Indelible: Beneath His Ink [Sneak Peek]

Hey readers! There are a few of you who have been messaging and emailing me about the Incarcerated and Inevitable series and where it stands. First, thanks for your support and patience. 

Just a quick note before I get into the preview of Indelible. I am working hard on the book and the deadline for the editor has been set! However, I am not releasing the release date until the book is in the final stages of editing. Why? Because LIFE. Ha! It can get crazy and hectic and there are so many things are happening in this stage of my life that sometimes writing has to take a back seat. That used to worry me and I used to apologize for it, but I can't any more. All I can do is my best to make time to write the best story I can write. And that is what I will do.

**Important Notice**  

18 and up due to language and adult situations

This piece of work is lightly edited. Dates, names, and places are all subject to change.

     Trent crossed his arms over his large chest and took a deep breath as he observed both men. How in the fuck did they not know about the woman and all of the ruckus back on the lawn?  He glanced over his shoulder spying the large crowd of rich kids all surrounding the woman in white. From where he stood, he couldn’t see her bruise and battered body, yet he had the sense to tell that something wasn’t right over there. Were Logan and Trent that clueless as to what was going on or had they been dipping their dicks and just ignoring the commotion? That shit didn’t seem like Logan since he was the do-good type who always had some shit to say about whatever shit was happening around him. Turning back he watched as Logan leaned against a tree, eyes focused on the house, no doubt wishing to be back in the fray of whatever woman had been keeping him company. When he swung his gaze over to Jake who stood with a shit-eating grin smeared across his face, Trent no doubt knew that man cared nothing about anything other than dipping his dick. Trent watched both men yaking about fuckin' and took a bit of pleasure in interrupting them, but he was not thrilled with the news he was about to give them. Pointing over his shoulder, Trent said, “Some girl was raped.”  Both men froze and shut the hell up. Well, that’s stopped their hooting and hollering about chicks and getting laid. Trent’s stomach clenched once again at the news. That shit was not right. No woman should have her choice taken from her and the mere thought of it had Trent’s anger bubbling to the surface. If he ever got his hands on the man…Trent sense Logan’s reaction before he even saw the man move. His fury seemed to heat the air around him and Trent observed as the slow burn of anger turn to outright rage.  Logan took a few menacing steps toward the crowd, as if his hotheaded anger could not only kick the rapists ass, but unrape the poor girl as well.

            Logan seethed and started to increase his pace nearly making it past Trent. “The fuck do you mean raped?” Teeth clenched, back ramrod straight and fist balled at his sides Logan was aching for a fight. Trent from experience knew where this shit was headed which was nowhere good and fast. Sensing Logan's intent, Trent shifted his stance and threw out his arm. Trent had just come from over there and the man who'd hurt the woman was long gone, and Logan’s presence was not needed. Hell, the last thing that woman needed was another raging bull headed towards her.

            Trent’s arm acted like an unbreakable band, stopping Logan in his tracks. When their eyes met he shook his head. “She came out of the house crying, bruised and with ripped clothes.” He made sure he had Logan’s full attention as he added, “She doesn’t need you, brother. She’s in good and safe hands right now.” Logan’s eyes narrowed, no doubt wondering at the certainty in Trent’s words. “Trust me,” Trent could still see Faye’s expression of determination as she made her way through the crowd. “She is in good hands for now.” Jake’s movement caught Trent’s eye. He dropped his arm sure that Logan would back down. They’d built a trust over the years and Trent wouldn’t lie to the man, well, at least not about this. His past was a different story.

            Jake pulled an abused toothpick from his pocket and stuck it back in his mouth. “Shit, maybe she just likes it rough.” Both Trent and Logan turned to the man disgusted by his indifferent attitude to the situation. The words of his sister’s ex blasted through his mind as he remembered watching her limping through the house black and blue. Meanwhile, her current POS of the week spouted similar shit.

            Trent couldn’t control his need to hurt Jake, he moved before his brain knew where he was headed. He ended up in Jake’s face with a fist full of his muscle shirt and yanked the man to him. “You saying that girl deserved what happened to her back there?” Trent could sense the growing unease settling in around the men. Logan had gone stock-still, tensed and ready for action. He’d seen Trent like this before and knew from experience this situation would go only one of two ways—Trent breaking Jake’s face or Trent attempting to break Jake’s face while Logan held him at bay. Though what Trent hadn't expected was Jake’s laughter. The little piss ant had found humor in his situation. His glee at the woman’s abuse hit Trent’s ‘off’ switch. His manic laughter gave Trent pause and he released him.

            Jake stepped back and used his car to support his weight while he wiped tears from his face. “Dude, I am kidding with you, but let me ask you this,” Suddenly his laughter had ended, his tone now severe. “If she were raped,” In his peripheral, Trent watched Logan move closer and place his arms over his chest. He wasn’t feeling Jake’s bullshit either. “Why aren’t the cops here? Why didn’t she run out of that house and demand the cops be called.” Jake pushed himself off the car and straightened his shirt. Trent glanced back over to the crowd that had thinned a bit. Noting Jake’s observation that there were no red and blue lights flashing, no cops busting up the party and not one male rounded up to sit on the curb to be interviewed. Had Trent not seen the battered crying woman himself, had he not looked into her eyes—eyes just like his sister’s after a beating— he to, would wonder at the validity of his statement. Before Trent had a chance to say this, Logan spoke.

            “Nah. Just cause the cops ain’t here doesn’t mean something didn’t happen.” Trent eyed his friend showing his support of the statement. “And honestly, maybe we should be the ones to call the—“

            Jake lurched forward. “Fuck that. I ain’t calling the law!” The vehemence in his voice had Trent swinging back around to eye the man. “I am not getting involved with that shit,” Pointing in the direction of the crowd he added, “And honestly, we need to leave. Shit this is just like that night that chick said Poe Boy tried to rape her.”

            Trent shoved a hand through his hair and laughed. “Well, we all know how that turned out.” Trent only found the situation funny because the chick had never accused Poe Boy of rape. Poe Boy joked about how he liked to wake his woman up with his face buried deep between her legs and it’d been misconstrued into rape some way. That’s what happened when you ran your mouth about the girls you were currently fucking around girls you’d recently fucked over. Trent relaxed a bit. “Poe Boy’s problem is he can't keep the Jim Beam out of his system and enjoys talking about who he likes to fuck in the shop around women he’s thrown to the curb seconds after he’s cum.”

            Logan guffawed. “Shit, I remember that night.”

            Jake coughed and turned his head to spit. When he turned back to Logan and Trent, his earlier jovial expression had morphed into a contemptuous sneer. "No, that mother fucker’s problem is that he likes his women like he likes his liquor." Trent's brow bowed in confusion, as did Logan's. Trent shrugged ready to ignore the joke when Jake cursed again.

            Trent snapped his fingers. “I got it. Strong and free?” He kept going, each time watching as Jake’s annoyance grew at his wrong guesses.

