He leaned away, his hair falling to one side, revealing the shaved part of his head and his pointed ear.
Brook said, “You want to fantasize like I’m the vampire?”
Dew giggled.
“Just so,” he baldly admitted. “And it’d help if you two quieted down.”
The nerve of this asshole! Did those nymphs have no pride? And why would he be fantasizing about Jo when he’d been so quick to pass her over?
To contemplate her murder?
God, this man confused her!
While Dew struggled to unfasten his belt, Brook bit his neck.
Rune commanded, “Harder, dove.”
Yes, Jo had seen weird things in the course of her voyeurism, but this male trying to relive her own bite was bizarre. Despite herself, her fangs sharpened into points.
“I said harder,” he grated.
I would bite him till he howled for mercy.
With a mouthful of his skin, the nymph mumbled, “I’m ’iting as ’ard as I ’an!”
“It’s no good.” He made a sound of frustration. “Leave off, Dew.”
Brook released his neck and jerked her thumb at the other nymph. “She’s Dew.”
That nymph had finally managed to unfasten his belt and was reaching for his fly.
“Whatever.” Rune flexed his claws. “Draw back. I’m about to bleed.”
“So freaking hot,” Brook breathed, but she leaned far back.
He stuck two claw tips into the remnants of Jo’s bite. Piercing his own neck, he gave a mindless groan and his eyes slid closed.
With a whimper, Dew fumbled to get his pants undone.
As his throat worked, blood trickled down his neck. It was so freaking hot. That dark, rich blood of his. To have just one more taste . . .
Ruined.
But unlike the nymphs, Jo did have pride. She wanted him only for the things he’d taken—and now was the time to strike.
Her scent.
Rune’s eyes shot wide when he caught that lush thread of meadowberry. Was he imagining it?
No, Josephine was materializing right in front of him. “Oh, Ruin . . .” Her shoulders were back, her chin raised. Her hazel eyes glittered.
He dropped Brook. Without a glance down, he shoved Dew’s hand from his fly.
Had the vampire seen his attempts to mimic her bite? His fantasizing about her as he used two stand-in nymphs? At least he hadn’t yet brought out her thong.
“Poor Ruin. I’m often imitated.” She gestured to the nymphs. “And never duplicated.”
Why did he feel guilty about the females, as if he’d been disloyal?
He was ever loyal to those that mattered. Josephine meant nothing to him. Nothing more than a mystery to be solved—and a liability to be handled.
A liability with the most exquisite bite.
In a whiskey voice, she said, “If you hadn’t decided to capture me, I would’ve fang-fucked your neck till you screamed.”
Filthy, wicked girl. I want her NOW.
She smiled, flashing those sharp little fangs, and his mind went blank. As if his legs knew better than he did, they stumbled toward her. “Josephine.”
When she held up her ripped thong, his steps faltered. She’d rolled him again? He’d never felt her. Never scented her until now.
How? How?
Next she waved to her necklace—which was back around her slim, pale neck.
He swallowed hard. They both knew what else had been in his pockets.
For the second time tonight, she raised his talisman with a mean smile.
Bluff her. He shrugged. “Still just a trinket, vampire.”
“Are you a liar on top of everything else, Ruin?”
“It’s pronounced Roon,” he said absently. “Not Roo-in.”
“Of course, Roo-in. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” She nodded at the nymphs. “Ladies.” She began to disappear.
He vaulted forward, arms outstretched, but the only thing left of her was her echoing laughter.
THIRTEEN
Hours into the morning, Jo tossed and turned in bed, determined not to think about the dark fey’s blood. Or anything else about him.
Like his grin—slanted, a touch sneering.
Or his scent—leather and evergreen.
Definitely not his body—long, tall, with rippling muscles she wanted to bite.
She’d already gotten off in the shower to fantasies of him, had even sunk her fangs into her own wrist. When she’d tasted his blood mixed with hers, she’d come over and over, until she’d dropped to her knees in the tub. . . .
Now she glared at his trinket, sitting on her bedside table. “Dickwad.” She punched her pillow.
At the beginning of the night, he’d been unemotional with that blond nymph, like a robot. He’d coldly informed her, “I’m coming.” He’d all but yawned as he’d gotten his nut.
With Jo, he’d bellowed so loud the whole city had heard it. Why would he want to be with others when he’d liked her best?
They’d been good together.
Briefly. Before he’d decided to kill her and all.
When would it be her turn to find a partner to hold her hand? She pined for her own groom, one who’d gaze into her eyes and tell her, “You are everything.”
But pining was a problem. Whenever she was filled with yearning like this and she did manage to doze off, she risked her own type of sleepwalking.
Sleep-ghosting.
She would go intangible, sinking through her bed, through the floor, and then into the ground. Nothing could awaken her before she opened her eyes to total blackness, shrieking and scrabbling for the surface.
If she ever solidified underground, she could die—already entombed.