Forbidden Desire

CHAPTER 2

He licked the curve of her neck up to her ear. "Keep doing that, little witch," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. "Feels amazing."

He stopped moving, and with a disappointed tsk he resumed drinking.

Oh, gods. He tried to touch his weak magic, just so that it could slip through his fingers mentally. His body turned rubbery, black bleeding in his sight. He is much stronger than he should be. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Failsafe measure."

The reminder of how he would be kicked back into the Shadows if he killed her stopped him. He stopped drinking, moved away so he could be caught in his sharp gaze. "You're bluffing."

 She was. Not that she would let him see that, though. “Try me,” she whispered, infusing the words with as much daring bluff as possible.

His thumb gently rubbed her lower lip. "Maybe I will." He gripped her neck and bit again.

A cascade of sensations flowed through him, from his neck down to his toes, stinging heat, throbbing pleasure, a pain for more. Her lips were hot on her skin, her energy stroking her senses, making her want ... No.

Drawing in an invigorating breath, he gathered the rest of his strength. He reached deeper than ever, focused on the brightest spark of magic he could find, and burned it with fire. It's on fire. More. He nurtured the flames, fanning them higher, until the power of his magic was a dazzling hell within him. He pushed outward, against the influence of the dark demonic energy penetrating his shields, and he pushed, pushed, pushed.

Flaming white light exploded from him. It struck the demon with all its might, expelling him. Crying, he fell to the other corner of the mausoleum and collapsed.

  She scrambled to her feet, swayed, and steadied herself on the wall. Candles were flashing, casting a frightening play of light and shadows on the grave. Panting, he watched the demon move. His aura grew darker as he lifted himself, his eyes glowing, igniting the path to his soul. Yes, he was pissed. Well, so is he, for that matter.

  His stance widened, he raised his chin, ready to greet her. Carefully, he gathered the last battered, exhausted magic within him, and brought it closer. It would hurt like hell, but she still had enough to hit him again. And this time, he will knock it down.

  He stepped closer to her. He tightened his grip on his power. It rotated, eager to release. His energy hissed, made the wind. A deep sigh, and then he would throw—

  He never had a chance. One second he stood nine feet away from her, the next right in his face. Damn, he’s fast, was her last coherent thought before it all happened at once.

 His hand pulled out, tweaking her hair. Ready and ready, his power leaped to the surface. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

  And her mouth covered her mouth with a kiss that stopped everyone.

 His grip on his magic weakened like a pointed rope being cut. Her lips were hot as they crushed her lips, her tongue demanding as she licked him, all except ordering her to open up. In an instant, he covered his mouth tightly. He bit his lip then, just slightly, but enough to hurt.

  "Ow!" She reared back. “Damn you, you bas—”

His next words died a shameful death as he took advantage of her open mouth. Its tongue caressed her insides, lowering her to her blazing power. His taste was unique, a medicine to his senses — dark spice, scorching heat, kissed by a trace of iron from his own blood. Its energy enveloped her as it pulled her closer, pressing the suddenly sensitive breasts against its hard chest. A flood of desire engulfed him. It broke his defenses with frightening ease, turning his anger into something primal, greedy and aggressive.

 The next thing he knew, his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her closer, her nails sinking into the heat of her skin. He licked and tasted and met its tongue, out of need and hunger. She moaned at the kiss, dropped her body on him, and_good gods, the feeling of his stiffness in her hip. Everything else melted away, until there was only heat, insane pleasure, and the need to draw blood.

 Completely lost in a spiral of desire, he did not see it coming. Breaking the kiss, the demon swipes his legs out from under him. For the second time tonight, he fell on his back on what must have been the hardest floor ever made. Pain greeted him, from his spine to his fingers, in biting, sharp waves. She gasped, she couldn't even breathe.

  Between the black dots dancing in his sight, the demon rose above him. His one hand had been cradled behind his head during his fall, and now glided down his throat. He squeezed it gently and gave her a teasing smile.

  “Let’s do that again sometime,” he said, kissed her nose, and was gone.

  The gaping door let in the cold night air, which touched her trembling body. Her chest throbbed as she caught her breath. The rush of adrenaline slowed, and the results of the battle fell on it. His magic — weakened, almost exhausted — boiled to a flash. His body ached in a million places at once. If he used to be very tired, now it looks like the road kill has revived and the truck has run over him again.

