Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Or worse—want to.
19
Lucian
Julia doesn’t believe me.
I see it in her eyes, sharp as knives behind the pleading. She thinks this is a dream, or worse—some trick. She doesn’t yet understand what she is, what I see when I look at her.
And she has no idea how beautiful she is.
I think I understand why. The Crimson Eye showed me long ago—how human men treat women like her. They look past them. They sneer. They hunger only for brittle bones and hollow frames, and in their blindness, they discard what is most valuable.
Idiots.
How can I make Julia understand? Her softness is power. Her abundance is life. Every curve, every roll, every stretch mark is beauty carved by the Gods.
I will show her that until she cannot deny it.
I already gave her my blood—that is no small thing. The Brand I carry burned when I cut myself, because the act was more than simple healing—it was part of the old rite, the ritual meant to bind two souls together. I should have waited for a ceremony. But when she lay there in the tub, her lips blue, her body shivering with cold… it felt right to press my wrist to her mouth and let her taste me.
It felt right to give this part of myself to her.
The sound she made when she swallowed—soft, startled pleasure—will haunt me.
I want more.
Not just want—need. My hunger gnaws at me, deeper than the Thirst, craving more than just blood. It is her I crave. The thought of touching her, of burying myself in the heat of her body, makes my cock ache in the confines of my trousers.
I imagine her stretched across my bed, her lovely thick thighs parted just for me, her breasts rising as she gasps. I want to take her nipples between my lips and feel them stiffen against my tongue. I want to suck them deep into my mouth until she arches and moans my name. I want to mark them with my teeth, to tease them with my fangs—just enough to make her gasp.
And then I will go lower.
I picture myself kneeling at the altar of her body, spreading her thighs wide and pressing my mouth to the sweet, swollen flesh between them. Her scent will be heady—warm…feminine…fucking intoxicating. I will breathe her in until I’m dizzy, until I’m drunk on her. And then I’ll lick—slowly at first, savoring her taste, then harder, deeper, until she’s bucking against my mouth, tugging at my hair, begging me not to stop while she rides my tongue and her juices flow just for me.
I want her thighs trembling around my ears as she cries out, slick and wet against my tongue. I want to taste her while she’s coming—her magic will crest with her pleasure—the Sanguis Vita ripening…flowing hot and strong in her veins.
Her pleasure will feed me, yes. It will break the curse strangling my bloodline. But that’s not why I ache to hear her scream my name.
I want it because it’s her. Because every fantasy I’ve had since the moment I saw her in the Eye has led to this—me on my knees for her, devouring her, proving in the most primal way that she is mine.
And when she finally gives in, when her nails dig into my shoulders and she sobs my name, she will know—body and soul—that she is beautiful. Desired…Worshipped…Owned.
My cock throbs at the thought. The image of her wet and needy…of her thighs gripping me while her curvy body shudders with release, nearly undoes me.
Soon…soon I will taste her.
And once I do, I will never let her go.
20
Jules
Lucian’s arms are solid steel around me as he carries me into a room that makes my breath stop in my throat.
Oh. My. God.
This isn’t a bedroom—it’s a set piece from a vampire version of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
Seriously—my whole apartment could fit inside here twice over and there would still be space for a dance floor. The ceilings stretch up impossibly high, crisscrossed with carved black beams etched with roses and thorns, like even the architecture here wants to remind you that beauty has teeth. From the center hangs a chandelier dripping with ruby-colored crystals, scattering scarlet light across glossy dark wood floors.
The bed dominates everything. A solid four-poster frame carved from obsidian, its columns are etched with vines and roses. Its crimson sheets ripple under the chandelier’s glow, shimmering like water. The mattress looks so massive and plush it could swallow me whole. This is a bed designed for sin—not sleep.
There’s a fireplace against one wall big enough to roast a dragon—or to heat up enough s’mores for an army. Velvet curtains the shade of midnight drape the windows and puddle on the ground, heavy enough to block out a hurricane. A bar cart glitters in the corner, all crystal decanters and silver stoppers. The air smells faintly of spice and smoke and something darker, headier—Lucian’s scent seems to be woven into every corner of this room—every fabric and thread.