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I watch Michael with interest as he processes what Ambrose said. I relate to the unease and conflict in his eyes; after all, my original offer to Ambrose got a similar dismissal. Ambrose waits, and eventually Michael’s desire to take his boss’s place wins out. He sets down the cutlery he’d been clutching with a death grip and finally looks at Ambrose with the appropriate respect.
“What do you want?” he asks, less confident than when Ambrose delivered the same question at the start of dinner.
“It’s simple enough,” Ambrose suggests, his tone light. “You’ve been visiting the same brothel in the Barrows for months, but for the last three weeks, you’ve gone elsewhere.”
Michael doesn’t move; a mouse cat between a cat’s paws.
Ambrose’s voice is sinister and low. “You’ve been using Rapture more often, too. You see, there is nothing that goes unseen by me in the Barrows. You aren’t using your usual supplier either.”
Michael’s face turns red. “Are you attempting to blackmail me?”
“Hardly,” Ambrose says after a snort. “If I were, I would use the debt you owe to the CEO of Southbay, from the loan you needed to sweep all your ugly transgressions away during your college years. How is your son, by the way? He’s what, ten now?”
There must be something wrong with me. Ambrose’s delivery of precise blow after blow with such a casual tone is one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced. The vampire king is displaying his power without hubris or arrogance as those in Topside expect. He doesn’t need their validation, their acceptance. He’s brutal and savage and the cruel glint in his eyes lets Michael and me both know he has no qualms about the silent threats in his words. No, not threats. Promises.
“You’re a bastard, d’Vil,” Michael growls and throws his cloth napkin on his plate before slamming back his whiskey. “Just fucking tell me what it is you want.”
“When my people contact you, you will give us everything you know regarding your new associates and their supply of Rapture. If you leave anything out, the next time you’re asked—I will be the one asking questions, and you really do not want that.”
Ambrose d’Vil looks every part the tyrannical king with his lip curled up with disgust, high enough that a fang reminds Michael of what he’s dealing with. I want to kiss him.
“Fine,” Michael spits out and gets up, without saying another word, he storms out of the private room like a petulant hurricane.
Ambrose toys with the delicate stem of the wine glass as the room is silent, save for my breathing and pounding heartbeat. I stare at his profile, drinking in his fierce beauty. It’s as if he was masterfully carved from marble, the sculptor capturing both a king of legend and a beast of infamy. When he turns to look at me, I don’t let myself think.
I slide my hands into his thick, dark hair and kiss him.
Chapter Eleven
Ambrose
Igrip the back of Eloise’s head, holding her to me as I take control of the kiss. The mouthwatering scent of her arousal had steadily grown throughout dinner and Mr. Garner was fortunate to have the dull senses of a human. Had he been able to smell Eloise, I would have killed him and to hell with the consequences.
Eloise’s sweet musky scent of pleasure is for me and me alone.
I fist her hair, swallowing her soft mews as I own her mouth. The rich woody wine and the savory taste of steak isn’t enough to hide the taste of her. She pushes her tongue back against mine, fighting me for control and I relent enough to suck her tongue into my mouth, scraping her tongue with a sharp fang. Small drops of blood only complement her flavor and I grip her hip with my other hand, needing more of her.
She freezes in my hold, but I don’t relent—I can’t relent. A growl escapes me as I drag my lips from hers and down her throat. I hate how Eloise makes me feel—powerless against this craving I’ve had since the first moment I tasted her blood.
Her hands release me, landing on my shoulders and her blunt nails dig into my skin. She pushes against me, and I growl again at her weak attempt to separate us. I mouth her neck, tilting her head back until it’s entirely bared to me. I have no physical need to feed, but I seek out the spot that I’ve bitten her at regardless. I latch my lips over the sensitive flesh, pulling at her hip until she’s straddling my lap.
Eloise gasps out the most beautiful sound, and I yank her down against me so she feels what she does to me. She’s no longer pushing me away; instead she rolls her hot core against me, separated by nothing but the thin material of her panties.
I’m drunk on the taste of her skin and the smell of her need. I sweep my hand down over her bare thigh, stroking her smooth skin before moving higher, intent on feeling her without barriers.
The moment my thumb strokes the damp lace covering her swollen folds, Eloise jolts. She pushes away from me, unable to go far before her back hits the edge of the table. Her pupils are blown wide and her lips are swollen as she pants.
“No,” she gasps out, her entire body tense and ready to fight.
I look at her lips and back to her eyes, my thumb still pressing against her sex. “No?” I ask, tendrils of anger slipping out from my black heart. I tighten my grip on her hair. No one tells me no. I am the king of the Barrows.
An acrid scent fills my nose, sweeping the red haze from my eyes at the sudden rise of it. Eloise’s eyes are still wide, but now there’s fear in her eyes. She trembles in my hold and I snarl. Her eyes squeeze closed at the harsh sound and I curse silently.
Eloise’s fear repulses me, and it cuts the anger down as something else takes its place. She should never fear me.
I release her hair and pull my hand from the place I long to bury myself. Keeping my touch light, I take her hands from my shoulders and she opens her eyes once more.
“No,” I intone, a promise in my eyes. I had told her that I wouldn’t take her unless she begged, and I will keep my word even if it means she never asks. The thought of bedding her with only the sick, sour scent of her fear filling my nose sickens me. I keep the maelstrom of emotions off of my face as I release her to stand, my hands bracing her waist so she can get her feet under her.