That damn sneaky bastard demon. He rescued her, almost killed her, left her almost broken lying on the floor. Worse, she had the guts to kiss him — and make it like it.

  He wanted his ass for that.

It hurts.

  Atticus Vhampson took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of the wound as it came out of the man he had hit. The man's human aura trembled, woven by the threads of misery spreading like a fine mist in the air. More. He needs more. Twenty years bound to the Shadows, and he was so hungry with the sharp taste of pain that he couldn’t even resist the beating of two thugs on a dull one. He quenched his blood thirst with the little sorcerer in the grave, but his two other feeding needs had not yet been met. Well, he was working on doing that.

 Rolling his shoulders, he watched the scene. Two of the three gang members were lying in the back of the dumpster hiding in this corner of the back alley from the street. The third did everything to merge with the wall behind him and disappear from Atticus' view. The victim of the gang — a naughty runaway teenager — is lying in the trash, still unaware of what his abusers call “play time.”

  Because of the night time, it took Atticus a while out of the cemetery to find a trace of a suitable victim and a secluded corner to enjoy his feeding. He then picked out the thugs ’clothes before he started — the white T-shirt from Idiot One, dark blue jeans and the boots from Idiot Two, and the jacket from the third man. Yes, clichéd bad boy leather jacket, straight to the starter kit for thugs. It was best suited to all three men's jackets, however, so Atticus shrugged it on with a self-ironic bow to his evil, evil demonic nature.

  He was now kneeling next to the third thug, whose horrible expression matched the acidic taste of fear in his aura. Very different from the aggressive over-confidence he displayed when Atticus left the shadow of the night, interfering with the quality of the gang’s time with their victim. How quickly things change. Several times he slammed the man's knife into his hand, hope flowing in his blood. It would be fun to cut the jerk with his own blade.

Most human minds didn’t have any shields, which made them easy to manipulate, and it only took a little thought to convince Knife Guy to remove his other clothing. He then dug deeper into the man's mind to keep it soft and quiet as he tried to work on his exposed skin.

  The darkness disappeared inside Atticus, rose to the surface and circled around him. The knife was cut, repeated, and the man was bewildered and twisted, the pain exploding in the air. Atticus drank it. He savored the taste, drew strength from it. Gradually his hunger decreased. The need within him gradually died.

  Sated, he released the mind of the evil man as it gradually disappeared into the darkness. He licked the blood from the blade, pocketed it, and turned to the gang victim. It was tempting to feed him too, and deep down in him, there was a part of him that was hungry for more than he had tasted. More pain, more blood, more death. It’s the dark, abominable part of his nature that urges him to end what the gang started, whispering that he’s not much different from them, that he needs it, so why not take what’s clearly meant to be her?

  The boy was still down in counting, half naked, bruises on the hip and abdomen, swollen eyes due to the blows of three men who were twice the size of the teenager. This, Atticus thought, made the difference. He enjoyed inflicting pain, yes, he even enjoyed it, just like the men he had just killed. But there were lines he did not cross. One of these is hurting children. He never gave freedom to the darkest part of his nature, and he won’t start now.

She slipped into the young man’s mind, stirring him up and erasing small memories of his presence and involvement in what had happened. Passing the wide -eyed young man, who was trembling at the sight of three dead men around him, Atticus tapped his shoulder. “Run along now. Find some shelter. ”

  After the mind reinforced his words with compulsion, he turned away from the scene. He had to re -examine a delectable little witch.

Now that he has met two of his feeding needs, his head is clearer, his power has calmed down. Walking the streets of Kinland, Nevada rains a whisper on his skin, he doesn’t notice the changes in his city as he ponders his strategy.

  One thing is certain — he will never return to the Shadows. For twenty years, he knew nothing but disease, darkness, hunger, and more. It ate him, slowly, uncontrollably, chewed on his mind, his soul, chewed him until he was no more than a broken shadow himself.

 For the longest time, he thought Russell could give him the benefit of the doubt and set him free again. Considering the weak friendship they had, the years they had worked together, he would have given her a chance to explain.

