No Rest for the Wicked

17

No, Kaderin didn't dream, not since the blessing, so even in sleep, she was confused about why she dreamed the vampire was nudging her legs apart.

Of course, it's a dream. A wicked one. I'd never sleep through a vampire's presence.

She allowed the dream vampire to continue touching her, seduced by his ragged breaths as he skimmed his fingers up her inner thighs, his hands shaking. In her dream, they were hot, one covering her ass, the other tugging aside her loose silk shorts to bare her sex.

He hissed in a breath. Could dreams be this real? She couldn't remember! She shouldn't be feeling him leaning down, pressing his weight into the bed. To kiss her? Kiss her precisely where?

His voice a broken rasp, he said, "I want my mouth on you... "

Her eyes flashed open. She whirled to her side, slamming her free hand to the bottom of her sword hilt, flipping it up. It stabbed through the bedspread to rest under his chin. Holding it in place, she turned onto her back and shot up in bed, then gasped.

She was half-naked, still breathing heavily, dazed by her arousal—and just in front of her, the vampire's huge erection strained thick against his jeans.

She swallowed, jerking her gaze up, but regretted catching his eyes. They burned with lust, and thought seemed to flee when she looked into them. But when he tried to peer down at her uncovered breasts, she shook herself and jabbed him.

"Very well," he conceded, raising his hands. "I might deserve that for touching you while you slept, but know that in the end, I thought you had woken."

"How long were you here?" she asked, her voice high.

"Almost ten minutes."

She glanced past him and saw his sword laid across her bench, his jacket slung beside it. She just prevented her jaw from dropping. "Impossible."

"Bride, you keep saying that about things that have already occurred."

She couldn't think! No vampire had ever taken her unaware. She slept lightly, had been trained to after years of battle. Yet she was supposed to believe she'd slept—and dreamed—through a leech's fondling her?

What was it about this particular vampire? Why can't I run this sword through him? A tiny flex of her wrist would incapacitate him. Then an easy swing for the head.

But she couldn't because of the competition. Yeah, right, only that rascally competition prevents me.

There was a reason that would completely explain why she couldn't hurt him. But she refused to entertain it—couldn't. If she did, life as she knew it was over...

"I will not stand here like this much longer, Katja," he said quietly. "But I will turn my back if you'd like to dress."

The gentleman vampire. His words were steady and low, but she sensed he was barely in control, as if he were actually considering just knocking her sword from her and covering her in the bed. What would she do if he did?

She wished she knew. Predictable Kaderin, steady Kaderin, was now volatile.

The way he studied her with such blatant appreciation unnerved her. In the old country, during a storm, the sea grew violently colored, slashed through with shadows, streaming with black like coal.

That was the color of his eyes glowing in the darkness. A storm over water.

An inane thought arose. I always fancied storms.

She inwardly shook herself. Every second with the vampire, who was possibly the most sexually attractive male she had ever encountered, she played with fire. And not just with his wants, but with her own new feelings—pleasure at the rumble of his voice, excitement at his looks of longing, satisfaction that she wasn't alone in the room anymore.

For an eternity, she'd watched everyone around her act as slaves to emotion, behaving unreasonably, irrationally. Now she was one among them, and she was unpracticed. Adrift.

"I'll dress." She lowered her sword and stood, snagging her shirt and shimmying past him. He must have caught a glimpse of her breasts—he didn't bother to stifle his groan. As she crossed to her bag, she could feel his gaze on her ass.

As soon as she'd been old enough to leave Valhalla as a new immortal, she'd noted that men found her backside arousing. Now, she traipsed, exaggerating the sway of her hips. He'd gotten her hot. Turnabout's a bitch.

He rasped a curse in Estonian, and she immediately knew he wasn't aware that she understood the language. For some reason, she believed he would never speak like that around her.

"Katja," he said from behind her, "what would it take to get you back in that bed with me?"

Katja! Over her shoulder, she said, "That's not my name, and nothing you have." To arbitrarily change a name that had been honored and revered for twenty centuries—the nerve! To punish him, she bent over straight-legged when she laid her sword over her suitcase and dug out a cami bra to go under her shirt. When she rose and peeked over her shoulder, he was scrubbing his hand over his mouth, looking dazed.

Which was rewarding. Though, again, he appeared for all the world as if he were about to toss her over his shoulder and trace her to his lair.

What would it be like to be taken by a male like Sebastian? The idea of truly being at the mercy of a dominant male with only one thing on his mind was... titillating.

Even as it would never happen. With her back to him, she dragged on her clothes. "You need to understand that I will never sleep with someone like you." She turned in time to see his eyes darken at that.

"Someone like me?" He was seething with tension.

Had her words hit an unknown chink in his armor? "I kill vampires—I don't screw them."

"Would you sleep with me if I weren't a vampire?" This question, this subject—if she could want him—was very important to the vampire indeed.