            He’d gotten to cheap and dirty before Jake exploded. "Fuck, you dumb or something, boy? You do all this talking bout being part of the KKK, yet you don’t get a joke about coons when one’s made?" Trent sneered at the sniveling puke wishing he could wrap his fingers around the man’s throat for calling him out. He didn’t have a fucking answer for Jake, and it didn’t escape his notice that Logan had gone silent. Trent didn’t dare take his eyes off of Jake long enough to gauge Logan’s expression. There’d been a few nights out with the boys where loyalties to the Brotherhood were tested. Some men passed, while others failed. Though Trent had always passed, he’d always made sure the game was rigged. Was he going after a black man for the sole purpose of the color of his skin? No, but did he go after the men who had hurt his sister? Fuck, yes. Still, no one, not even Logan knew about Trent’s past and that he’d fallen in love with a black woman. He’d made sure to keep to the left of the train tracks that separated the “haves from the have not’s” and had never looked back. The tense silence seemed to go on forever. One wrong word and Trent would break Jake into bit sized rich boy pieces.

            A smile spread across Jake’s smug face. “Ah, man, I’m fucking with you.” His saccharine smirk did nothing to ease Trent’s irritation, but Trent allowed his anger to ebb while glaring at Jake waiting for him to speak.

            Jake gave both men a long suffering sign before he added, "He likes his liquor like he likes his women, cheap and brown..." Jake’s belly laughter made Trent roll his eyes. Sparing a quick glance at Logan, Trent’s eyes narrowed as he noted a hint of disgust in his buddy’s expression. Was he offended by the joke or was he finally realizing what a piece of shit Jake was? Poe boy liked black women and made no excuses for it. Still, with Trent's past fresh on his mind he was in no mood to talk race. On top of that, he wanted to get back to Faye.  His need to be close to her again fueled his impatience.

            Trent shrugged. “Fuck I care what color the bitch is that he is fucking when I’m over here talking with you two fuckers, yet not getting fucked?” He glanced at Jake, “You dipped your dick and Logan over here was close to dipping his and I’m over here waiting to get some.” Avoidance was the only way to get Jake off this race issue. And avoidance was a tactic Trent could specialize in. Though the circle he ran in was of the racist variety, he spent his time trying to hide the fact the only hate that consumed his heart was for those who believed the number in their bank account counted more towards their worth than actual integrity. Hell, maybe Trent was a fool. Just maybe in the world he lived in men like Jake would rule and men like Logan and Trent would spend their loves shoveling shit, but tonight Trent wouldn’t deal with those narcissistic fuckers and that included Jake. There was one place he wanted to be and as Jake shrugged and said, “Whatever, let’s ride.” Trent walked away hoping to never see Jake again.

 

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“Where in the hell did you learn to throw knives?” Irish asked, counting her knives in the tree. She’d made all of her throws and to add insult to injury, she landed each of her knives on top of his, except one—the one he’d missed.

He’d actually lost the wager.

            She sat down close to the mouth of the cave and looked to him. “A race nearly extinct, remember? When you are in hiding, you learn how to protect yourself. Plus, there wasn’t much else to do.”

Her words sobered him up a bit. He was still amazed at her ability, but he felt like hell for the reason she’d ever needed to learn in the first place. Her kind was hunted and killed off by his kind in the past.

“Now,” she looked up at him, “you’ll teach me to kiss.”

            “I—uh . . .” He scratched his head and backed away.

            “You, uh . . . promised.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that the kind of man you are? One who reneges on a deal?”

He hadn’t thought she’d win the bet. Crossing his arms over the expanse of his chest, he huffed. “Why do you need to learn now?” He gestured around. “Here of all places?” Maybe he could stall. Just the thought of his lips on hers had him ready to explode in his pants. But she was firmly on the Hands Off Irish list. The first reason being, she was promised to another man. The second reason being, she was untouched.

            “Why not now? There’s nothing else to do but wait.”

He took a deep breath and wondered if it made him a bastard to want to be the man who taught her to kiss. There was something erotic about kissing. Irish had to banish that idea from his head because there was no damned way he was teaching her to kiss. “You should be preparing for what’s to come.”

            Her blonde brow arched. “If that knife competition didn’t convince you I’m capable of taking care of myself, then maybe you forgot when you first saw me on the isle, when I had just gutted a man from his privates to his neck.” She raised her chin, daring him to say anything.

            “Lesson one: If you want a man to kiss you, you don’t talk about slicing anyone’s balls.” She nodded emphatically and he didn’t have the heart to tell her he was only kidding. He pushed off the wall, strode over, and sat down in front of her.

She was biting her lips—most likely a nervous gesture—and while he found it endearing, he reached up and pulled the puffy lip from between her teeth.

            “Lesson two: Don’t damage the goods.” He smiled when she blushed. “Come here,” he whispered and she obliged. “Will you sit on my lap?” For him, the best part of a kiss was the intimacy it offered. Having her close would increase the heat of her body against his.

Irish needed to cool down his libido, reminding himself, this is just a lesson. It would go no further than a kiss.

She nodded and settled in his lap.

“Okay, here we go.” He’d never had to instruct a kiss, figuring that kissing was something so natural, the two people would find a rhythm all their own. So, he’d try it that way. He leaned in and her eyes went wide. Pulling back, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

            “I thought you were going to teach me.” In the waning sunlight, her eyes sparkled and her pink cheeks flamed.

He smiled. “Kissing is natural. I can’t really instruct you through the mechanics because my mouth is going to be on yours. I want you to place your lips on mine, then follow my movements. Do what comes naturally to you. If you want to stop, just pull away.” When she nodded her understanding, he leaned in part way, waiting for her to lean in as well.

            The first soft touch of her lips rocketed him out of his body. He slanted his head and applied more pressure, and like he thought, her natural reaction was to slant her head in the opposite direction. With a smooth motion, Irish pushed his tongue past the barrier of her lips. She gave a small gasp in surprise, but quickly copied his movements.

Her hand came up and nails scored his scalp, causing him to delve deeper. His fangs extended, scraping over her tongue, drawing a small bead of blood. He sucked on the tip of her tongue and she moaned so loud, it reverberated off the cave walls. Irish realized his hesitance to teach her had not come from anything other than his fear of losing control. Because he wanted more than a simple kiss.

Ophelia’s hands moved to his shoulders, holding him in a vice grip. Her body, hot against his, moved of its own accord. Soon, she moved her legs to straddle his waist, and he could scent her arousal. Irish was primed and ready, grabbing onto her ass to hold her firmly on his lap. It was then, an unwarranted thought blasted into his mind. Ophelia was to be queen, and when she hit that throne, she needed to be a virgin.

That thought sobered him up real quick. He pulled away. “Lesson over.” Grunting, he gently moved her off his lap.

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Ophelia prided herself in not panicking. Her heart might have been in her throat and beating a mile a minute, but she scrolled through the SAT phone with clarity, looking through nameless numbers, hoping to see an SOS number. Unfortunately, there was nothing to clue her in to who she’d be calling if she pressed the send button.

She looked to Irish again. His greying skin signaled she had little, if any, time to act, so she pressed send on the number currently on the screen. There was a beeping noise and then the phone rang.

