The Warrior Vampire(13)

His female. Gods, even now the truth of it was a fist to Ronan’s gut.

From the moment she’d tethered him, his body had turned traitor. His cock ached with the need to be buried inside of her and his fangs throbbed in anticipation of breaking the flawless skin at her throat. No matter what she thought to the contrary, he didn’t know her name—had never seen her before—and yet she belonged to him. It was curious that she seemed not to recognize their tether. To her, he was nothing more than her prisoner.

Ronan thrashed against his bonds, welcoming the burn as the silver seared his skin. He needed to find her. Go to her. Make some sort of sense of why his soul had tethered itself to this unknown female who brazenly took a vampire captive. And he needed to know why he was here—wherever the fuck here was—and why. So many answers just out of his grasp, and worst of all, he had to relive the feelings of helplessness and anxiety he’d long ago put behind him as he lay here, chained and at someone else’s mercy.

Did Mikhail know he’d left? Jenner? Ronan’s stomach knotted up to the size of a baseball. Fuck it all. Did Siobhan?

He’d sworn a blood troth to the dhampir in exchange for a codex that had helped Mikahil unravel the mysteries of his mate, Claire. At the time, the bargain had been more than worth Ronan’s while. He enjoyed bedding Siobhan well enough and he’d needed the codex. Now that he’d become tethered, his troth was at the very least problematic. If he so much as let another female touch him with intent, Ronan’s blood would boil in his veins. Sex wasn’t just off the table; indulging would literally kill him.

Ronan pulled on the chain once again, a forceful jerk borne of anger and his mounting frustration. A roar of pain built in his chest, but he held it in as the silver sizzled against his skin. The bed frame creaked under the strain. He pulled harder. Blood trickled down his arms and blisters marred his skin. The frame gave way, another inch.

Letting his arms fall back, he gave the chain some slack. Ronan drew a deep breath into his lungs and clamped his jaw down as he propelled his body up and forward. Damned near blind with pain, weak and shaking from the silver’s effect on him, he fell back onto the pillow panting. He’d loosened the frame another inch, though.

On and on it went for a good half hour. Ronan steeled himself for one last tug. Blood stained his arms and his lip where he’d bitten down again and again. The scent of his own blood gnawed at him, further igniting his thirst to the point of frenzy. Something dark and foreboding rose up inside of him, sending icy tendrils through his bloodstream that spread out through his limbs. It awakened something primal within him. Wild. And with a shout Ronan propelled himself forward one last time. The frame groaned before it gave way completely with a hollow pop. The chain swung free of the broken metal bar and Ronan set to work freeing his legs in the same way, this time rocking backward as he jerked his knees up toward his chin.

His body grew damp with sweat and his breath sawed in and out of his lungs with his effort. The chill that overcame him caused Ronan to shiver, but he soldiered on until the bars at the footboard gave way and his ankles were just as bloody and ravaged as his wrists. He was free, though. More or less. He’d never been so gods-damned thankful for mobility.

Though his mate had been clever to use her magic on him, she’d been irresponsible in leaving the key to his cuffs behind. The weight of the chains was immense as Ronan reached up to rub at his bare arms. He couldn’t seem to banish the chill that settled over him like an early-winter frost.

Need … blood.

Rage and mindless thirst overrode even his need to escape his prison. He wanted to rip, tear, savage the nearest available body. Kill. He wanted to hunt like a beast in the forest and take down his prey. Glut himself on his victim’s blood and do it all over again. He’d never in all of his existence—even after his turning—been so gods-damned desperate for blood. The memory of the female’s scent, clean and sweet, invaded his senses, and Ronan’s fangs throbbed painfully in his gums. He stumbled to the dresser as his vision clouded and fell against it as his knees gave out beneath him. His hand searched blindly over the surface of the dresser, knocking over jars and a heavy mortar and pestle as he groped for the key.

There!

He scooped it up into his grasp, breath heaving in his chest. His vision continued to haze, darkening at the edges as his head swam with confusion. Where in the hell was he? How had he gotten here? It was so fucking dark he could no longer see. The smell of mildew and dirt invaded his nostrils. And with the damp air, the sharp tang of magic burned his lungs. What in the hell was happening to him? Gods, he was so, so hungry. His stomach burned with hunger.