Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,58

vestiges of Whitechapel far behind him as he staggered to a halt. Not the place for a man like him to collapse and it was clear he’d pushed himself into the edges of the fury that afflicted his kind. Exhaustion throbbed through him, dulling the barest edges of his temper.

He could taste her still. Burning on his lips. Tempting him, daring him. The feel of her tongue branded on his own. But worse than that, the feel of her hand sliding over his jaw in the faintest of caresses. A sweet touch, almost more alluring than the taste of her mouth. A touch that made him hunger so damned much, for something he could never have.

Will gave a helpless groan and sank to his knees. What the hell had she been thinking? Pushing him like that, kissing him, not knowing how much it hurt inside to push her away. He hadn’t been thinking. So shocked at the sensation of her mouth on his and her body nestled in his lap that he’d lost hold of himself, just for a minute. The next thing he knew, he’d had his hand on her arse, urging her against him, his cock aching like a fucking battering ram in his breeches. It would have been so easy to press her back down into the sofa and sheathe his aching flesh inside her wet heat.

So easy…

So dangerous.

Will let out a sob, raking his hand through his hair as he rocked back and forth. It took long minutes before the fury ebbed out of him, enough for him to stagger to his feet and look toward Whitechapel.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to go back.

***

Will clutched the bottle of whiskey to his chest and stared out into the dark night, trying to ignore the faint spatter of icy rain. The warren was silent beneath him, a fact he was furiously aware of. He couldn’t face anyone right now, not even Blade.

Swilling another mouthful of whiskey, he felt it burn all the way through him with the echo of a long ago memory of home. His true home, where he’d been born. Visions danced through his mind; his da swinging him up onto broad shoulders as they examined the mist over the heather-clad valleys, laughing at his sister as she chased him across the yard, the look on the stranger’s fevered face as he launched himself at Will, those blunt, yellowed teeth ripping at his throat… Of that he remembered it all too well.

This was home now. For so many years he’d known nothing of kindness, and when Blade first brought him here he’d mistrusted everyone and everything, Blade most of all. He’d been but a lad, but some memories were branded on his soul. You didn’t ask for anything, because that was when they whipped you. You didn’t beg for more food, because they laughed and sneered at you. And you didn’t ever expect a kind touch, a gentle hand cupping your face, a kiss…

His fingers shook around the bottle. For a moment he wanted it so much that he ached. A different kind of aching to the mess Lena’s careless kiss left him in. An ache for something more.

He’d thought he’d found it once. The first few times Blade had come to him after taking him as a thrall, there’d been a sense of closeness there. Will hadn’t understood it. The blood-drinking roused his body, his own blood, but the ache had been fiercer than that. The feel of someone else touching him. Someone who cared for him.

He’d reached for Blade then, a horrible moment that left him merely shamed and embarrassed. Blade had been shocked but not cruel.

“Not like that, lad. Not us. You’ll understand, one day.”

And now he understood and the realisation was a torment of its own. Because he couldn't have her. Not ever.

He lifted the whiskey bottle and drained it dry. The liquor burned through him but it only left him feeling hollow and in need of a piss. He didn’t understand how people got soaked. The worst liquor ever did was make him thirsty.

A whisper of sound caught his ear, far below. A muttered conversation in the dark. He could barely make out the words until he heard one that made his entire body still.

“…Lena…”

Silence ruled, broken only by a dog’s lonely bark several streets over. Will lowered the bottle, his head cocked to listen. The voice had been a woman, but at that pitch he