Eventually, however, his distrust of his kind prevails, and he goes back to treating him as the natural born enemy of any demon in the witch type. When he felt he had died a few years ago — by weakly tying him up after he had bound him — the bitter knowledge that he had actually let it rot in the Shadows fell into whatever altruism he might have had. leave.

Now that he has finally got his freedom, he will do everything to get it, to avoid going back to the Shadows. Anything. He even killed the beautiful little witch — who would have been the first to take a woman's life, and a real pity considering that she was a beauty, but if it secured her freedom, she did it with a beat of heart.

A cruelty born of two decades of pain and darkness.

However, his mention of the “failsafe measure” frustrated him. He could not be sure if it was telling the truth, and he would not endanger the freedom to know it. So, as he fights him in the darkness of the mausoleum, fierce hunger cutting him from the inside, he decides to switch tactics.

There is another way to break the relationship that bound him to her, a way that requires patience and skill. He had to win his freedom secretly, he had to persuade it to surrender to him. Which is good, as long as the result is the same.

He followed by pulling the leash on Marga, and not surprisingly, it took him to the Chrysler residence. He guessed that he would go straight home, where all his belongings were. He had to mix something — one of those witchy decoctions that looked like mud but had impossible powers — to replenish his blood and energy before he could monitor his threat.

Well, there is no need for it. He voluntarily approached her.

Shaking at the irony of that, he approached the veranda of old Zarianna. This has not changed much in the last twenty years. Proud and sturdy, its lavender walls and white décor are weathered and chopped up, it rises to the end of the long driveway like a small castle. For a brief moment, he half -expected Russell to come out and greet him as usual — with an impossible, fragile mixture of trust and suspicion in his gray eyes.

The wind picked up and whipped him, rustling the leaves on the nearby trees, and he turned a blind eye, focused, pushed past and all regret into the darkest place within him. Eyes trained on the faint glitter of the magical wards protecting the house, he stepped toward the veranda and stopped, his hand almost touching the edge of the spell.

The roar of power touched his skin. He can’t break wards, but he can still get in. There is no guarantee that this will work, though. Otherwise, he will bounce and likely crash hard into the driveway, feeling like a mosquito trying to hug a bug zapper.

Holding his breath, he sailed forward. The sorcerer's magic flared up in his touch, a slight charge electrifying the air, a prelude to the power that would overthrow him if the ward decided he was an undesirable companion. The speed of the heartbeat, he waited. The roar of the wind subsided. Slowly the sting in his skin subsided, and with a sigh, the magic faded. His hand slipped into the shimmer and touched the door.

Napabuga siya ng hininga. Well, ano ang alam mo? Nakuha niya ang napakaraming dugo mula kay Marga na talagang nakilala ito ng ward sa kanyang mga ugat at pinayagan siyang makapasok. Sa isang maliit na utos ng isip, binuksan niya ang pinto, pumasok sa foyer at huminto saglit.

Hindi pa siya nakapasok sa loob ng bahay, ano ang likas na pag-iingat ng mga ward at Russell, ang kanyang malalim na kawalan ng tiwala sa mga demonyo, kahit na pagkatapos ng mga dekada ng pagkakakilala sa kanya. Nalanghap niya ang iba't ibang pabango na nakasabit sa hangin, bukod sa mga ito—pinaka-prominente—ang natural na pabango ni Marga, isang napakasarap na halimuyak na pumukaw sa kanyang gutom sa maraming paraan kaysa sa isa.

Sa ilalim nito, gayunpaman, pinasadahan ang pinagsamang amoy ng lahat ng mga mangkukulam na nanirahan dito sa loob ng mga dekada, na sinamahan ng amoy ng kahoy at ng bato ng matandang Victorian, ang mga halamang gamot ng lahat ng mga gayuma na hinaluan at tinimplahan dito, nilagyan ng hindi mapag-aalinlanganang aroma ng aktibong mahika.

Inilapat ang kanyang mga daliri sa wallpaper, ipinikit niya ang kanyang mga mata saglit at hinigop. Sa ilalim ng kanyang balat, ang mga pader ay umuugong sa kapangyarihan, napakalakas, napakasigla, sabay-sabay na inilapit siya at tinataboy siya. Ang witch magic, sa isip niya, ay isang kakaibang bagay.

