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Roman coughed. “You mean he’s looking to become a supernatural business magnate?”
“It would seem that way. And our worry is, should he manage to raise Suvika, there’s a little matter of a prophecy that Suvika’s brothers will rise with him, which means three demigods of lord and vice running around. But you cannot start a war with him—I can’t let you. Too much rides on secrecy.”
“I don’t like making promises like that but… for you, I will. For now.” Roman let out a low whistle. “What have you managed to find out about how far along Lowestar is with his plan?”
“That’s the problem. What with everything going down back in Otherworld, and losing our father, and the Wayfarer and finding Violet before she could be sold off, we haven’t had the chance to look. I guess that’s on the agenda for tomorrow. Just please, don’t mention we found the prisoners alive. On the off chance that Lowestar doesn’t know, we don’t want him finding out. It’s too dangerous for them and their families.”
He nodded. “Got it.” After a moment, he leaned back. “So you think Lowestar is responsible for your accident—or rather, accidents?”
“Yeah. I think it’s a punishment for not selling the bar.”
“Well, the other bit of news, remember that my lawyer wants to talk to you about the lawsuit. We think we can get them to drop it outright, but he needs some information from you first. As soon as you can make arrangements to see him, the better.”
And with that, he draped his arm around my shoulders and gathered me in for a long, slow kiss. Roman’s lips were soft. They were cool as death, cool as my own, and I lingered, letting his tongue play over my lips.
I moaned lightly into his mouth, realizing just how much stress I’d been under. As he pressed against me, the thirst—the bloodlust—began to wake, whirling up like a rising storm. I let out a little growl and he responded.
“Come, love. Let us go out in the woods. You need me and I need you. You have to release some of the stress, and you know that I’m the best antidote for that. I’m your cure, your remedy, your vaccine against the pressure that you keep pushed down day after day.”
My heart lurched at his words and I wanted to cry. He was right. The pressure was absolutely insane, and I worked so fucking hard to keep it in check, to keep the tight rein over my predator that allowed me to exist within society without being a menace.
I nodded, standing. “Lead me, my liege.” For he was. He was my liege, my sire, my consort in blood sport.
We slipped down into the darkness, away from the house, toward Birchwater Pond. The slow beat of the forest rippled past, echoing with the autumn storm. But the rain and wind were of no consequence, and as we began to run, to chase through the trees, they became so many blurs. I tagged Roman on the shoulder.
“You’re it.”
He laughed. “Try as you might.” And he was off and running.
I gave him a five-second start, then began to race through the forest, hunting him, seeking him, following his trail. I could smell him on the wind, taste the bloodlust that surrounded his wake. He was fast, terribly fast, and cunning—the perfect apex predator, and I was one of the few that could follow him where he was going. I stalked him, peeking behind tree and bush, picking up his scent, lust bubbling up in my veins like slow fire.
The woods were a cacophony of sound, of tree branches sighing in the wind, of leaves swirling in the darkness, rain pounding through leaf and bough and needle. The animals were silent—they knew we were out, they knew we were hunting, and fear trailed their retreat. But we weren’t out for them—we weren’t out for fresh blood. Not tonight. Tonight we were both hunter and hunted, and our focus was solely placed on each other.
And then, as I paused by a boulder beneath a large fir tree, a noise from above startled me. Roman landed in front of me from where he’d been hiding up in the branches. His eyes were on fire, and he was laughing as he tapped my shoulder.
“You’re it. Go.”
And, my cunt tightening, I turned and raced into the night. I was his prey, only this time I wanted him to catch me. I wanted him to find me, to take me down—but I couldn’t make it easy. If he found me, it would be because he could match me, not because I gave him any quarter.
I passed through brush and fern, barely skimming the ground, and then, in the way he had taught me, fueled by his blood in my veins, I closed my eyes and, in the next moment, was gliding into the night on bat wings.
Spiraling up and out, into the storm, I reveled in the currents that tossed me from side to side. The storm was blowing up a gale now, and I let it carry me on, giving in. Tired of fighting, I let the wind carry me willy-nilly, and then, spotting a good place to hide, I spiraled down to land on a branch of a tall fir. As I shifted back into my normal form, I wondered how far away Roman was. I stood up, holding on to the tree for balance, trying to scout out the area, but I couldn’t see him. Secure in my lead, I lightly stepped off the branch and slowly levitated to the ground. There I began to run through the trees again.
The exercise was doing wonders for my mood—the stress coming out in the movement. I began to laugh, not caring if he heard me. For the first time in days, I felt free. If I were still alive, I’d say I was able to breathe.
And then, as I rounded the corner of a stand of cedar, there he was, waiting for me. Roman was leaning against a cedar, a smart-assed look on his face. I skidded to a halt as the mood shifted in a fraction of a second. My hunger grew strong, my thirst burning in my throat. As he began to walk me back against a tree as big around as a car, I locked eyes with him, watching him cautiously.
His icy gray gaze swept over me, and I felt naked. The next moment he lunged forward and had hold of my hands. I found myself back up against the tree, as he thrust my arms over my head and caught my mouth with lips soft as silk, sweet as blood and wine. His fangs began to descend and I moaned, wanting him. Wanting to dive deep under his skin, to taste the blood rise to the surface, bubble into my mouth with its foaming crimson warmth.
Blood. It was the only part about him—the only part of me—that retained any heat. Blood, the life force. Blood, the passion and the pain. Blood, the crimson flowers that stained the snow, that stained alabaster skin, that stained sheets and clothes and bodies. Blood, the drink of the damned—and I wanted it, wanted Roman’s blood so badly I screamed.
“Feed me. Drink me. Taste me. Fuck me.”
He laughed, low and sultry, and his arms enveloped me, holding me tight. “Can you moan for me, pretty one? Can you beg for me? Because I would beg for you—I’d beg for a taste of your blood, to fuck your cunt, to fill you up and drive you deep into the night.”
I shifted, exposing my neck, and Roman leaned his head back, fangs gleaming in the shock of lightning that flashed overhead. He reared back, then with a low moan of desire, of lust, he plunged deep into my skin. I felt the blood begin to flow, and the ache of his bite, the pain of his fangs, drove themselves deep into my heart.
“Hurt me, make me bleed, make me feel.” I begged him, pleading for the pain. Pleading for the sensations that reminded me I was still here, still existing.
