Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

A soft hand touched his thigh. The muscle jumped. His eyes swung back to Carmine, his vision tunneling until she was his sole focus. She'd dropped the sheets and sat up. Her hair was mussed and her cheeks were flushed.

He didn't like how cautious she sounded when she asked, "Why are you mad? What did I do? I'm sorry about earlier. I don't know why I threw a fit. I've never— I'm sorry."

"You didn't do anything," he snapped, forcing his hands into fists by his sides. He tried to clear the rage out of his mind, to really think of why she might ask the questions she had. When he came up with an answer, the rush of shame was immediate. "If you're thinking of shacking up with someone because you're worried about your future, don't. You don't need to. We're going to help you get on your feet, Carmine. You don't have to— You're going to be safe. I promise."

Forcing a smile, he added, "And for the record, I take it as a compliment that you got pissy with me. That means you feel comfortable. We're good, I swear."

"Okay." She didn't sound like she believed him, but how could he blame her?

Atticus swiped a hand down his face. He was flushed, sweaty. Aggression still bunched his muscles. He would have done anything to go for a run in the cool night air.

But even if he could trust Carmine not to escape, the idea of leaving her exposed made his skin crawl. He needed her back home. Somewhere dark and safe. Somewhere like his bedroom, which was once a root cellar but had been converted to a luxurious suite. It didn't have windows and it remained cool even on the hottest days of the year.

A deep, primal urge demanded he lock her inside and never let her leave.

Switching to rub the back of his neck, Atticus dared to look at her. She was watching him warily, like she knew exactly what he was thinking. Maybe she did. He wasn't the first vampire to crave her. Junger probably had dreams of locking her up, too.

Fucker.

At least he'd never act on it, and Junger would be dead soon, anyway. The thought of how satisfying it would be to see the light leave his eyes was enough to calm Atticus down.

His head wasn't screwed on right, but at least he had some sense back. Enough to notice how bad Carmine looked. Eyeing her dark circles and gaunt cheeks, an alarm sounded in the forefront of his mind.

She's starving.

If his aversion to synth hadn't told him enough, the screeching worry he experienced over her hunger was undeniable. It didn't matter that he knew she wasn't his. Instinct was instinct. When a vampire fixed on a potential anchor, they became single-minded about their care and keeping.

Yeah, he would have cared about anyone going hungry, but this was different. If an anchor starved, so did a vampire. The urge to provide for them was a hardwired survival imperative.

He was up and lurching across the short distance to the kitchenette before he'd made the choice to do so, and certainly before he could process the staggering confirmation of what instinct and desire were trying to tell him. "You need to eat," he barked. "How many bottles have you had since you left the crypt?"

He didn't give her the chance to answer. Tearing a bottle from the pack, he gave it a shake and then twisted the lid. The seal cracked and the bottle began to heat in his hand.

"Here." He sat back down on the bed and shoved it under her nose. "Drink. I'm not moving until you do."

Carmine curled her shoulders and turned her head away, her nose wrinkled like she'd smelled something foul. He expected her to refuse, but she didn't say anything at all.

"Carmine," he pressed, voice tight with worry. "Doll, you have to drink. You're killing me. Please just take a sip."

She squished her face into her raised knees and mumbled something. His brow wrinkled. "What was that?"

"I can't drink that."

He glanced at the bottle. "Why?"

She went quiet again. Reluctantly lowering his arm, he used his free hand to brush her dark hair out of her eyes. She peeked at him from under the fringe of her lashes. "Why, doll?"

There was a moment of hesitation. "I hate the taste. Really hate it. I can't get it down."

Atticus stopped breathing. "You…" He cleared his throat. Tried again. "You don't like the taste? What about the other kind?" There were still plenty of bottles of the brand Junger's lackeys stocked. She had options.

Carmine shook her head.

"Is there— Is there a brand that sounds good? A flavor you want?" He shifted his feet and flexed his fingers around the bottle. "Are you doing a hunger strike, doll?"

She shook her head again.

Holy fuck. Sweat dewed on the back of his neck. He knew how Adriana's appetite was. If Carmine was similar, the fact that she couldn't just force herself to drink the synth was…

Good gods, she wants me.

Did she even know what her aversion to synth meant? He doubted it. Why would they teach her that in the crypt? He knew blood brides were sometimes taught that they would be fed on, but not that it would be reciprocated. That was supposed to be the purest form of matehood, the perfect vampiric circle, but most of the shitheads who bought brides didn't like the idea of being fed on. It was some macho man bullshit.

Atticus was not an idiot, nor did he subscribe to any macho man bullshit. Even though it felt taboo in the extreme, he was honored to have her see him as a potential anchor, even if she didn't know that herself.

Honored and catastrophically turned on.

