As water dripped from the showerhead onto the tile, the rhythmic sound was loud as a snare drum between them. In between the beats, she found herself remembering the night she'd followed him up to this room... the night when he'd touched her aroused body. Ten minutes after he had she'd found him curled over the toilet, throwing up because he'd put his hand on her.
I'm filthy. I am so very dirty. I am dirty, dirty...
Clarity came to her in the shifting way of a nightmare, cleaving into consciousness with chilling illumination, showing her something ugly. It was obvious he'd been beaten as a blood slave, and she'd assumed that was why he didn't like to be touched. Except getting hit, however painful and frightening, didn't make you feel dirty.
But sexual abuse would do it.
His black eyes suddenly focused on her face. As if he'd felt the conclusion that had found her.
Driven by sympathy, she leaned in toward him, but the anger that bled into his face stopped her.
"Christ, female," he snapped. "Will you cover yourself?"
She glanced down. Her robe was open to her waist, the swells of her breasts showing. She yanked the lapels together.
In the tight silence it was hard to meet his stare, so she focused on his shoulder... then followed the line of muscle to his collarbone, to the base of his neck. Her eyes drifted up his thick throat... to the vein that pumped just under his skin.
Hunger shot through her, making her fangs elongate. Oh, hell. Like she needed bloodlust right now?
"Why do you want me?" he muttered, clearly sensing her need. "You're better than this."
"You are - "
"I know what I am."
"You are not dirty."
"Damn it, Bella - "
"And I only want you. Look, I'm really sorry, and we don't have to - "
"You know what? No more talking. I'm tired of the talking." He stretched his arm out on his knee, wrist up, and his black eyes became devoid of any emotion, even anger. "It's your funeral, female. Do it if you want."
Time stopped as she stared at what he grudgingly offered. God help them both, but she was going to have him. With a quick move she arched over his vein and scored him cleanly. Though it must have hurt, he didn't jerk at all.
The instant his blood hit her tongue, she moaned in bliss. She'd fed from aristocrats before, but never from a male of the warrior class, and certainly never, ever a member of the Brotherhood. His taste was a delicious roar in her mouth, an invasion, an epic, screaming blast, and then she swallowed. The torrent of his power ripped through her, a forest fire in the marrow of her bones, an explosion that pumped into her heart in a glorious rush of strength.
She trembled so badly she almost lost contact with his wrist and had to grab onto his forearm to steady herself. She drank in great, greedy pulls, starved not just for the strength, but for him, for this male.
For her, he was... the one.
Chapter Eighteen
Zsadist fought to keep still as Bella fed. He didn't want to disturb her, but with every pull on his vein he was getting closer to losing it. The Mistress was the only one who'd ever fed from him, and the memories of those violations were as sharp as the fangs buried in his wrist now. Fear came to him, hard and vivid, no shadow of the past anymore, now a very present panic.
Holy shit... He was going totally light-headed here. About to black out like a stone-cold sissy.
In a desperate attempt to bring himself back to center, he focused on Bella's dark hair. There was a lock of it close to his free hand, and the strand gleamed in the shower's overhead light, so lovely, so thick, so different from the Mistress's blond.
God, Bella's hair looked really soft... If he'd had the nerve, he would bury his hand - no, his whole face - in those mahogany waves. Could he handle that? he wondered. Being so close to a female? Or would he choke when even more fear hit him?
If it was Bella, he thought he might be able to do it.
Yeah... he'd really like his face there, in her hair. Maybe he would burrow through it and find his way to her neck and he would... press a kiss to her throat. Just real softly.