Frankly, he didn't know how she stood it-or him.
Abruptly, he felt like cursing. Tonight was stacking up to be a real party for his ego. Darius. Now her.
Wrath's eyes followed her as she moved around the room, circling him, getting closer. He forced his face to relax, kept his breathing even, made his body still. This was the hardest part of being with her. He panicked at not being free to move, and he knew when she started to feed, the choking sensation would get worse.
"You have been busy, my lord?" she said softly.
He nodded, thinking that if he was lucky, he was going to get even busier before dawn came.
Marissa finally stood before him, and he could feel her hunger cutting through her uneasiness. He sensed her desire.
too. She wanted him, but he blocked out that particular emotion of hers.
There was no way he was going to have sex with her. He couldn't imagine putting Marissa through the things he'd done to other female bodies. And he'd never wanted her that way. Not even in the beginning.
"Come here," he said, gesturing with his hand. He dropped his forearm on his thigh, wrist up. "You're starving. You shouldn't wait so long to call on me."
Marissa lowered herself to the floor at his knees, her gown pooling around her body and his feet. Her fingers were warm on his skin as she softly ran her hand over his tattoos, stroking the black characters that detailed his lineage in the old language. She was close enough so he caught the movement of her mouth opening, her fangs flashing white before she sank them into his vein.
Wrath closed his eyes, laying his head back as she drank. The panic came on him fast and hard. He curled his free arm around the edge of the couch, his muscles straining as he gripped the corner to keep his body in place. Calm, he needed to stay calm. It was going to be over soon, and then he'd be free.
When Marissa lifted her head ten minutes later, he bolted upright and walked off the anxiety, feeling a sick relief that he could now move around. As soon as he had his shit together, he went over to her. She was replete, absorbing the strength that came to her as their blood mixed. He didn't like the look of her lying on the floor, so he picked her up and was thinking about calling Fritz to take her back to her brother's house when there was a rhythmic knock on the door.
Wrath glared across the room, carried her to the bed, and laid her down.
"Thank you, my lord," she murmured. "I will take myself home."
He paused. And then pulled a sheet over her legs before walking over and cracking open the door.
Fritz was all jazzed up about something.
Wrath slid outside, closing the door tight. He was about to ask what the hell would warrant the disruption when the butler's scent permeated his irritation.
He knew without asking that death had paid another visit.
And Darius was gone.
"Master-"
"How?" he growled. The pain he would deal with later. First he needed details.
"Ah, the car…" Clearly the butler was having trouble holding it together, his voice reedy and thin as his old body. "A bomb, my lord. The car. Outside of the club. Tohrment called. He saw it happen."
Wrath thought of the lesser he'd taken down. He wished he knew whether it had been the one who'd done the deed.
The bastards had no honor anymore. At least their precursors, going back for centuries, had fought like warriors. This new breed were cowards who hid behind technology.
"Call the brotherhood," he ground out. "Tell them to come now."
"Yes, of course. And master? Darius asked me to give this to you"-the butler held something out-"if you were not with him when he died."
Wrath took the envelope and went back into the chamber, having no compassion to offer Fritz or anyone else. Marissa was gone, which was good for her.
He tucked Darius's last missive into the waistband of his leather pants.
And let his rage out.
The candles exploded and fell to the floor as a whirlwind of viciousness swirled around him, growing tighter, faster, darker until the furniture flipped off the floor and traveled in a circle around him. He leaned back his head and roared.
Chapter Four
By the time Beth's cab dropped her off outside of Screamer's, the crime scene was alive. Lights flashed blue and white from the squad cars that blocked off access to the alley. The bomb squad's boxy, armored vehicle had shown up. Cops milled around, both uniformed and plainclothed. And the requisite crowd of drunken kibitzers had set up shop at the action's periphery, smoking and talking.
In her time as a reporter, she'd found that murder was a community event in Caldwell. Well, certainly for everyone except the man or woman who'd actually done the dying. For the victim, she had to imagine death was an alone kind of thing, even if he or she were staring into the face of the killer. Some bridges you crossed on your own, no matter who drove you to the edge.