She tilted her head, exaggerating a measuring look over him. He seemed to stop breathing. How to answer? Admit aloud her shameful desire for a vampire, or possibly crush his ego? Why should she care about the latter?

Because I wasn't born a cruel person.

"Do you find anything attractive about me?" He was very arrogant when he asked, but his voice was gruff, and she sensed his uncertainty. In a flash, she knew some woman had gotten hold of him and damage had been done.

And he'd just revealed a weakness to her.

He took a hesitant step forward. He'd also done that at the castle and the temple, restraining himself when he so obviously wanted to get closer.

The vampire was a markedly physical being, even if he didn't seem to recognize it. Those two other times, he'd seemed to unconsciously position himself in ways that were less threatening to her, forcing himself to appear standoffish. When he was calm, he held his body very still. No gestures with his long, muscular arms or pacing in great strides. Just stillness.

When not calm—like when attacked by a werewolf—he moved with unfathomable speed and aggression.

He'd probably intimidated the hell out of women in his time. Men didn't often come six and a half feet tall and so generously built back then. He needn't have bothered trying to appear non-threatening to her. The pleasure she garnered from ogling his massive body was probably the reason he was still here—and not bleeding.

"What does it matter if I find anything attractive about you?" she finally asked. "You think me too small."

"No," he said quickly, then exhaled. "I had just heard tales that the Valkyrie were large warriors, akin to Amazons."

"Naturally, those would be the tales. If you're the sole survivor of an army attacked by us, are you going to say we had our asses handed to us by petite, nubile females, or by she-monsters who can bench Buicks?"

She knew her speech was fast and peppered with slang, but after a moment, he followed the gist of what she'd said and grinned.

Gods, she didn't need to be reminded of that grin, the one he'd sported while still gently thrusting atop her, after he'd just made her have an orgasm for the first time in ten centuries.

"That makes sense." He grew serious, and quietly said, "You must know I find you perfectly made." He looked away. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever beheld. That is what I wanted to tell you at Riora's temple."

Her heart sped up so rapidly, she was sure he would notice.

He turned back to her. "But you haven't answered my question."

"It's hard to see past the vampirism," she said honestly.

"I wish to God I wasn't one."

She tapped her cheek. "Hmmm. If you didn't want to be a vampire, perhaps you shouldn't have drunk a vampire's blood when you were on the verge of dying."

In an inscrutable tone, he said, "The turning was done against my will. I was injured and too weak to fight hard enough."

He'd fought it? "Who did it?"

"My... brothers."

This is interesting. "Are they still alive?"

"I know two are. One is missing." He clenched his jaw, seeming to rein in his temper. "I... I do not want to speak of this."

She shrugged as if she couldn't care less, though she was curious, then crossed over to his sword, unsheathing it. A battle sword. The rosewood handle had scales carved into it and was long, so he could wield it with both hands. The one-edged blade was wide and unyielding. It would have cut through chain mail—or a man's middle—in a single blow.

"You brought this here?" She faced him. "Did you think to subdue me?"

"I thought to protect you, if the need arose."

She was impressed with its weight, with the obvious care he'd taken with it. "It's nice, I suppose. For a beginner."

"Beginner? I painted that sword red for years—until the night I died."

He was an Estonian living in Russia, he had "nobleman" written all over him, and he'd said he'd been in that castle for centuries. Which meant he had to have fought in the Great Northern War between Russia and the neighboring Nordic countries. That had been a gruesome one. Starvation and plague had decimated populations, though she suspected the male in front of her had died in battle.

He said, "You know enough about swords to see that it is a fine one."

She sheathed it and laid it back down. "I prefer light and quick, but with your hulking build, your fighting style would have to rely on brute strength."

"Hulking? It's not a bad thing to have power behind a sword," he said in a defensive tone.

"No, but power can never beat speed."

"I disagree."

"I've lived for many years," she said. "My existence is a testament to speed."

"Then you have not faced a worthy hulking brute."

She stifled a grin and said, "Silly vampire, I would spank you if we fought. And no offense, but didn't you die by the sword?"

"I did. Yet you profess to fight by the sword. No offense, but you couldn't swing a death blow against one of your oldest enemies."

"I might have chosen not to kill you, but right now, the thought of maiming you for a few days sounds very appetizing. Maybe pluck an organ from you, make you regrow it. That one never gets old." It did, actually. She'd done it to a leech before—repeatedly, even after she'd tired of it.

"How am I expected to believe that, Katja? I think you don't wish to injure me at all. I don't think you can."

She sauntered up to him. "Vampire." Her hand shot forward to the crotch of his pants and very firmly clutched his sack, her foreclaw slicing his jeans behind it. His eyes widened, and his feet shuffled to a wider stance that would keep his body from falling over. "I could geld you with one flick of my claws"—she tugged down, making him groan in pleasure and pain—"and I'd purr while doing it."