“Feed, you arrogant ass. And don’t give me any trouble. You need it.”
Since his legs were continuing to disobey direct orders, he didn’t bother arguing. And when Isadora thrust her dainty arm between him and the man, who was flat on his back, Alasdair listened.
His fangs extended over the smooth skin, and without hesitation, he struck. Biting down hard, he pierced through the layer that, for most, was impenetrable, but to their own, it was easily punctured. She cursed at him, and as he siphoned the blood from his cousin’s vein, his lips curled against her wrist, his message clear.
Don’t get used to issuing the orders, Isa. I’m still your superior.
The ever-eternal flush of immortality rejuvenated him, and as it coursed through his body to every joint and extremity, his strength began to return. The force of it vibrated through his limbs, and once the full potency of it had hit, another response did also.
A more primal one.
Primitive.
One that often, but not always, followed a feed. And as his cock stiffened against the man underneath him, he knew exactly who the cause was.
Able to now move, Alasdair retracted his teeth, and Isadora snatched her arm back.
“You asshole,” she accused. “What’s your problem?”
Alasdair ignored the question and, instead, placed his palms on either side of his prisoner’s head. He inspected the wounds on the human’s neck and then faced the pissed-off female who’d moved to the massive chair on the far side of the room.
“I need you to watch him while I’m gone.”
“Excuse me?” Isadora scoffed as she crossed one of her bare legs over the other. Her black A-line skirt slid perilously high up her shapely thigh. “I’m not babysitting a human.”
“You will do what I tell you to do,” he stated. Then he returned his attention to the unconscious man. “He incapacitated me tonight. We both know that has never happened. Not to one of us. I want to know how he did it.”
“You want a lot more than that if your cock is any kind of indicator.”
Alasdair whipped his head around and pinned her with a look that dared her to say more. Wisely, she chose to keep her mouth shut.
“I have to go to the Chamber. The summons was clear. I have fifteen minutes.”
“I know. Thanos and I were…instructed to recuse ourselves from the hearing they called for you.”
Of course they were. This was to be a punishment—allies were not invited.
Before he could change his mind, Alasdair leaned down so his mouth was poised over the gash in the strong throat he’d attacked. Then he ran his tongue over the wounds and sat back. The skin stretched and then drew together until it seemingly stitched itself back in place and tightened into a smooth patch of healed flesh.
“We both know whatever happens to me in there is likely going to take days—”
“Or weeks,” Isadora interrupted.
“—to recover from,” he finished as he got to his feet. He stepped over the man and saw that his cousin was staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, Alasdair. Or what happened tonight. But you need to get it out of your system. You’ve never ignored a direct order from Vasilios. And he is pissed that you chose to tonight. ”
“He happened,” Alasdair said, gesturing to the body on the floor. “Just watch him, would you?” He was about to leave, but at the last minute, he pivoted around as Isadora was getting to her feet. “Isa?”
She stopped where she was and turned her head in his direction. When her midnight-blue eyes found his and her raven hair spilled in loose curls over her shoulder, Alasdair ground his teeth together.
Isadora was a beauty. A deadly one, at that.
“You are to keep guard from the outside of the room. He will heal. You will keep him alive. And when I return, I want to know what is running through his blood and how someone such as he was able to defeat someone like me.”
“ENTER!”
THE BELLOWING order was issued with the force of a sledgehammer. The weight of it coursed through Alasdair’s veins as he stood outside the closed door where the three Ancients had gathered.
He’d committed a grievous transgression tonight. He’d missed a meeting, and as one of the first sired, he was expected at all that were called—unless dead.
Two of his Ancient’s brainless minions flanked the massive doors, waiting to bring him inside, and as he glared at them, he held his chin in lofty disposition. They knew better than to challenge him. He’d have them defeated and dead in the blink of an eye if they tried. This show of muscle was merely a formality. An insult to him, because he now had to wait until he had permission to enter the Chamber.
As one of them opened the door, the tether that bound him like an anchor to his maker strengthened, and Alasdair had no choice but to walk forward.
How ironic. To have the entire world at your fingertips and one word or thought from one being will bring you the fuck home.
He entered the cavernous hall, one foot in front of the other. However, unlike other times he’d been inside the Chamber, he had no control over his motions. He was being brought to heel, and he knew what was about to come—punishment.
Many times over, he’d borne witness to one who’d disrespected the Ancients. Most didn’t live to see another night. But death would not be the ultimate, or swift, ending to this particular session.
The scrutiny of the council members was intense as Alasdair continued inside, his eyes trained on the three sitting on the elaborate stone dais at the far end of the monolithic room.
Each one of them was a striking specimen in his own unique way. He was always somewhat shocked when he had the privilege to be in their presence—even more so tonight, dressed as they were in their ceremonial garb.
They were remarkable. The high, black-collared empire jackets with brass buttons that held the fitted garments in place drew one’s eyes down the flawless proportions of the body it concealed. It was a body both mortals and immortals craved the second they were within eyesight.
The Ancients had mastered a most effective disguise. Civilized and outwardly appealing, they resembled nothing more than extremely handsome men in their prime. A form no one in everyday society would question but, instead, would want to be near. But if one were unfortunate enough to procure their wrath, the creature that emerged from within that polished shell was a most frightening fiend to behold.
“Alasdair.”
His name echoed down the extensive aisle, but it was as clear as if his sire were standing by his side.
“How gracious of you to find the time in your busy schedule to join us.” The words were delivered with an air of authority only an Ancient could pull off.
Muffled whispers came from the pews lining the aisle, where the council members of each brood had gathered to await his punishment. Deriving pleasure in another’s torture was an inherent trait of their kind—and there was no way they would miss out on it being inflicted on an Ancient’s sired.
As he continued up the walkway, his jaw fused shut, which was standard at a punishment hearing. He couldn’t open his mouth to speak, and he wouldn’t be given the opportunity until his opinion or thoughts were deemed necessary.
His eyes remained on the figure at the center of the platform—his Ancient, Vasilios, who was more breathtaking to look upon than Michelangelo’s David. His coal-colored hair was cut close to his head, accentuating a face that was a model study of sculptured angles and bones. It made one want to reach out and trail their fingers along those lines. But, as Alasdair knew firsthand, that deceptive allure was a façade, and a most potent one, at that.