            He mumbled something incoherent and she crawled over to him, placing her face as close to his as she could. His eyes were still closed, moving franticly beneath the lids. In his weakened state, he feebly tried to move his hand with no success.

            In Gaelic she asked, “How can I help you?” Now she was starting to panic. If anyone found where they were hiding, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to fight them off without risking Irish. In this state, Vasily’s men were sure to kill him.

            His eyes cracked open a sliver and his fangs descended. “I need—” As if all of the strength had been zapped from him, his hand went limp and his head fell back.

            A shout came from behind her and she turned, baring her teeth in a protective stance, but no one was there. The muffled shout came again and she glanced down at the phone. Picking it up, she said, “Yes?”

            A man with a Spanish accent answered. She remembered him, Jax. “What’s wrong?” His voice was calm and soothing, which managed to help calm her as well.

She examined Irish and explained everything she saw, including everything that had happened leading up to this point.

Jax grunted. “Is there an open wound on him anywhere?” Ophelia remembered the scent of blood and burned flesh and answered with confirmation. “Okay, can you get to it?”

She took a deep breath and wedged the SAT phone between her ear and shoulder. Pushing with both hands, she got him to roll onto his back. She opened his leather vest and pulled up his cotton shirt. The scent of blood and decay wafted up from the wound. It seeped and oozed blood and a clear liquid.

Ophelia covered her mouth at the atrocious scent. How was it decaying when it’d only been there for a few hours? “Yes, I see it. It looks bad and it’s bleeding. The blood is really dark though. Do you know what I should do?”

There was a silence, a flurry of curses, and then in a measured tone Jax said, “How do you feel about being bitten?” His voice sounded grim, as if this were the only option and he wasn’t sure she’d agree to it.

She cleared her throat and placed her hand to her neck. Heat flared in her collar and her heart gave an extra few thumps in anticipation. “Will it save him? Is there no other way?”

Jax sighed. “Yes, but you don’t have enough time. If you don’t give him your blood, he will die. He’s been poisoned with liquid silver and Olfbreathe seed is the only other cure. I doubt you’ll find it there. Weather conditions aren’t stable enough to grow it.”

It didn’t take long to make a decision. When everyone else had chalked up her disappearance as dismissal, Irish was the only one who’d wanted to free her from the confines of her place in the pack. “Okay, but how do I get him to bite? He’s not awake.” She eyed him again, searching for signs of life. He was breathing, but that was it.

            “There’s a weapon in his shoe. Use that.”

She searched for the weapon. A trap opened in the bottom of his shoe and she pulled the small blade from inside. Once she was positioned beside him, Ophelia placed his head in her lap and created as small cut on her wrist. Not too close to the artery, but not too far away either. Coaxing his mouth open, she placed her wrist above his mouth and waited—nothing.

            “Jax,” panic laced her voice, “he’s not—”

Before she could finish, Irish’s chest bowed and his fangs clamped down on her skin. At first, she thought to scream, but then his sharp fangs parted her flesh with a delicious burn that made her body sing. A moment later, she opened her eyes to find herself on her back with Irish on top of her.

Her blood dripped from his mouth, his face twisted in a feral grimace. Unsure of whether to push him away, or caress him, she put her hand on his chest and steadied her own breath. He panted above her, body tight and hot. Without thinking, she parted her knees, allowing Irish to settle in deeper. His considerable arousal lay heavy between them, cradled by her warm, soft thighs.

He lowered to her neck, but was stopped by her palm on his chest. He looked at her hand before flicking it away. Ophelia gasped, but didn’t stop his descent. The idea of Irish, fangs deep in her neck, sent excitement shooting through her core. He scraped the tips of his fangs over the delicate hollow of her neck.

She shuddered, and before she knew it, her hand flew to the back of his head and pulled him closer. All she could remember was the feel of his mouth over her wrist, the way it felt as he took her blood; each pull, yanking common sense from her body and replacing it with raw need.  

Confessions in the Dark 3 DAYS!

 

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     Ophelia rested her head on her knees as she waited for Irish to return. Sounds throughout the cave soothed and relaxed her as much as an orphaned shifter in her position could relax. He’d left to gather water and food since it would take a couple of days for rescue.

     Her eyes fluttered shut as flashes of her time spent in a cage crossed her mind. There was nothing she could do for her people, and briefly, she wanted to give up the throne and run away. But she was stronger than that, much stronger. In fact, of the three packs left, hers was the largest and the fiercest and that was not from sheer luck, but determination and ambition. Maybe now that the packs were so broken up and scattered, she would no longer be expected to follow wolf charmer traditions.

     The scent of grabers, mushrooms, and honeysuckle hit her nose before his voice called to her. She smiled. Perhaps he thought her a vegan, like most wolf charmers.

            “Ophelia.” His tone was searching, even though she knew his vampire traits allowed him night vision.

Heat bloomed in her chest as the warrior moved toward her. His pale skin shone bright with the bit of moonlight entering the cave. He wore the traditional armor of his Scottish heritage; gold-plated straps, carrying massive amounts of weapons and shields. Light reflected off his silver weapons and her gaze flittered to his face as he kneeled in front of her.

Even if she couldn’t scent the rain falling from the sky, Irish’s dampened, blondish-red hair glistened in the light. Water rivulets fell from his short locks, splashing gently onto his collar. Shimmering emerald eyes met hers. Placing the fruits and plants in front of her, he took a deep breath, then moved away.

            “We aren’t close to the coast, so I’ll have to get ye water from the rain,” he said, his accent a little heavier than usual.

She nodded, and wondered if he were like her. She’d taken lessons to hide her German accent, and spoken English as a child, allowing her to perfect even the hardest pronunciations. As a tribe in hiding, they all had to learn how to blend in; until the moment her father decided the woods were the only place they could survive. Just like our ancestors, long ago. To mother earth we go. The thought of him saying this sent a spear through her heart.

She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. Irish was on the other side of the cave, peering out into the night. “Do you hide your accent?” she asked in fluent Gaelic.

He turned, brow raised. Even as serious as their situation was, she noticed the playful glint in his eye. And with that, the damn heat flared in her chest again. She placed her hand over her heart and rubbed the light burning sensation. Glancing away, Ophelia trained her eyes on the berries he’d fetched for her.

            “Aye, and I have to keep it up. I have a mission coming up, so American it is. If you hear me slip, please be sure to punish me any way you see fit.”

She glanced at him and saw his lip quirk up, revealing one sharp, pearly-white fang. Mischief danced in his darkened gaze, causing her heart to thrum against her ribcage. Ophelia was still young and primed for breeding. She shook her head, releasing herself from whatever spell her body had placed her under. Hormones were a bitch.

The moon whispered to her, but she ignored it. “Then I guess I owe you five lashings?” She popped a sweet berry into her mouth and the tart flavor burst on her tongue. She ate another, then another, until all that was left were the vines. Aghast, she looked up. Feral eyes watched her as she frowned. “I’m so sorry.” He’d brought enough for the both of them, yet she’d gluttonously eaten them all.

