world-shaking growl of a rabid nightmare thing as it gnawed her flesh. Just that voice, and the supernova explosion of warmth in her midriff, a wave of heat pushing outward into cold fingers, numb toes.
He was stroking her hair, too. Slow, comforting touches, fingertips occasionally pausing to smooth the almost-curls she’d despaired of all her life, neither one thing or the other. Just waves, stubbornly resisting any changing fashion. But it was nice to feel someone playing with the strands. An intimate touch, really.
Along with the heat came relief. Her muscles unknotted, hurtful tension loosening. A great dark wash of relaxation slid down her back, her shoulders softening for what felt like the first time in decades. She twitched, dreamily, settling her fangs deeper as he inhaled, a soft hiss through sharp teeth.
The steady whisper didn’t alter, though now it was all in English, far more crisply pronounced. “Beautiful girl, littleleman… good, keep going. All is well, you are safe. Nothing will hurt you, I swear it on my Blood. Take more.”
How often had she longed to be held, told such sweet lies? The world was a hurting machine; no matter how you tried to protect anything, existence itself simply chewed and spat. But it was sowarm, so soft, and the relaxation was like two Xanax and a glass of wine. A lake to float in, silken buoyancy, and she realized she was not exactly sober the moment her fangs slipped free of hot flesh.
Enough, her body said,that’s all you need, stop now. The blood bags were never like this, flat and metallic, always leaving a trace of that terrible, mind-consuming thirst. She’d learned early and well not to let the dryness get too bad, which would have been easy if she’d had access to this fountain.
He kept stroking her hair; she was sitting crossways, cradled on the lap of a lean, iron-strong frame. The persistent poking against her hip was interesting, she supposed, but couldn’t be meant for her. Not even the new Simone in a body thirty years younger, clear-eyed and vampire-strong. She moved, testing—yeah, that was what she thought it was, and with her eyes firmly shut and the incredible swimming lassitude weighing down every limb, she couldn’t help but wonder what the cost for this sudden reprieve might be.
Lips pressed to her temple, soft kisses. The caressing hands stayed gentle, careful but more urgent, skating over her cheek, her shoulder, one curving around her waist, rubbing gently. He didn’t grab, thank goodness, but his fingers were certainly roaming, and her legs loosened as well.
Someone was moaning, softly, as gravity changed its hold on her and she spilled sideways, nearly boneless, the hands suddenly strong and sure, easing her down. A rough almost-scrape down her back—carpet, and there was a mouth on hers now, wickedly distracting as her knees spread and a hot,insistent finger probed between them, slipping in honeythick moisture.
No, not a finger, because the hands were in her hair now, a body curved over hers blocking out the pain, the memory, the fear. Sometimes, in a bubble bath with the door securely locked, she’d fantasized about this very thing—her hips beckon-begging as her spine arched, her palms skating iron muscles under warm skin, a mouth leisurely feasting on her own with absolute possession, and the first exquisite thrust.
She broke free, shaking her head, hair tangling in carpet, lips parted on a strengthless gasp. Tiny begging sounds as the dream settled into fucking her, almost lazily, each stroke strong and sure, stopping at the crest to tickle her clit with a skin-warm, insistent probing.
Wait a minute, just hold on, I’m not?—
She wasn’t sober, not by a long shot. The lassitude made it so hard to think, sensations cascading and rippling everywhere, a faint scratch of stubble as his cheek lay next to hers and the voice continued, raggedly, promising her safety, repeatingdarlin’, telling her she was beautiful, wanted, that she belonged.
Was this what other vampires felt? Maybe being psychotic with bloodlust wasn’t so bad after all.
The thought was ice water flung into a hot oven, a burst of fierce cold fighting with the coiled tension low in her belly. Frantic squirming didn’t help, only intensifying the flood of sensation, and orgasm hit before she was ready, slamming like a runaway semi into solid cement retaining wall. Thrown out of herself, spun and tossed onto sharp rocks, she screamed over and over, high trailing cries.