Page 33 of Dark Seduction

He tried to fight the sudden and terrible wave of weakness, but it was impossible and he sank to the floor. The tower had become shockingly still. He choked on pain, fury, blood, realizing that Moray had vanished.

He closed his eyes tightly, but not against the burning pain in his chest. All he could think of were the sacred vows he had recently taken. He had vowed upon the ancient and holy books at the sacred shrine, to defend God and mankind. But evil had just left the tower and it would hunt the Innocent from one end of the realm to the other, in all times.

And in that stunning moment of clarity and comprehension, he knew he must live to protect Innocence as Brogan and his ancestors had.

A terrible lust began. It was the lust to live, and it raged.

Somehow he struggled to his feet, clutching his bleeding chest. His body screamed at him for life. Urges began which he suddenly, instantly, understood—urges to take power so he might restore his own. But he was alone and his life was rapidly draining away. As death crept over him, he prayed to the Ancients who had first brought the Masters to the earth.

A woman rushed into the tower, shouting his name in alarm.

He was near death. She was unfocused in outline, dancing before his eyes, the tower swimming in gray shadows. And he was shocked, because he knew she had been sent to him.

She ran to him. Before she even touched him, he realized that she was young, wholesome, healthy and filled with so much life force that he choked on it. He reached for her. She helped him stand upright and he felt her power flowing into his veins.

He cried out, relieved.

She staggered and he held her. With every passing moment of union, his strength returned, increasing, escalating. It was good…and he became triumphant.

And he threw his head back against the wall, crying out as power swelled inside his veins. And with the surging strength came a sense of invincibility, the comprehension that he would not die. Elation roared in him—he had never known so much power. He had never known such rapture. Shocked, he realized his loins had engorged, too. Even more rapture beckoned.

He pulled her close so she could feel his lust, and her eyes widened. “Aye,” he said roughly. “Let me pleasure ye, lass.”

“My lord,” she whispered, throwing her arms around him.

He turned her back to the wall, moving aside his leine and her skirts. And he could not wait. He pushed her thighs apart and thrust hard, directly, deep. And as he came, he had to take even more from her—it felt too good not to.

He was blinded by the lust, the power, her ecstasy, his. Her life rolled from her in huge, slick waves and the power escalated a hundredfold. She was weeping and begging. He did not hear. He had been carousing since he was fourteen and he had never experienced so much ecstasy or known it could exist. He came again, his loins never slackening. He had more virility than any single man should ever claim.

This was a power he had not dreamed of.

And the power blinded him, kept him engorged, allowing him terrible stamina and endurance. He howled his pleasure at the sunrise. This time he would be able to kill Moray.

And then he realized the woman was finally still.

He glanced down at his chest. His leine was soaked withblood, but the wound had closed. There was only a ridged scar above his left nipple.

He owed this woman his life. Cradling her, filled with gratitude, he gently brought her to the floor. He unpinned his brat and laid it over her, then stood. And he realized Moray was present.

The demon stepped out of the shadows, his eyes glowing and red.

And as Moray laughed at him, Malcolm knew.

Dread began. The maid lay motionless.

No. He knelt at her side. He turned her face toward him and found her blue eyes wide and sightless.

“Welcome, my brother. Welcome to the pleasures of death.”

Malcolm stood abruptly, throwing his mug of wine savagely at the hearth. It was midnight, and he was alone in the great hall, except for a pair of prized wolfhounds. The dogs watched him, unperturbed.

He had not allowed himself to think of Urquhart in months. He had spent three years atoning for his sins, wrestling with his guilt. He had thought himself firmly in control. There had been a hundred women since Urquhart, yet there had been no temptation. But it was a lie.

He was not in control. He thought about Urquhart now. And then he thought about the woman who slept upstairs, another innocent maid, a woman who was so seductive, he wished to taste her life.

Three years ago, he had thought himself the hunter, but he had been wrong. Moray had been hunting him; Moray had been hunting his soul.

And now the woman tempted him in an unthinkable way. He had thought his soul safe, but he had been wrong.