            His eyes darkened as he moved away from her, toward the mouth of the cave. “I brought all of it for you. Eat up. You’ll need your strength.” His words held an ominous chill.

Unsure if she should worry about the tone in his voice, or eat more, Ophelia let her stomach decide and picked up a root he’d laid before her. She examined the root because she was not familiar with it. Its texture was smooth and soft. Upon squeezing it, the spongy substance let loose a few droplets of moisture. His voice rose above the roaring of the rainfall outside.

            “Jachtha root. It only grows in areas with a monsoon season. Since I couldn’t get to the coast, I got a few of those so you don’t dehydrate. Also, the berries have a protein in them that will help you combat the drugs I scent in your system.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the cave wall.

            She squeezed the root over her mouth and drank its juice. “And here I thought you believed me to be one of those vegan charmers.”

With a smile he pushed away from the cave wall and moved toward her. “No, I saw you eat meat when we were at Jax’s place.” She nodded, remembering Avery, Jax’s wife, who cooked the most delicious steaks she’d ever eaten. She picked up a flower that smelled like honeysuckle. “That will help you gain strength back if I happen to need—” His voice went quiet and she glanced back up at him. He was so close now, she got a whiff of blood and flesh.

He must be wounded. “In case you have to what? Are you hurt?” she asked, her voice rising on its own accord. Anger flared in her at whoever it was who’d damaged his creamy white skin. He gave her a forced smile and nodded. “Let me see. I can heal it.” She dropped the root and moved to her knees just as he reared back. Confused, she settled into the ground again and placed her hands in her lap.

            With a wry grin he said, “You can’t heal me. At least, not with your hands.” Shaking his head, he stood and moved away from her. She hated how far away he’d moved, but figured it was probably for the best.

            Picking up the root, she took a bite. “This tastes of the rain,” she muttered absently, remembering then the question she really wanted to ask. “Where are we?” She glanced out at the jungle and moved closer to sniff the air. His hand grasped her upper arm as she moved out closer.

She sniffed again, unable to discern each scent. “I’m not familiar with the essences around us.” The sharp scent of musk and earth she’d never smelled before floated across the breeze, lightly muted by the scent of the rain.

            He released her arm when she moved back into the cave. “You’ve never been here before, and you most likely have never encountered anyone from this island.”

She glanced up at him, his gaze was held steady on her. She assumed she’d been taken to an island. The murky visions she’d had as Vasily’s men pulled her from a boat, to scenes of naked men who looked to be tribesmen, and the scent of sea air, all pointed in that direction.

“So, we are on an island.” She crossed her arms over her chest. The tattered dress she wore barely concealed her skin, and as she stood closer to the moonlight, she was sure she was showing more skin than she wanted.

Running in the Dark | AUDIOBOOK | Cover Reveal

 

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     The life of deadly Russian slayer, Trace, has always revolved around death and preventing humankind from learning about the legendary creatures of the night. But now his position as a Watcher has become a prison, and dealing death for the Nation isn’t as prestigious as he once believed it to be. 


College dropout Bessina Darrow has witnessed things she isn’t permitted to see, a simple case of wrong place at the wrong time puts her life in danger. When Bessina becomes his new mark, Trace is prepared to eliminate her—until he discovers a way out for them both. 


     Protecting Bessina means defying the leaders of the Nation, an act that has them both running for their lives. The more Trace fights to disappear from danger, the more he unravels the secrets surrounding his world of lore—secrets he must unveil to finally save a life, instead of destroy it. 

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17 and up due to adult situations and language
 

            It took everything in Ophelia not to apologize to the hard-headed jerk who’d thought to leave her while he fought her battle. And to make it worse? He now sat in front of her with shredded, yet mending lips and bloody teeth, looking like he wanted to kiss her.

            “No!” She shouted aloud to all of the things her body was craving. His smile widened and she nearly moaned when the tip of a blood-coated fang peeked through his lips. Gathering her wits and beating her hormones back with a stick, Ophelia jumped to her feet. “No!”

His smile disappeared as his lips mended. “Look—”

            “No, and I mean it. I am coming with you.” She moved toward the mouth of the cave and Irish dove for her, grabbing her hand and yanking her back. When she fell into his chest, she thrust out her elbow and jabbed him in the ribs. His rasping breath and his warm body pressed against her, almost made her forget she was fighting to get away—almost. She stomped her foot down, then adjusted her stance to knee him in the balls.

Rethinking this tactic, Irish used her moment of indecision and kicked his feet out, knocking her off balance. She fell to the ground face down, and Irish fell with her. He caught himself just in time and then grabbed her hands holding her tightly against the cool cave floor with his heavy body.

            “Get off me!” She rasped, struggling against his hold.

            “Ophelia,” his voice was a deep growl, “stop.”

She fought harder. Fuck that, she was pissed! How dare he hold her down. Feeling his long, thick legs straddled to either side and his muscular arms threaded around her, heat bloomed in her chest. Anger and arousal warred deep in her belly. Not thinking of that now. She thrashed against him.

            Irish grunted and then let out a groan she’d never heard from a man. “Ophelia,” his voice strained, “please stop moving.” Heavy pants sounded above her.

            “Let me go.” She said, plotting. This time, she would not hesitate . . . only his heat felt so damned good, his warm arms holding her just enough to stop her from freeing herself. She nearly complied.

            “I want to let you go, but I’m not chasing your ass out of this cave. Promise me you’ll behave,” he demanded.

Ophelia would not be told what to do when she was being held down against her will. She bucked hard, until a pleasured groan passed his lips. Never had she made a man sound like that. Screams, howls, and pleas for mercy? Yes. But never such a breathy groan. Still, her anger boiled deeper. She wouldn’t give in, not on this matter. She couldn’t. “You will not command me!”

In her struggle to move out from underneath him, her soft bottom nudged something long and hard. She stilled a moment, before giving another wriggle to test his reaction. Instead of holding her tighter or fighting back, he gently pressed into her.

            His body was so hot, it seared her to her very soul. He gently released one arm and moved his grip to her hip. “Please behave, so I can let you up. I can’t stay like this any longer.” He swallowed hard between shallow breaths.

            “No.” Ophelia wanted to go with him on the mission, but her answer was directed at the fact that he wanted to remove his body from atop hers. Making one last effort to get out of this situation, she bucked up and scooted out of his grasp.

Irish came up on all fours, but kept his head held low, taking deep calming breaths.

            “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

            He looked up at her sharply, heat blazing in his eyes. “What do you think? You did that on purpose.”

            Her eyes moved down to the large bulge in his pants. “Huh? You tackled me. Not the other way around.” She let out an indignant huff and crossed her arms over her chest.

            He released a bark of laughter. “And you sure showed me, didn’t you? Rubbing against me like a puppy in heat!” He stood and adjusted himself.

            Her face flamed and the word puppy slapped her in the face like a sledge hammer. “How was I supposed to know that you—that you,” she gestured to his pants, “enjoy holding women down against their will?”