Very different in itself, less intuitive and more of a craft, as it requires careful study and extensive knowledge to be used correctly. However, it can be very powerful. It was this obsession that caused his downfall. Returning his hand to the wall, he clenched it with a fist. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He followed the pull of the rope and the freshest trace of Marga's scent into the living room, where he saw her lying on the sofa, sound asleep. There was a pitcher containing some unidentified mud on the coffee table, and his fingers loosely held on to an empty glass streaked with the same kind of muddy residue.

Yes, he brewed some herbal medicine for a potion that would recharge his batteries, energy — and blood, and he would likely faint from exhaustion as his body regenerated. Witches may not have the accelerated healing of most creatures in other worlds, but the Powers That Be favored them, and they had more magic and magical remedies at their disposal than anyone.

Stopping in the middle of the living room, he studied Marga's sleeping form. His face was still pale, though not as white as when it left him in the mausoleum. She has the usual fair complexion and Chrysler ginger hair, with freckles on her nose and cheeks.

There was no trace of a bite on the attractive curve of his neck — he made sure he licked the sealed wounds before he left — and not a single drop of blood stained his clothes. Well, he is nothing if not clean. And at least when it comes to women. Marga's chest rose with her slow and steady breathing, focusing her attention on the feminine curves that the sky felt clinging to her.

She wanted to explore that softness, inch by luscious inch, she wanted her white skin to redden with arousal. Two decades of sensory hunger left him starving, aching for touch, for the hot heat of skin-to-skin contact and the madman falling into the depths of carnal pleasure. Marga is a pack of witchy hotness, all her hunger for a woman — not just green curves and silky skin, but a fiery energy in her aura, a hint of danger in her power that she craves to toy with.

The kiss — meant to distract her — still warmed her blood, impressing her even more. His passionate, wild response startled him, revealing a hidden streak of temper. Her own personal little witch volcano. So far, however, his magic has twisted inward, his energy pattern has weakened and he has fainted in sleep. He looks delicate, fragile.

Sure enough, there was a core of strength in him, so strong he could feel it even when his magic wasn’t asleep, and he saw the sparkle of his fighting spirit in his eyes as they quarreled in the mausoleum. As she studied her now, however, in the way she lay there with her guard down, peacefully sleeping, she was all soft, weak woman.

A pain in his chest, a doubt. If he goes ahead with his plan, he will make it weaker, destroy that fire within him, leave him lost and broken. He bit his teeth until something painful popped out of his jaw. He closed his eyes, he tried to breathe beyond the pressure on his chest. If there is another way ...

But nothing. This is either or a return ticket to the Shadows. And he could overcome his freedom at all costs, so he grabbed the annoying, repetitive fragmented conscience and defeated it in silence.

He reached out with his power, he pushed Marga away. His shields are windproof even in sleep, proof of his strength as a sorcerer, but he still feels his horror as a knock on the mind. And, sure, he woke up with a sigh and gasp. Eyes widened, he scanned the room, locked her, and was stunned.

She looked down at her body, and to her shock — as well as pleasure — she felt an emotion in her that overcame fear and shock in her aura. Amusement curling inside, he turned to study the contents of the shelf on the wall, giving her an unblocked view of his fabulous backside. The relish of appreciating the pattern of his energy jumped, and he barely held back a laugh.

He brushed his fingers over the backs of what looked like thin VHS cases, and threw a glance at her over his shoulder. “Ah. She’s awake at last. ” Turning his attention toward the collection on the shelf again, he lightly added, "Wonders will never cease."

Anger boiled in Marga's aura, and in a lovely huff, it threw at her the glass she had previously held. He casually caught it in the air. And there was his earnest disposition. beautiful. He brought the glass to his nose, he smiled at it, grinned and carefully placed it on a side table.

“You should work on that recipe. Maybe a little less… ”He flaunted his word search, snapped his fingers, then successfully pointed. "Mold."

 He closed his eyes and stared at her with a stare that was close to deadly. "You!"

“Yes. Me. ” He pulled a case from the shelf, opened it and studied the inside. Huh. A disc, like a CD, though it should have featured the Ghostbusters movie. Strange. He put it back on the shelf, exactly aligned back with the other film CDs. "I have a name, you know." He met her gaze. "It's Atticus Vhampson."

