Dammit, he wasn't even allowed to escape the hell of his life through near death. He was to have no peace, no relief; not even the insensibility of a coma was to be granted to him. His heart, or what remained of it, was sick with the knowledge that he had an eternity of even more torment to exist through.
"All right," he told the woman, shoving at her arm. "You've done what you were sent to do. I'm awake and miserable. Get off me."
She made no move, just continued to lie there on top of him.
And the damned rock still dug into his back.
He sighed, wondering how much more torment he could survive before going stark, staring mad. Insanity seemed like the only route open to him, the only escape of the torment of his life, and yet, his pride had always held him back from just simply going mad. Now he wondered if it wasn't easier than existing for each excruciating second.
"You're hurting me. Not that you probably care, but I'd like to get up and smash a certain rock to gravel, so if you'd kindly remove yourself from me, I'd appreciate it."
The woman still didn't move, and it struck Alec at that moment that her heartbeat was too slow, her body too heavy on his.
"Miss?" he said, prodding the woman.
She lay limply on him, her breath shallow on his neck. For a moment, he closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her. She smelled like wildflowers after a rain, clean and pure and sweet as honey. Unable to stop himself, he turned his face into her hair and breathed deeply, pulling her scent into his lungs, burning it to his memory.
Something inside him thrummed as the deep hunger awoke again. He inhaled deeply again, wanting to feed on her, wanting to take within himself the warmth he knew she held, the sweet, spicy taste of her blood still on his tongue. If he turned his head just a little more, he could reach her shoulder. He could drink until he was full. He could take everything she had to offer, every last sip of life, and roll her off him. She deserved it for torturing him this way. If only she didn't smell so damned good . . .
He growled a few oaths to himself as he shifted her off him, letting her roll into the spot he had chosen for his final resting place, crushing that foul rock into nothing before examining his torturer.
She was mortal, apparently in her early thirties, with brown hair, arched eyebrows, and a delicately boned face that was covered in freckles. Her lips were slightly parted, and he had to fight with himself to keep from bending over her to taste their pink sweetness. With a connoisseur's eye, he cataloged the rest of her - large breasts, broad hips, probably slightly over medium height, big-boned . . . not at all the type of woman he found attractive. He preferred his women on the slight side, delicate and frail. This woman, while not an Amazon, looked every bit the phrase "hearty peasant stock."
Hearty peasant stock or not, he knew he'd taken too much of her blood. Her heartbeat was steady, but it had probably been a close thing. He wanted to tell himself that it didn't matter, that she was clearly there as part of his punishment, but guilt pricked him nonetheless.
Guilt and something else. He caught himself enjoying the sweep of her hips, the rounded weight of her breasts beneath a washed-out blue tank top. Her arms were also freckled, and for some reason, that pleased him.
"Wake up," he told the woman, placing his hands on her arms and shaking her slightly. "I'm tired of looking at your hips. You will awaken now."
She said nothing, just lay there, unconscious. He frowned at her, his gaze straying once more to her breasts, down to the curve of her dusty jeans. He would not be attracted to his tormentor.
"Wake up!" he said louder, and shook her again. "If you don't wake up, I will slap you."
Her chest rose and fell with a shallow pattern of breathing.
"There are times when I'd give anything to never have been born," he muttered, staring at her mouth before tapping her on the cheek.
She didn't move.
He tapped a little harder.
Her forehead wrinkled in a frown. "Ow."
He smiled. "Are you awake now?"
The frown grew, although her eyes remained shut tight. "No. Go away. I was floating. I want to float again."
"You're done floating. Wake up."
Her eyes screwed up. Just what he needed, a stubborn torturer. "Don't want to. Want to float."
"By the saints, woman, that wasn't floating. I almost killed you."
Her eyelashes fluttered a little, but remained closed. Color was returning to her cheeks, he noticed, his gaze once again on her mouth. Lips like strawberry cream, he thought, then gave her another little shake. "It's time for you to wake up now. You've floated long enough."
A little smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "I like your voice. It's sexy. If I can't float, talk some more."
You don't know what you're saying. I took too much blood, and almost killed you.