            A look of outrage colored his face. “Are you insane, lass? Donnae be lookin’ at me, when I’m only trying to stop you from running off alone, to get killed or bred,” he said with extra emphasis. “You are the one rubbing on me like an animal in heat. What did you think was going to happen?”

She stared at him for a moment. Why did he keep comparing her to an animal? “I—I’m sorry, I just wanted to get away!” She threw her hands up and screamed. “Why am I apologizing?”

            “Because, lassie,” his voice lowered and his eyes narrowed. “You just took advantage of me!” Even as he said it in his thick brogue, she saw a glint of humor in his eyes and an impish grin playing on his lips.

            Her indignant huff echoed off the walls. “Oh, come on.” She jabbed a finger out at him. “I did not, you did!” She sounded immature, but there was nothing to be done about it.

            “And what do you suppose happens when a woman with a luscious ass rubs it up and down a man’s cock?” His voice was low and soft like a purr.

Her face heated even more and she swallowed hard. It had not been her intention, but when she’d realized what she’d done, she didn’t move to stop. “That is no way to talk to a queen.”

            He scoffed. “Nor is it anyway for her royal highness to act either, now is it? Pushing against me cock like that . . .”

“I’m a virgin!” Ophelia blurted, wanting to die of embarrassment when he scrambled back, looking disgusted. All of the blood in her body rushed to her face, leaving it redder than she was sure it had ever been.

Her mind scrambled to fix the situation. “I—I have to be. To protect the throne from heirs who weren’t born from me and the wolf I am promised to.” Her word vomit kept flowing. “I’ve never even been kissed.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. Closing her eyes, she endured a long silence.

            He finally cleared his throat. “That was a wee bit awkward, no?”

Her lids popped open and a bit of her mortification deflated when she saw the affable smile on his face. “Can I fight with you and the others?”

His silence had her feeling twitchy and ready to run, but instead of the adamant no she was expecting he said, “I’ll play ye for it, lass.”

            She smiled. “Ten lashings, and counting.”

He winked and pointed to a tree one hundred yards in the distance. Pulling a small knife from his sleeve, Irish threw it at the tree. “Best three out of four.” He looked over his shoulder, a roguish grin on his lips. “I win, and you go to the ship. You win, and you can tag along. Game?”

Little did he know she was one of the best knife throwers in her pack. She sauntered over and held her hand out. He handed her a knife and she turned and got in her throwing stance. “If you win,” she eyed the tree, “I go to the boat like a good little princess.” She did a practice throw without releasing the knife.

            “And if you win?” His voice was close behind her and the heat of his body nearly stole her concentration.

            “If I win, I not only go with you on the mission, but you teach me how to kiss, here and now.” She threw the knife, loving the sound it made as it whistled through the air, hitting Irish’s knife, and knocking it from the tree.

***

            “Where in the hell did you learn to throw knives?” Irish asked, counting her knives in the tree. She’d made all of her throws and to add insult to injury, she landed each of her knives on top of his, except one—the one he’d missed.

He’d actually lost the wager.

            She sat down close to the mouth of the cave and looked to him. “A race nearly extinct, remember? When you are in hiding, you learn how to protect yourself. Plus, there wasn’t much else to do.”

Her words sobered him up a bit. He was still amazed at her ability, but he felt like hell for the reason she’d ever needed to learn in the first place. Her kind was hunted and killed off by his kind in the past.

“Now,” she looked up at him, “you’ll teach me to kiss.”

            “I—uh . . .” He scratched his head and backed away.

            “You, uh . . . promised.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that the kind of man you are? One who reneges on a deal?”

He hadn’t thought she’d win the bet. Crossing his arms over the expanse of his chest, he huffed. “Why do you need to learn now?” He gestured around. “Here of all places?” Maybe he could stall. Just the thought of his lips on hers had him ready to explode in his pants. But she was firmly on the Hands Off Irish list. The first reason being, she was promised to another man. The second reason being, she was untouched.

            “Why not now? There’s nothing else to do but wait.”

He took a deep breath and wondered if it made him a bastard to want to be the man who taught her to kiss. There was something erotic about kissing. Irish had to banish that idea from his head because there was no damned way he was teaching her to kiss. “You should be preparing for what’s to come.”

            Her blonde brow arched. “If that knife competition didn’t convince you I’m capable of taking care of myself, then maybe you forgot when you first saw me on the isle, when I had just gutted a man from his privates to his neck.” She raised her chin, daring him to say anything.

            “Lesson one: If you want a man to kiss you, you don’t talk about slicing anyone’s balls.” She nodded emphatically and he didn’t have the heart to tell her he was only kidding. He pushed off the wall, strode over, and sat down in front of her.

She was biting her lips—most likely a nervous gesture—and while he found it endearing, he reached up and pulled the puffy lip from between her teeth.

            “Lesson two: Don’t damage the goods.” He smiled when she blushed. “Come here,” he whispered and she obliged. “Will you sit on my lap?” For him, the best part of a kiss was the intimacy it offered. Having her close would increase the heat of her body against his.

Irish needed to cool down his libido, reminding himself, this is just a lesson. It would go no further than a kiss.

She nodded and settled in his lap.

“Okay, here we go.” He’d never had to instruct a kiss, figuring that kissing was something so natural, the two people would find a rhythm all their own. So, he’d try it that way. He leaned in and her eyes went wide. Pulling back, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

            “I thought you were going to teach me.” In the waning sunlight, her eyes sparkled and her pink cheeks flamed.

He smiled. “Kissing is natural. I can’t really instruct you through the mechanics because my mouth is going to be on yours. I want you to place your lips on mine, then follow my movements. Do what comes naturally to you. If you want to stop, just pull away.” When she nodded her understanding, he leaned in part way, waiting for her to lean in as well.

            The first soft touch of her lips rocketed him out of his body. He slanted his head and applied more pressure, and like he thought, her natural reaction was to slant her head in the opposite direction. With a smooth motion, Irish pushed his tongue past the barrier of her lips. She gave a small gasp in surprise, but quickly copied his movements.

Her hand came up and nails scored his scalp, causing him to delve deeper. His fangs extended, scraping over her tongue, drawing a small bead of blood. He sucked on the tip of her tongue and she moaned so loud, it reverberated off the cave walls. Irish realized his hesitance to teach her had not come from anything other than his fear of losing control. Because he wanted more than a simple kiss.

Ophelia’s hands moved to his shoulders, holding him in a vice grip. Her body, hot against his, moved of its own accord. Soon, she moved her legs to straddle his waist, and he could scent her arousal. Irish was primed and ready, grabbing onto her ass to hold her firmly on his lap. It was then, an unwarranted thought blasted into his mind. Ophelia was to be queen, and when she hit that throne, she needed to be a virgin.

That thought sobered him up real quick. He pulled away. “Lesson over.” Grunting, he gently moved her off his lap.

            “Wait, why?” She stood with him. “Was it wrong?” He felt her hand on his shoulder.

            “No, it was all right—too right.” He moved to the mouth of the cave. “We need to head out. The sun is low and we can get there in time to meet the boat.” He didn’t look back at her. Yes, he was an ass for pushing her away without explanation, but hell, if he got hard again with no sort of release, his balls would explode in his pants.

