Page 53 of Reckless Witch

RAITH

Blood

There is a fine line between heaven and hell…love and hate. Heaven and hell are often one and the same, as love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Too often, love leads to hate.

Then we lose control.

The sweet, thick blood that slides down my throat sets my lust on fire and feeds the fury that lives so close to the surface. This moment is the sweetest of hells I can imagine.

Ciarah has never died by our hands. What will happen if I drain her? Take all her life force? Will that end the torture? Perhaps that would give her the strength to stop seeking us—me—out.

She tastes so good, as good as I remember. Perhaps even better. I feel her life force stirring. There is only her and I, and our blood.

Yes.

Only us.

She draws harder on my wrist. Anyone else, I would fear changing them into a creature without a heart, but Ciarah can’t be changed.

I suck harder.

She sucks harder.

Lust streaks through me. My cock hardens. I smell her desire, taste her need. Memory rises of her on the floor on all fours, my grip tight on her hair as I take her from behind while my fangs are buried in her neck.

“More,” she pants.

I draw harder—drive harder into her channel.

“Yes,” she whispers in a hoarse voice. “I need more.”

I need more.

She always needs more.

Maybe it will be her who drains me.

Chapter Twenty-Three

LEILAH

That mouth…so familiar

What is the magic liquid sliding down my throat? Nothing ever tasted so sweet. The pain that permeates every fiber of my body is ebbing, but the ache in my heart hovers close to the surface. Still, with each beat of my heart, I care less and less about anything except the sweet nectar.

Strong fingers squeeze my waist. Cool air washes over my skin and gooseflesh raises on my arms. There’s something familiar in the fingers that tighten on my flesh. I breathe deeply and swallow more of the magic fluid. What is that scent? Male—yes. But, also something else… Sandalwood?

The mouth pressing my flesh is full and warm, conveying a need that pulls forth an answering desire that staggers. I drink greedily. I can’t get enough. More. I need so much that I want to drown in this need. Nothing else matters. I want—need—to drink more. Need to be touched by those long fingers. Need to feel that mouth on all of me. Everywhere.

That mouth…so familiar.

I stare into a canyon.

Overhead, a hawk screams. A cool evening breeze wafts across my warm flesh. Those familiar hands span my waist from behind, then slide around as strong arms pull me against a muscular body. That mouth so close to my neck. I shiver. Need rises. Not just to have his arms around me, or to have him inside me, but to warm his cold heart. I’m not certain he’s ever felt the joy of warmth.

His need, hard and demanding, presses into my ass. I sigh and he growls low in response. The hawk cries again. The scream pierces my ears. I wince. The cry grows louder. Fear clenches my belly. I’ve never felt fear while with him. The cry grows louder. The sound isn’t a bird’s cry, but a scream. A woman’s scream.

My scream.