"How did you get past the wards?"

He bit his lips. "Must be all that sweet, sweet blood of yours coursing through my veins."

Marga's aura was burning with anger. His power was flashing, all but the visible sparks around the air. It was a tangible force that resounded through his skin, causing him to step closer, irritating him even more so he could enjoy the power of his magic.

He stood up, watching her. "Where did you get those clothes?"

She shrugged. "Took them off some guys."

"Are those guys still alive?" Her voice was deadly quiet.

Lifting its head, it smiled at him. "What do you think?"

"I think," he said, his power reading in the air, thickening, clearly ready to fight with himself, "that I told you not to spill innocent blood."

“Ah. But they weren’t innocent. ” He could still taste the aura of the people, dark and streaked with death and disease. That taste, from murder. As in plural.

 "I should just bind you in the Shadows again."

 “You could, and maybe you should, but then how would I be able to help you?” He walked over to the unlikely flat TV and knelt in front of it, examining what looked like some morphed version of a VCR beneath it.

Marga’s energy flashes with conflicting emotions, most of them dark, though there’s a hint of arousal — similar to when they kissed in the graveyard. Interesting. He deliberately flexed his muscles. The touch of arousal deepened, which he greatly rejoiced.

He stood up again and followed his fingers to the top of the TV. Where is the back of it? “We do have a deal, don’t we?”

She blinked at him, her face a study in incredulity. “You’re really going to help me after all?”

“What, you thought I’d renege on our agreement?”

“You attacked me, almost drained me within an inch of my life, and then left me there to rot. What was I supposed to think? ”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “You wound me, little witch. That you’d think I have no honor ... ”Striking sigh, she gave him her best look of long-suffering holiness. "Besides," he added with a smile, "I wouldn't want to miss out on all the fun I could be having with you."

"Fun?"

"Why, yes." Oh, he’s already enjoying it. Pressing his buttons proved to be a full pleasure he did not expect. And that’s not part of the plan. He looked at it and faced her. "You promised you were going to feed me."

Her heart thumped loud enough for him to hear. “You drank my blood. Lots of it. You should be sated. ”

“My species’ name, ”he said as he stopped in front of her,“ is misleading. Blood is only one of the components a bluofighter demon requires for sustenance. Besides blood, we feed off pain… ”He raised his hand to touch her cheek. "And pleasure." His finger dropped to the line of his jaw, and he shivered. So soft, so delicate. “I have had your blood. I have caused some pain. Now I need… pleasure. ” Deliberately slowing down, his finger followed the soft curve of her throat down to the neckline of her sweater, which lingered there.

Marga swallowed, obviously strained to look silent. The story of the beautiful blush creeping down his cheek is different. “Pleasure? As in sex? ”

"Hmm."

"You want to sleep with me?"

Her libido rose, staring at her from within. He prevents it. “Of course. You’re beautiful, intriguing, and sexy, and there’s nothing I’d rather do than lock myself in a secluded room with you and make up for twenty years of involuntary celibacy. But— ”He stroked her mental senses with his power, teasingly, gently. "—Since I don't want to overwhelm you right now, making you come will do."

"No." Her voice was husky, and the enticing scent of her arousal spread through the air, in blatant denial of her outward refusal.

"No?" he asked weakly. His finger caressed her collarbone.

"No," she repeated, even though her nipples were obviously hard under her sweater. "You won't get that from me."

"I need to feed in order to help you." He studied it, the clear blue eyes, the enticing redness on his cheeks, his rapid breathing. If he really doesn’t consent, he won’t be forced by it, and not just because it’s hard to take pleasure from someone who doesn’t like it. But he was interested, if ambivalent. He decided for another push. “Do you want me to take it from someone else then? I do so like debauching the innocent. ”

This is only a partial ultimatum — usually the blunt truth. He needs to be fed to be fully in charge of his power, and if it rejects him, he needs to find someone else. Even if the whole city is at his disposal, though, he prefers to please Marga. It would take him one step closer to achieving his freedom, yes, but other than that, he just wanted it.

He took a step back, putting space between them. The unmistakable fragrance of the woman's interest followed her shrinkage, refuting her hurtful words. “Why don’t you find some not-so-innocent woman to lavish your charms on? A murderous slut maybe? ”