A Hunger Like No Other (11 page)

“Hello, Ivo.”

“Valkyrie,” he sighed to Annika as he dropped onto their settee and rudely kicked his boots up on their table.

“You still have all the arrogance of a king. Though you aren't one.” Annika regarded him gravely. “Can never be one.”

Regin tilted her head at him. “Just a wittle wapdog. Demestriu's wittle bitch man.”

When Lucia tried to bite back a snicker, Annika rapped Regin on the back of her head.

“What?
What'd I say?”

“Enjoy your taunts,” Ivo said pleasantly. “They'll be your last.” To the demon, he said, “She isn't here.”

“Who?” Annika demanded.

An amused glance. “The one I seek.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Annika spied a flickering shape. Lothaire, an ancient foe of theirs as well, had traced into the shadows of the room, behind Ivo's seat. Everything about Lothaire was chilling, from his white hair, to his eyes that were more pink than red, to his expressionless face.

Tension stole through her; they were even more outnumbered. But Lothaire put his finger to his lips.
He doesn't want Ivo to know he's here?

Ivo jerked his head around to see what had caught her interest, but Lothaire had traced away. Ivo seemed to shake himself, then ordered the demon, “Kill these three.”

At his command, the other two sprang for Regin and Lucia. The demon vampire traced behind Annika
before his image faded in front.
As she whirled, his hand shot out for her neck, but she dodged, striking out fast as a blur to splinter his forearm. Another hit cracked his cheekbone and shattered his nose. While he roared, spraying blood, she kicked him between his legs hard enough to break his tailbone and send him crashing to the ceiling.

Yet fast and strong as if fresh to the fight, he snatched her neck. She twisted to get free, but he hurled her into the fireplace, propelling her headfirst so hard that the first layer of bricks turned to powder from the blow. Her head recoiled and she fell, unable to move as the second layer dropped like a flood onto her back. Unmoving but still seeing through the dust . . . .
Lightning. Beautiful lightning.
She couldn't think.

Regin scrambled from the vampire she'd been fighting to stand protectively over Annika. Lucia sped to her side, finally garnering room for a shot. Regin panted, “Lucia, the big one. As many arrows as you can. I'll pry his head off.”

Lucia gave a quick nod and strung four arrows with supernatural speed. The legendary archer, invincible if she could just get room . . . Lucia unleashed her arrows that would tear through flesh and bone, then drill
through
the brick walls after.

The sound of her bowstring was as beautiful as the lightning—

Ivo laughed from his seat. The demon's muscles went rigid. He brushed three arrows aside, and
caught
the fourth.

And Annika knew they were going to die.

L
achlain directed Emma to the lavish hotel just outside London that the concierge had arranged, then observed every detail as she checked in. She seemed very put out at having to ask him for her credit card, and even more when he retrieved it from the hotel clerk. But she hadn't said a word about the expense.

He didn't believe this was because she trusted him to repay her. He thought she'd wanted to quit driving, at any cost. The journey obviously had been hard on her.

He
should be driving, taking on the burden of seeing them to Kinevane, but he'd been forced to have her do it. Because of his inability, she was exhausted and the lights had hurt her sensitive eyes again and again.

When she requested two rooms, he slapped down a hand on the counter, not bothering to retract his dark claws. “One.”

He'd realized she wouldn't make a scene around humans—few in the Lore would—and she didn't argue now. But while the bellman showed them up, she pinched her forehead and said under her breath, “This wasn't part of the deal.”

She must still be unnerved about the night before. It had only been twenty-four hours ago when she'd gazed at him with a bleak expression and whispered,
“You frighten me.”

He frowned to find his hand reaching out to stroke her hair, and jerked it back.

While he tipped the bellman, she staggered past him into the spacious suite. When he closed the door, she'd already fallen forward half on the bed, nearly asleep.

He'd known she was tired, had reasoned driving was draining, but how could she be this bad off? Immortals were usually powerful, near inexhaustible. Was this the condition she spoke of? If she'd drunk Monday, and she had no discernible injuries, then what was it?

Was it the shock of what he'd done to her? Perhaps she was as fragile inside as her appearance suggested . . . .

He tugged her jacket off by the collar—easy to do, since her arms were limp—and found her neck and shoulders were knotted. Surely driving did that. Not sitting next to him for hours.

When he felt her skin was chilled, he ran water in the bath, then returned to roll her over and pull off her shirt.

She weakly slapped at his hands, but he ignored her protests. “I've drawn you a bath. It's no' good to sleep like this.”

“Let me do it myself, then.” When he removed her boot, her eyes opened fully to meet his. “Please, I don't want you to see me unclothed.”

“Why?” he asked as he stretched out beside her. He picked up the end of a curl to run it along the side of her chin as he gazed down into her eyes. The skin beneath her lashes was pale like the rest of her face, so pale it matched the whites of her eyes, with only the fringe of thick lashes sweeping between them. Fascinating to him.

And looking down into them felt oddly
familiar.

*  *  *

“Why?” She frowned. “Because I'm shy about things like that.”

“I'll leave your undergarments on.”

She did want a bath, desperately. It was the only thing that could possibly warm her.

When she closed her eyes and shivered, he made the decision for her. Before she could even finish sputtering a protest, he'd stripped her to her underwear, then
himself
completely, and clasped her in his arms. He dropped them into the steaming oversize bathtub with her between his legs.

In the warm water, his injured leg brushed her arm, and she stiffened. He was naked and aroused, and her underwear was no true barrier since he'd unerringly chosen a thong. He laid one heavy hand on her shoulder. A second later, she felt a finger from his other hand tracing the thong she wore.
“This pleases me,”
he growled.