When he did turn, she was removing the shirt he’d given her to wear. “What are you doing?” he asked in a panicked voice.

            She eyed him for a moment then frowned. “I’m going to shift. I’ll move faster this way, and my senses will be sharper. Plus, you said I could go to the compound with you and I am better when I’m in wolf form.” Her words were sharp and her tone was clipped.

Good, he needed her to forget the kiss and focus on the task at hand. He turned just as she pulled that tattered dress up and over her lithe body. “Do you—uh—remember the plan?” he asked. At her silence, he turned to find a large wolf with silky fur the same hue as a stormy night’s sky and an endearing little patch of pure white fur under her jaw. “Damn,” he whispered.

Moving forward, he reached out to the wolf. He’d seen her as a wolf before, but each time was as amazing as the first. She nuzzled his hand when he pet her. “I won’t be able to understand you, but I know you can hear me.” He knelt down in front of her. “If anything happens to me, or if shit hits the fan, run.” She gnashed her teeth and shook her head. “Hey,” he reached up and caressed her soft fur, “for me, please. Your people will need you to lead them back to the coast.”

He couldn’t go off into this mission worrying about her, but as he stood and headed out into the night, he knew some of them weren’t making it home. He could only pray it didn’t include Ophelia.

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RUNNING IN THE DARK - TEETH

 

RUNNING IN THE DARK BOOK 1

TRACE DIDN’T USE his brain as he spoke to Bessina. He’d spoken the truth, and was unsure if he expected her to fall into his arms or continue to run. There was nothing special about how he felt, right? Men felt this way for women all around the world. But what good could he bring her? What would he be doing to her life by bringing her on the run? Yes, he could protect her and her aunt, but at what cost to their freedom?

From the moment of his conception, his life had been laid out in front of him, and an average human life that would span a few decades wasn’t something he’d been granted. His human mother and vampire father had created a killing machine for the Nation, able to circumvent the things that killed most vampires.

The fear in Bessina’s eyes gave way to curiosity and Trace’s knees nearly buckled. Could she want him as well? Even after she’d learned what and who he was?

He cleared his throat. “Let’s get back in the car.” He released Bessina, but kept hold of one of her small, warm hands. Gently, he pulled her forward, leading her back to the car.

She stilled and Trace turned around. He thought he’d convinced her to stay with him. Maybe she had changed her mind.

“Wait.” She placed her fingers on his top lip and softly pulled it up. “Show me.”

He pulled back, taking her hands in his as she tried to pull his lips again. “Bessina . . . ” He sighed and fumbled with her hands, trying not to hurt her as he pulled them away and held them steady at her sides. “I don’t think that’s—”

She moved her hand out of his and rested it on his shoulder, leaned in on her tiptoes, and placed a soft kiss on his lips. To steady herself, she placed her other hand on his chest and deepened the kiss. Her warm tongue deftly moved past his lips, causing Trace to shudder.

He wanted more; he wanted everything. And as he wrapped a hand around the nape of her neck to pull her closer, she pulled away, leaving him cold and bereft in the wake of her absence.

“Show me,” she said. This time, her voice was a husky rasp.

He let his fangs descend. Anything, if it meant she’d place those lips against his once more.

Her fingers found their way to his lips. “Does it hurt?”

He frowned. Was he so starved for attention, a kiss and a light touch was enough to throw him over the edge?

“Oh, it does? I’m sorry.”

His frown must have confused her. He’d rectify that now. She needn’t pity him. He was a killer—a man unworthy of her pity. “No, the hunger hurts more, but is easily assuaged.”

As she stood in front of him, with her finger gently tracing his fangs, he thought of nothing other than holding her—not sleeping with her, or biting her—just holding her and never leaving her. Trace could taste the natural salt on her skin, he could feel the pulse at the tip of each fingertip, and he could smell the blood traveling below her skin.

As she traced his lips, scorching them with her touch, he closed his eyes. He allowed his hands to move to her waist and pull her close. Bessina’s scent enveloped him, her taste still lingered on his tongue and his body reacted to each sensation as if he were a prepubescent teen experiencing touch for the first time.

Bessina leaned into him again, and her breath danced across his lips. With a restraint he didn’t know he possessed, Trace stopped his hips from thrusting against her.

Their lips met, sending shocks throughout his system once again. Heat bloomed from his chest to his groin. He needed more; more of her heat, more of her taste, and the freedom he sensed within her.

Bessina wrapped her arms around his neck, urging him to give in to his need. Rutting against her like a damn animal, an urgent need burst in his belly. He was walking on a knife’s edge, and he didn’t care. He groaned in pleasure. Bessina, seemingly unwilling to release his lips, swallowed his moans and rocked herself along his leg.

Tasting and touching Bessina without fear or reservation, he slipped his hands beneath her shirt and slid them down the back of her pants. Squeezing handfuls of her round bottom, he lifted her slightly and held her against his erection for better friction.

She moaned and shuddered from the sheer force of his touch. As he deepened the kiss, his fangs gently scraped her tongue. At the taste of blood, Trace’s body roared into action. Without thought, he wrapped his lips around her tongue and sucked. Complete and utter bliss. Blood raced throughout him, as if it were molten lava rushing through his veins.

He wanted to lay her on the ground, explore her body, then sink his teeth deep into her veins as he thrust inside her. But then reason assaulted him. How could he debase her in that way? Would he throw her to the asphalt and fuck her? Steal her blood? These thoughts sobered him and with shaking hands, he set her down and forced himself to move away from her.

Bessina, flushed and displeased, moved forward reaching for him.

“No!” he shouted, his voice brash and laced with need. Bessina placed her hand over her mouth at his harshness. “Shit.” Anger flared in his gut. So careless, and so close to taking her in the middle of the street like an animal. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take your blood without permission.”

The forgiveness in her voice nearly did him in. “It’s okay.” She reached for him.

He pulled away again. “No, it’s not, Bessina. I bit you.”

She laughed and he scowled. “No, you didn’t. You nicked me and it felt good.”

Trace shook his head in disbelief. He knew better than this, so why was he being so reckless? Not only was he making mistakes that could cost Bessina her life, but he was bringing emotions into play that he wasn’t sure he or she could handle. He shouldn’t have kissed her, nor should he have tasted her blood. They had enough complications. He didn’t need to be lusting after her blood as well as her touch.

No, this wasn’t happening. They needed to leave—now. “Get in the car. Seriously, we’ve been out here too long.” Though he winced at his sharp tone, he didn’t amend it. He needed to pull her from the fantasy she had most assuredly created in her mind.

Holding out his hand to a lust-hazed Bessina, he motioned for her to come. And perhaps still fuzzy from the kiss, she walked beside him back to his car.

Settled inside, he watched as she adjusted the A/C and buckled herself in. She looked over at him. “That kiss—”

“No.” He shook his head. “We cannot afford distractions, Bessina.” He gripped the steering wheel to keep his hands busy. He craved to touch her again, to savor the flavor of her lips and feel her warm skin against his.

