Dark Destiny (Dark Sentinel #1) - Lexxie Couper Page 0,99

and blood. A shudder wracked his body and he coughed, bubbles of bright red blood splattering his lips. “I guess…by the expression on your face…” he wheezed, fresh blood trickling from his nose. “…I’m not…looking my best.”

Patrick shook his head, not knowing what to do. He’d never seen someone so badly brutalized. “I can’t lie, brother,” he laughed, the raw sound desperate and harsh. “I’ve seen you better.”

Ven coughed again, the tip of his tongue—ashen grey and covered in sores—scrapping over his cracked, bleeding lips. “Could still…pull the girls…better…than… …you.” A weak chuckle fell from his throat and his body went limp, his eyes fluttering closed as his head lolled to the side.

“Ven?” Numb terror seized Patrick. He grabbed his brother’s shoulders and shook him hard, grief destroying rational thought and years of first-aid training. “Ven?”

Nothing.

“Steven!”

“Bloody…hell…mate,” Ven slurred, head lolling on his shoulders, eyes barely opening. Blood continued to ooze from his nose and ears. His body twitched, as if something tried to escape it. “Can’t…a…guy…get some peace…around here?”

He is going, Patrick.

Fred’s voice slipped through Patrick’s head. He turned, glaring at her. No. He wasn’t going to go through all this shit to lose his brother. He wasn’t.

Turning back to Ven, he shook his head. “I’ve spent thirty six years putting up with your shit, Ven.” He took his brother’s hand in his, holding it as firmly as he dared, dismay taking huge bites from his hope at how fragile Ven’s bones felt in his grip. “I think it’s time you put up with some of mine.”

A small, wavering grin pulled at Ven’s lips and his head rolled to the side again. “Annoying…little pain…in the…arse, aren’t…you?”

The words faded away to barely a whisper and Patrick choked back a sob. No. No.

“Stop being a lazy bastard, Steven,” he ordered on a strangled breath, “and get up. Who the hell is going to do my ironing if you die? Again.”

His brother chuckled, a soft, liquidy hiccup of a sound that made Patrick’s heart ache. “Fuck…off.”

Fred’s cool palm touched Patrick’s shoulder and he dragged his stare from Ven’s ashen face.

“Tell me how to fix this,” he ground out. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know, Patrick.” She shook her head, eyes unreadable. “I don’t know the cure.”

Patrick’s throat squeezed and he sucked in a swift breath. The cure. He was the cure. Did that mean…?

The same surreal calm that possessed him during Pestilence’s last moments flowed through Patrick again. He extended his arm from his body, hand open and fingers spread, and then closed them around the shaft of the Fourth Horseman’s scythe as it materialized in the air beside him.

Fred gasped but he ignored her. A prickling wave of heat rolled through him and he turned back to Ven, lowering his lips to his brother’s ear. “I think it’s time you had a feed, brother.”

Ven didn’t respond.

Patrick straightened a little, brought the tip of the scythe to his neck, pressed it directly above his pulse and sliced open his flesh.

White pain ripped through his neck and down into his shoulder. He hissed through his teeth, biting back a sharp shout. Warm fluid oozed from the clean wound and trickled down his neck. He opened his hand, releasing the scythe back to the Realm and moved, repositioning himself over Ven’s lifeless form, an inferno of hope burning in his chest.

Please. This has to work.

Blood flowing from his torn vein, he lowered himself closer to his brother and pressed his wet neck to Ven’s cracked, parted lips.

Nothing happened.

And then, it did.

Ven’s mouth opened. A gentle pressure nuzzled Patrick’s neck, like the innocent kiss from a young child. There was a soft moan, and then Ven’s tongue touched the bleeding wound and his fangs punctured Patrick’s flesh.

Sizzling heat shot through Patrick. Exquisite agony and terrifying joy. His lips parted, a cry catching in his throat. Ven sucked gently at his neck, and Patrick could feel his blood drawing through his veins, flooding his brother’s mouth. With every swallow Ven took, Patrick’s heart smashed against his breastbone. With every explosive beat, his blood pumped faster into Ven’s mouth.

He closed his eyes, feeling his life force drain from his body, feeling his soul erupt in golden existence.

Ven’s hands gripped his arms. His nails sank into his biceps. A growl sounded in Ven’s throat, low and wild and suddenly—after an eternity—he yanked his mouth free of Patrick’s neck.

“Bloody hell, brother.” Flopping backward, Ven wiped at his mouth with his hand—his large, strong, healthy hand. He gave Patrick a look of comical