Sara’s breaths were coming in gasps, every inch of her screaming for him, tightening for him, wanting him to feed from her even if it cost her her life. She was a fool, drugged and desire-filled. She reached between them and palmed her breasts, tugging at her nipples until they beaded hard and dark.
Alexander’s gaze slipped and he groaned at what he saw. “I’m sorry, Sara. Can’t go slow. Too sweet, too hot, tight ...”
“No,” she uttered as she pumped her hips, keeping his frantic pace. “Fast. Hard. Please.”
Alexander covered her mouth, thrust his tongue inside just as he thrust his cock deeper inside her body. Her breath caught in her throat, heat coiled within her, and her veins pulsed with the blood in her heart. She couldn’t stop the building passion inside her and she didn’t want to. Jutting her hips up, squeezing her cunt, she cried out, crashed, went over the edge. It was too beautiful, the sensations running through her, so frantic and sweet, and she refused to release it until he came inside her.
Her mouth moved from his and found the brand on his left cheek. She growled low and nipped at the rigid flesh with her teeth. Alexander cursed, bucked wildly. Sara suckled the brand into her mouth, played the damaged skin like a nipple with her tongue.
Fingers digging into the skin of her shoulders, Alexander slammed his cock so deep within her body Sara felt him in her belly. Hot seed spilled into her cunt, and Sara squeezed the muscles that surrounded him, wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him close, reveling in the spasms and jerks of his climax.
He loved her.
She smiled, reveled in the feel of his weight atop her. She nuzzled her head into the curve of his neck, her eyes open and unfocused. His shoulder spread out before her, looking massive and edible. She licked her lips, watching as his skin seemed to pulse. In her muddled brain she heard herself say that it was the same spot that had opened and closed so many times before—the spot she’d tasted, and beneath it, the blood that could change her . . .
Something snapped, her mind, her hunger . . . and she couldn’t help herself. She lowered her head and bit down hard on his shoulder.
Alexander reared back, his cock coming free of her. “Sara!”
Oh God. She looked from his eyes to his shoulder. Shock and fear blasted through her. She tasted blood on her tongue. What have I done? She covered her mouth with her hand. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Shit. No.” Eyes wide, Alexander sat back on his heels.
“I couldn’t stop myself. I’m sorry.”
He turned and checked his shoulder. “You broke the skin.”
“Alexander . . .”
When he turned back to look at her, his eyes were black-red. “Do you taste me?”
Scared, she shook her head, lying to him without using the words. She knew what he thought would happen to her if she ingested his blood—even one drop. And maybe he was right, maybe it had happened already.
Alexander looked angry, shocked, and Sara stammered through another apology. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand why I would do that. I don’t understand anything right now. I’m so sorry.” But even in her fear and confusion she realized she wasn’t sorry. Not even a little. As she stared up at him, she wanted to continue what she’d started, taste what glistened on his shoulder now, bright and red and succulent as a peach.
Her heart plummeted to her stomach. What the hell was happening to her? The hunger, not for food, but for him . . . Oh God, what had she done? And what would happen to her next?
“Sara, you could become Imiti. Fuck! You must swear to me—” He froze, his attention drawn to something above her head, on the wall.
Sara sat up and turned to look. At first she thought she was dizzy, but then she realized that the plaster was moving, shifting like the pages of a book. Instinctively, Alexander moved in front of her as words formed on the wall.
“What’s happening?” she asked. “What is this?”
Alexander stared at the message.
THE IMPURE LIVES IN THE NIGHT. THE SECOND ROMAN BROTHER DIES IN THE SUN. COME TO THE HOLLOW.
“I have finally been summoned.”
32
The blood she had given had been a great loss to her, a compromise to her moral code, and yet it had granted her the answers she’d come to the Roman house to find.
Bronwyn took out the last piece of clothing in the drawer and placed it in her bag. Edel was already outside in the car, waiting to take her back to the credenti, back to her family, back to her work. She’d wasted enough time here, had been an unwanted guest for far too long. Her pride had taken a beating.
She snatched up her bag and headed for the door. The eldest Roman was supposed to have been hers, but she’d fed him, let him drink from her, and had come away with absolutely no impulse to quell her own hunger. She’d sat across from him as he swore to keep their feeding a secret, every molecule in her body screaming the truth—Alexander Roman was not her true mate.
She walked out into the hall and headed for the stairs. She had done something wrong in her research, somehow misread the genetic markers. Alexander didn’t belong to her, but she needed to find out who did. And there was no time to spare.
“Running away, princess?”
Dressed in black and standing in what had been a living area yesterday and what now looked like combat central with targets on the walls and burlap bags hanging from the ceiling, Lucian eyed her, two sizable knives in his clenched fists.
He looked ready for war.
“I’m going home,” she said.
“But I barely had time to do my job,” he drawled.
“What job is that?”
“Stand in for Alexander as you’re potential mate.” He grinned wickedly. “I was really looking forward to it.”
She lifted her chin. “Somehow I think you’ll get over your disappointment.”
“And I think you’re wise to give up on the whole true-mate bullshit.”
“Oh, I’m not giving up,” she said quickly, resolutely. “I’m still going to look. Just not here.”
Lucian growled, turned around, and rammed both blades into the very center of one of the burlap sacks. “Just keep yourself locked up nice and tight, princess. There are dangerous males about.”
Her gaze moved over him and she nodded. “Damn right there are.”
His fierce eyes narrowed, but Bronwyn could’ve sworn she saw a spark of amusement in their depths.
Yes, going home was right. “Good-bye, Lucian.” She turned and grabbed the door, yanked it open, then whispered, “Be careful,” before she closed it gently behind her.
The ancient ten had returned to the Hollow. They sat at the glass table, hands folded, their eyes—the left ones branded with thin black circles—following Alexander as he walked over smooth, soft sand toward them.
“You have failed, son of the Breeding Male,” said Cruen, his electric blue stare deadly. “Abductions have slowed, true, but Ethan Dare is still at large.”
“The failure here is yours,” Alexander returned with venom. “I came to you and told you that the half-breed has the powers and abilities of a Pureblood morphed male and you refused to believe it. Why do you think you could not track him! He is being protected.”
There was a collective gasp among the members, a rustle of red robes as they turned to whisper panicked mumblings to their neighbors. “What is this?” and “Impossible!” and “How could it be?”
Cruen stood, called for calm among his peers, and when he had their attention, pulled his lips up tight in a grin that had nothing to do with humor. “I still refuse to believe it.” He looked around at his peers. “Alexander Roman lies. He lies to explain away his failure.”