She scoffed. “Trace, I am not proposing to you. I just wanted to say that I enjoyed the kiss.” He glanced over at her and watched as a flush heated her face. “I’ve never really enjoyed a kiss before.”

Shocked he stuttered. “What do you mean?” Had no man ever kissed her with passion? How could this be?

“I don’t really want to talk about this.”

He grit his teeth in annoyance, yet allowed her her privacy. But something she’d said had sparked an idea. Some humans were allowed to know of their kind. And even though she’d been joking when she said I’m not proposing to you, it was actually a good idea. Vampires were allowed one human spouse in their lifetime.

He looked to Bessina. “I’m going to call my boss and see if I can strike a deal.”

Concern laced her voice, dwarfing the lust that was there before. “You think that will work?”

“In my line of work, there are only certain humans who are allowed to know about our existence. Lawyers, doctors, diplomats—”

She frowned wrapping her arms around herself, pulling her feet up and placing them under her sweet little ass. “And I bet ‘college student’ didn’t make the list.”

 “Well, people can be added, but there’s a process, paperwork, and guidelines.”

He didn’t miss the flash of excitement in her eyes as she turned to him and asked, “Well?”

He shifted gears as he sped down the empty street. “Shit, never mind. We can’t do that. I can think of something else.” There was no damn way he could do this to her. She was too young and had so much to live for. There was no way he could end that by tying her to him for eternity, but deep inside Trace knew there was no other way.

As effective as he was as a Watcher, Rhys dwarfed him in manpower and financial means. He would come after Bessina for an eternity and still not break the bank. Plus, he’d have the Nation on his side. Trace had indeed broken the law when he hadn’t ended Bessina’s life, as well as when he’s killed Derek. Rhys had plenty ammunition against him and could rightfully turn him in. And that was one bull’s-eye Trace didn’t want on his back, nor Bessina’s.

She interrupted his thoughts. “Tell me. If it can save me, and get you your job back, or whatever it is you want, then we should at least entertain the idea.” Bessina’s stomach growled loudly.

Trace glanced in the rearview mirror only to see the darkened road behind them. At least they weren’t being followed. “You’re hungry. We can—”

“No,” her voice held a fierceness that shut him up. “Tell me. This is my life we’re talking about.”

“What are you willing to sacrifice to stay alive, Bessina?” From the corner of his eye, he watched as she pensively gazed out of the window. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh. It was the idea that he would have to tie this innocent soul to him for eternity that pissed him off.

He removed a hand from the steering wheel and placed it on her knee. “I could marry you.” There. It was out there.

What he wasn’t expecting, was laughter. He glanced at her face, lit by the ambient illumination of the streetlights. She looked utterly radiant. Smooth, warm brown skin, sweet lush lips, and eyes that held a brilliance he was sure dwarfed all others. Her head fell back, allowing brown and copper curls to fall around her face, and she let loose an adorable snort.

Trace smiled. Could he have all this beauty to himself? Could he care for her, keep her safe, and satisfied for eternity? The better question would be, would she let him?

Finally, her laughter died down and she placed a hand over his on her knee. Trace frowned as he spoke. “What the hell is so funny?” He glanced over at her again.

Wide eyed, she observed him until realization hit. “You’re kidding, right?” Her grin fell when she saw his expression.

“No, I’m not. Bessina, this is your best hope. It’s either that, or I hide you and your aunt. Rhys will send his men after you, but I can still keep you safe that way. Most likely, you will always be on the run, never in the same place for more than a few months and you could never place down roots. It’d be a hell of a life, but you’d live.” Trace had the money and the resources to do so, but over time, Rhys could end up finding them.

Trace squeezed her knee and continued. “I’m not saying you have to do it.” He hated the idea of forcing her to stay with him. “I’m saying it’s an option that doesn’t include running forever. Either way, it’s up to you.” He wanted to give her more than just one option, even if neither seemed desirable.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He didn’t dare look at her again. “Don’t say anything just yet. We’ll get food and a room and settle down for the evening.”

“Wait, how have you been eating?”

He paused, not wanting to freak her out with any more news for the night. “Blood in the trunk.”

“Oh.” She sighed and stared out the window once again.

“Like I was saying, let’s get a room, some food, call your aunt, and then we can discuss everything from there.” He removed his hand, trying to give her space, even though there wasn’t much room in the car.

Trace didn’t want to overwhelm her, but all he needed to do was marry her and get approval with the Nation; then Rhys would have to leave Bessina alone by law.

When she finally spoke, her words were no more than a whisper. “This is crazy.” Disbelief colored her voice. “So, it’d be forever?”

Trace couldn’t stop himself from looking at her. “For me, yes,” he answered honestly. “I can only do this once. This is one of the laws our people made with humans to regulate our population. The Nation will allow me one human wife to know my secret.” Trace pushed a few buttons on the GPS and found a motel only a few miles up the road.

Her eyes narrowed and her face wrinkled in confusion. “What if you choose wrong? And what do you mean ‘regulate your population’?”

He chuckled. “It doesn’t happen often, but there are times when a vamp chooses wrong. The vampire who chose the human bride or groom must petition the Nation to have another go at love. It is not often that the Nation allows this, but that has happened, too. And some humans make the change, or have children, and those are called dhampirs.”

He thought back to Sam and Hope’s odd relationship. Sam had never offered to marry her, and Hope had been in love with him. Trace had heard their conversation moments before their deaths, and that was the reason he hadn’t seen Bessina on the pier that morning. He had been too concerned with where his life was headed, and if he’d turn into Sam—old and worn; a shadow, incapable of returning love.

“Oh, so vamps pick once and it better last forever? Seems odd.”

How would he explain this to her? The Nation’s rules concerning life mates were inflexible, and he only had one shot to get it right if he chose a human. Since female vampires and dhampirs already knew about vampires’ existences, he could marry as many as he liked. But in all of his years as a dhampir, he’d yet to meet one who made him want to settle down.

“Vampires live for eternity, and while not all of us search for a life mate, the ones who do, choose wisely. You get only one human wife, and there are consequences for revealing yourselves to a human who is not a life mate.” Death.

She nodded. “Do a lot of vampires choose human brides?”

“I’ve noticed it happens more times than not.” Trace peeked over at her to gauge her reaction, but she was ready with another question.

“And if you find a female vampire or human who you want to marry while I’m married to you, then what?”

Trace gave her a soft smile. She was unsuccessful in schooling her features, and he could tell she felt genuine concern. “That won’t happen. I told you, I’d keep you safe. I meant it.”

Bessina nodded and turned back to the road. Trace would have given anything to read her mind at that moment, but that power was one he’d never been able to control. The large red blinking light to the motel came into view.

Trace decided he’d call Rhys as soon as Bessina made up her mind, but there was another call he needed to make first. Jax still hadn't gotten a text back to him. His options: hide her and turn himself in, or he’d marry her and protect her.

Bessina was silent as she thought, her pensive gaze stayed locked on the road ahead. She finally asked, “Would I have to change too?” The sound of her voice made him believe that this would be a deal breaker.