Just as she tensed to leap from the water, he brushed her hair over one shoulder, put both hands on her neck, then pressed down with his thumbs.

To her morbid embarrassment, she moaned, loud.

“Relax, creature.” Against her efforts, he pulled her back into him. When she lay fully on his erection, he hissed and shuddered, his reaction flooding her with heat. But she shot back up, fearing he would want to have sex with her. It didn't take an anatomist to make a case that they wouldn't fit like that.

“Easy,” he said, continuing to work out the knots in her shoulders with an expert touch. As he drew her to him once more, the only struggle she could manage was internal, and she was glad no one could see that stumbling, pitiful attempt. Finally he forced her to relax against him completely, body gone limp.

What no one knew about Emma was that she loved to be touched.
Adored
it. Even the more because it was utterly rare.

While her family was affectionate in a spartan way, they wanted to toughen her up. Only one of her aunts, Daniela the Ice Maiden, seemed to understand her yearning, because she herself
couldn't
touch or have her freezing skin touched without extreme pain. She understood it, but for some reason Daniela didn't miss it, didn't feel the same need, while Emma thought she'd slowly die without it.

Creatures from the Lore who would be acceptable lovers for her, like good demons, were scarce in N.O.L.A., and most of those had been hanging around the manor since she'd been young. She saw them as nothing more than big brothers. With horns.

The infrequent demons who
were
strangers didn't exactly line up to come calling at the coven. Even they found Val Hall, their fog-enshrouded home in the bayou, terrifying, with the shrieks echoing within and the constant lightning hovering.

A few years ago, Emma had finally grasped that she would be alone when yet another cute, perfectly doable human male in one of her night classes had asked her out—for
coffee
the next
afternoon.
Emma loathed Starbucks for its very existence.

She'd realized then that she could never be with a man who was of her own kind, and could never be with most who weren't. Sooner or later they would discover what she was. The reasons she hadn't found someone in her life—
A matinee . . . ? Dinner and drinks . . . ? A picnic . . . ?
—weren't changing, ergo . . .

Later she'd “accidentally” bumped into the human just to know what she was missing. Warm touch, appealing masculine scent. She'd realized she was missing
a lot.

And it had hurt.

Now Emma had a cruel but divinely handsome Lykae who couldn't seem to keep his hands off her. She feared she'd be a sponge for his touch even as she hated him.

She feared he could make her a beggar for it.

*  *  *

“What if I fall asleep?” she asked, her voice soft, her lightly drawling accent more pronounced.

“Fall asleep. Doona care,” Lachlain said, as he kneaded her neck and her slim shoulders.

She moaned again and her head sank back against his chest. She sounded as if she'd never been touched like this. The utter surrender wasn't sexual, but he thought she'd give anything for him to continue. She seemed
starved
for it.

He remembered days in his clan. Everyone roughhoused, men always found an excuse to touch their women, and if you did something well, you received literally a hundred slaps on the back. Lachlain had spent most hours with his family with a child perched on his shoulders and two bairns dragging on his legs.

He pictured Emma as a timid little girl growing up in Helvita, the vampire stronghold in Russia. Though gilded with gold, Helvita was damp and dark—he should know, since he'd spent time enough in the dungeon. In fact, she might have been there when he was imprisoned, if she hadn't already journeyed to New Orleans.

The vampires who lived there were as cold as their home. They would not touch her with affection—he'd never seen a vampire display affection. If she needed it like this, how had she gone without it?

He'd suspected she'd been long without a man, but now Lachlain knew that if she had had someone, the man didn't
touch her nearly enough and she was well rid of him. He recalled how when they'd been in the shower, her tightness and her reactions had made him wonder if she'd
ever
had a man. But now, as then, he thought it unlikely she was virgin, since not many immortals made it through centuries abstaining. She was just small and, as she'd said, shy.

Remembering her tight sheath made his cock go painfully hard for it. He lifted her into his lap, turning her side to his chest. She stiffened, no doubt from his shaft throbbing under her arse.

Urges wracked him. She was wearing the silk that was little more than a string, and the sight of it was even better than his imaginings. He opened his mouth to simply inform her that he was about to stroke his fingers between her legs and then settle her down on his shaft. But before he could, her delicate hands lighted upon his chest, their paleness standing out against his skin. She waited a moment as if testing the waters. When he did nothing about her hands, she rested her face against him, settling in to sleep.

He drew back his head and frowned down at her, bewildered by this. Was this . . . did she trust him? Trust him not to take her while she slept? Damn it, why would she do that?

With a foul curse, he lifted her from the water. Her hands were still against his chest, clutching a little. He toweled her off, then laid her on the bed, her blond hair fanning out, the ends damp. The exquisite scent of it swept him up. Shaking, he peeled her wicked undergarments from her. He inwardly groaned at her body, about to spread her legs and set upon it with a vengeance.

Barely awake, she murmured, “Can I sleep in one of your shirts?”

He stood back, clenching his fists, brows drawn. Why would she want to be dressed in his clothing? Why did he want it as well? He ached, he needed to be inside her so badly, and yet he was stalking to his bag. At this rate, he'd be returning to the shower and bringing himself release. How else could he make it through the day with her?

He dressed her in one of his new undershirts though it swallowed her, then put her under the cover. Just as he'd drawn it up to her chin, she woke and sat up. She squinted at him, turned to regard the window, then gathered the cover and the pillow and bedded down on the floor, tucking herself into the side of the bed.