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She stared up at him, her jaw jutting out, refusing to give an inch even though he knew she was scared. The scent of her fear, mingled with the underlying scent of her blood, inflamed his hunger. His gaze slid down, over the smooth skin of her neck, lower still, to the rise and fall of her br**sts.
Her eyes widened, her breath quickening under his regard. "Let me go." It wasn't a demand now, but a plea.
"Brenna… "
"Please."
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes lest she see the hunger lurking in their depths. He didn't want to frighten her more than she already was. He felt the prick of his fangs against his tongue, knew he was perilously close to not only losing control of his desire but control over the beast within him as well.
It had been a mistake to bring her here.
With a low growl, he shoved her away from him, jerked open the door, and stalked out of the room without a backward glance. The sound of the lock turning echoed loudly in his ears.
The house was too small to contain the wealth of emotions fomenting within him. He needed to go out, to put some distance between himself and Brenna Flanagan, but he knew himself too well, knew that if he went out now, he might not be able to control his hunger, and when he was out of control, people died.
Muttering a vile oath, he paced the length of the long hall between the living room and the back of the house. The hunger rose within him, overpowering every other thought, every other need as it clawed at his vitals, clouding his vision with a blood-red haze.
He didn't have to go out. There was fresh prey upstairs. A mortal woman from another century. He could take her at his will, savor each drop as he drained her of blood and life. He could easily dispose of her body. She had no one to mourn her, no one to miss her.
Ah, he thought. There was the rub, because he would miss her, his little witch.
What was there about Brenna Flanagan that drew him so? But for her, he would be naught but ancient ash by now, his remains scattered by an uncaring wind. One look at her portrait and he had been captivated. On the brink of seeking death, he had known he couldn't end his existence until he knew more about her. No matter what the cost, he'd had to find her.
He slammed his fist into the wall in an effort to diffuse his rage. He had traveled through time to save her from a horrible death. And was she grateful? No! She was afraid of him, had locked the door against him. Foolish woman! As if a lock and some puny slab of oak could keep him out!
He laughed, the harsh, bitter sound echoing off the walls in the quiet house. She should be afraid. Her very life was in his hands.
With an oath, he turned and headed for the staircase, only to pause halfway up. He stared up at the landing, his preternatural senses bringing him the scent of her blood, the rapid beating of her heart, the stink of fear that clung to her skin.
His hands curled into tight fists as he fought against the urge to break down the door she had locked against him even as the hunger whispered in his ear.
Sweet, it whispered. She'll be all the sweeter for the fear running in her veins. You know you want her. Take her! She's yours, yours for the taking.
"No!" He roared the word as he turned on his heel, grabbed a long black cloak, and bolted from the house.
Someone would die this night, but it would not be Brenna Flanagan.
Driven by the urgent need to hunt, he prowled the dark streets, his body quivering with the insatiable hunger that drove him relentlessly. He had been a vampire for two hundred and eighty-six years and in all that time he had been unable to completely subdue the beast within him. Try as he might to fight it, sooner or later his hellish hunger prevailed, overcoming whatever shred of self-restraint he had thought he'd gained, proving to him yet again that he was still a slave to the dark hunger that dwelled within him.
Knowing he was near the breaking point, he fled the city and headed toward the dark underbelly of the town where the drug lords and the pimps plied their trade. Every city had such a place, an area where the city's less favorable citizens banded together. Though Roshan usually preferred hunting in more pleasant surroundings, it was here that he came when his tenuous control shattered and the hunger would not be denied. Death was not unknown here. It often came swiftly in the ongoing struggle for power.
The sound of angry whispers drew Roshan's attention. Pausing, he lifted his head and sniffed the air, his nostrils filling with the scent of greed and whiskey.
There. Down the alley across the street.
His cloak billowed behind him like the shadow of death as he followed the scent of his prey, his whole body vibrating with a need that would no longer be denied.
Brenna pressed one ear to the door, listening for some sound that would tell her Roshan's whereabouts. At first, she heard nothing, and then she heard the slam of a door. She knew immediately that he had left the house and the slamming of the door had nothing to do with that knowledge. She felt a sudden void in the house and knew he was gone. The fact that she could be so aware of his absence frightened her in away nothing else had.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, she found herself wondering who he was. What he was. He was no mortal man, of that she was sure. But if he wasn't mortal, what was he? She had grown up on tales of otherworldly creatures. Granny O'Connell had believed in all manner of supernatural beings— fairies and trolls, gnomes and goblins, werewolves and vampires, and a host of other frightening folk. Brenna had refused to believe in such beings. If they existed, where were they? Why had she never seen one? But Granny had believed and often posed the question, "If there be witches and warlocks, why not werewolves or other fey folk? 'Tis only another form of magick, after all."
Except for her own mother and her maternal grandmother, Brenna had never encountered any other magical or mystical folk. She didn't know what manner of creature Roshan DeLongpre might be but she knew, in the deepest part of her soul, that he was like no other man she had ever met.
Biting down on the inside of her lower lip, she pondered the wisdom of venturing outside his bedroom. She glanced over her shoulder and a sigh shuddered through her. His bedroom. His bed. What did he intend to do with her? Why had he brought her here? He didn't even know her. Why had he traveled through time to find her?
So many troubling questions— questions for which she had no answers.
One thing she knew, she could not stay here, in his house, in his bedroom.
Muttering, "Come, Morgana," she unlocked the door. After looking up and down the hallway, she hurried down the stairs, out of the house, and down the long road that led to a huge, elaborately carved wrought iron gate set in a high stone wall. She wasn't surprised to find that the gate was locked.