Trace pulled into the parking lot. “No.”

“Would you want me to?”

Hell yes. “That’s entirely up to you.” Trace thought for a moment. He wanted to say this right. “Bessina, I know this isn’t ideal, but if you choose the marriage option, over time, we could learn to love each other. I care about you now, and I’d like to see where it could go if you are willing.”

She bit her lip and picked at the bandages on her hands. It sucked that she’d been pulled into this situation, but it was the only other option he could offer her.

“And even if we don’t, I’ll always make sure you’re happy and safe. It’s my fault you’re in this mess, and I’ll do what it takes to get you out of it.”

His confession must have done more good than harm, because her bewilderment was gone. He could see she was actually thinking over his proposal. Watching as she played with the bandages on her hands, he gently took her hand in his and unraveled the bandages. Her hands were red and puffy, but not as bad as they had been.

“May I heal these for you?” He didn’t want to frighten her, but he was going to have to bite himself in order to place his blood on the wounds.

Bessina nodded and he positioned a fingertip under a fang and nipped it. He placed his bleeding fingertip on the wounds on her hands and knees. She watched in wonder as her abrasions and cuts healed. Trace then gently pulled the stitches out as the wounds closed.

“Holy shit,” she murmured, lifting her hands up to get a closer look.

“Yeah, holy shit is right.” He chuckled and stared at the woman who just might become his wife.

Confessions in the Dark | Top 5 playlist

 

My Top 5 Songs for Confessions in the Dark

I'll be honest, this mix is a bit darker than most of my playlists. However, I think it fits Confessions in the Dark perfectly.  Clams Casino - I'm God R.I.P David Higgs is my personal fav, but the video creeps me out!

 

 

1. Young Blood-Renhölder Remix

 

2. Epic Pop - Umbrella [feat. Jazelle](J2 - The Iconic Series)

 

3. Epic Rock - I Think We're Alone

 

4. About Her - Malcolm Mclaren

 

5. Clams Casino - I'm God R.I.P David Higgs 

 

Confessions in the Dark | Cover Reveal


The power I pulled from the moon was light magic, often called white magic. It’s from the earth and moon and is pure and whole
— Ophelia

After narrowly escaping from the Russian’s king of vampires compound, Ophelia is on the run and fighting for her life. Her first goal is to get some help; too bad she’s stuck on an island owned by Vasily. Her second and third goals consist of going back and freeing her people, and killing Vasily—not necessarily in that order.

 

When Celtic warrior and vamp badass, Irish, senses something is amiss, he goes in search of the woman who has been on his mind since their first meeting. While his old friends adjust to their new lives, Irish heads off to the dangerous North Sentinel Island, in search of his woman. What he finds there will change everything in the battle against Vasily and his men.

 
 

        Ophelia prided herself in not panicking. Her heart might have been in her throat and beating a mile a minute, but she scrolled through the SAT phone with clarity, looking through nameless numbers, hoping to see an SOS number. Unfortunately, there was nothing to clue her in to who she’d be calling if she pressed the send button.

She looked to Irish again. His greying skin signaled she had little, if any, time to act, so she pressed send on the number currently on the screen. There was a beeping noise and then the phone rang.

            He mumbled something incoherent and she crawled over to him, placing her face as close to his as she could. His eyes were still closed, moving franticly beneath the lids. In his weakened state, he feebly tried to move his hand with no success.

            In Gaelic she asked, “How can I help you?” Now she was starting to panic. If anyone found where they were hiding, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to fight them off without risking Irish. In this state, Vasily’s men were sure to kill him.

            His eyes cracked open a sliver and his fangs descended. “I need—” As if all of the strength had been zapped from him, his hand went limp and his head fell back.

            A shout came from behind her and she turned, baring her teeth in a protective stance, but no one was there. The muffled shout came again and she glanced down at the phone. Picking it up, she said, “Yes?”

            A man with a Spanish accent answered. She remembered him, Jax. “What’s wrong?” His voice was calm and soothing, which managed to help calm her as well. She examined Irish and explained everything she saw, including everything that had happened leading up to this point.

           Jax grunted. “Is there an open wound on him anywhere?” Ophelia remembered the scent of blood and burned flesh and answered with confirmation. “Okay, can you get to it?”

            She took a deep breath and wedged the SAT phone between her ear and shoulder. Pushing with both hands, she got him to roll onto his back. She opened his leather vest and pulled up his cotton shirt. The scent of blood and decay wafted up from the wound. It seeped and oozed blood and a clear liquid.

            Ophelia covered her mouth at the atrocious scent. How was it decaying when it’d only been there for a few hours? “Yes, I see it. It looks bad and it’s bleeding. The blood is really dark though. Do you know what I should do?”

          There was a silence, a flurry of curses, and then in a measured tone Jax said, “How do you feel about being bitten?” His voice sounded grim, as if this were the only option and he wasn’t sure she’d agree to it.

          She cleared her throat and placed her hand to her neck. Heat flared in her collar and her heart gave an extra few thumps in anticipation. “Will it save him? Is there no other way?”

          Jax sighed. “Yes, but you don’t have enough time. If you don’t give him your blood, he will die. He’s been poisoned with liquid silver and Olfbreathe seed is the only other cure. I doubt you’ll find it there. Weather conditions aren’t stable enough to grow it.”

          It didn’t take long to make a decision. When everyone else had chalked up her disappearance as dismissal, Irish was the only one who’d wanted to free her from the confines of her place in the pack. “Okay, but how do I get him to bite? He’s not awake.” She eyed him again, searching for signs of life. He was breathing, but that was it.

            “There’s a weapon in his shoe. Use that.”

She searched for the weapon. A trap opened in the bottom of his shoe and she pulled the small blade from inside. Once she was positioned beside him, Ophelia placed his head in her lap and created as small cut on her wrist. Not too close to the artery, but not too far away either. Coaxing his mouth open, she placed her wrist above his mouth and waited—nothing.

            “Jax,” panic laced her voice, “he’s not—”

Before she could finish, Irish’s chest bowed and his fangs clamped down on her skin. At first, she thought to scream, but then his sharp fangs parted her flesh with a delicious burn that made her body sing. A moment later, she opened her eyes to find herself on her back with Irish on top of her.

Her blood dripped from his mouth, his face twisted in a feral grimace. Unsure of whether to push him away, or caress him, she put her hand on his chest and steadied her own breath. He panted above her, body tight and hot. Without thinking, she parted her knees, allowing Irish to settle in deeper. His considerable arousal lay heavy between them, cradled by her warm, soft thighs.

He lowered to her neck, but was stopped by her palm on his chest. He looked at her hand before flicking it away. Ophelia gasped, but didn’t stop his descent. The idea of Irish, fangs deep in her neck, sent excitement shooting through her core. He scraped the tips of his fangs over the delicate hollow of her neck.

She shuddered, and before she knew it, her hand flew to the back of his head and pulled him closer. All she could remember was the feel of his mouth over her wrist, the way it felt as he took her blood; each pull, yanking common sense from her body and replacing it with raw need.