His throat worked hard to swallow the saliva that pooled in his mouth as he tried to find a solution to their issue. Carmine needed to eat — desperately. She couldn't miss another meal. If she did, he worried he'd be forced to take her to a clinic for an IV, and that would turn shit tits up in an instant.

But if she couldn't drink synth, then…

His breath went short. His cock was pinched behind his zipper. Competing impulses warred in his mind. One wanted to offer her his throat and the other wanted to sink his fangs into hers.

He was a jumble of needs, all of them blaring sirens in his head, but in the end, it was the innate protectiveness of his anchor that won out.

And maybe a bit of selfishness and curiosity, too.

Atticus's joints felt wooden as he slowly turned to set the bottle on the floor. His palms were sweaty. He pressed them flat against his thighs. You can do this. Be cool. Be normal. Don't wig her out.

"C'mere." It came out so much rougher than he intended, but it was a miracle he spoke actual words at all.

Carmine blinked at him. "What?"

"Come here," he said again, clearer this time. Keeping steady eye contact with her, he explained, "If you can't drink synth, then you're gonna drink something, doll."

It was a thing of beauty, watching her pupils blow up like that. One minute her eyes were dark blue and the next they were black. Her lips parted. A flush infused the tops of her high cheekbones. Her blunt little claws curled into the blankets. "You— you don't mean I should?—"

"I sure do." He tugged at the blankets, pulling them out of her grip. When her legs were exposed, he patted his thigh. "It doesn't have to mean anything. You take what you need."

Even as he said it, he knew that was absurd. Of course it would mean something. It meant something for a vampire to bite anyone. It was sacred for a vampire to bite another.

She'd be injecting her venom into his blood. Sure, it took regular injections to make the bond take, but for just a second he'd belong to her and her alone. He'd sustain her. If he bit her back, she'd have his venom, too. A perfect circle of protection and intimacy.

It would never mean nothing. Even if it was just the once.

It would always mean everything.

A part of him had braced for her argument, but Carmine only stared at him for what felt like an eternity before she slowly got onto her hands and knees. His pulse jumped at the sight of her crawling toward him. And when he noticed her watching his throat, where blood throbbed just beneath his skin, he had to bite his lip to keep from reaching for his cock. He had no idea what he planned to do with it, since he absolutely could not put it anywhere near her, but if he didn't get some relief soon, he was pretty sure he'd lose his mind.

Atticus turned his body to face her, one boot on the floor and his other leg bent on the bed. Before he could talk himself out of it, he settled his hands on her waist and guided her to straddle him. He swallowed a groan when she bunched her long dress around her hips and settled herself down on his thigh. His hands itched to wander, but he sat rigidly beneath her, grasping at control that slipped from him like smoke.

"Are you sure?" He wasn't the only one with a husky voice, apparently. Carmine's high tones were tempered with something rich and smoky when she tentatively rested her hands on his shoulders.

"Pretty fuckin' sure," he muttered. Unsticking his hand from her waist with some difficulty, he hooked a finger under his collar and pulled. "Drink, doll."

He squeezed his eyes shut. Not because he didn't want to look, but because he worried about what he'd do if he watched her. This wasn't supposed to be a sexual thing. It was a simple, biological need. He refused to be the creep who took advantage of a vulnerable woman.

The softest fingertips brushed his throat, tracing tendons and the contours of his flesh. "You're so warm." It was a whisper. He wasn't even sure she was talking to him.

"You are, too," he replied, like an idiot. She was burning up in his lap, particularly where her cunt kissed the seam of his pants. She practically blazed there. Didn't mean he had to say it, though.

"I like your tattoos." Her hot breath kissed his throat. The fingers that explored him settled on the bar of his collar bone, trembling. "I don't want to ruin them."

"They'll be fine. Bites heal clean." And he wouldn't care if they didn't. He'd let her ruin any part of him she liked. He wanted her to.

Fuck me, I might even beg for it.

She didn't reply. Soft lips brushed his skin, sending a searing wave of sensation down his spine. He felt that tiny touch all the way to his damn toes. Something like a kiss — so tentative, so very sweet it almost didn't count — nearly knocked him on his ass.

And that was before the bite.

All vampires had the instinct, but it took some practice to get good at it, to not go too fast, too deep, or too shallow. Something dark and possessive in him purred with satisfaction when Carmine went shallow. He had to gently press on the back of her head to encourage her to go deeper.

There's no way she's done this with someone else. Just me. Only me.

It was both perverse and yet sacred to be on the other end of the bite, but the moment her precious little fangs slid through his flesh, all sting and then glowy warmth, Atticus knew he was a goner. There was no going back from this.

The pleasure was instant . As soon as her venom hit his bloodstream, he let out a long, low groan and wrapped his arm around her back to clutch her opposite shoulder, clasping her to him like he feared she'd stop.

He knew that in a few seconds, her venom would stop flowing. She'd extract her fangs. She'd use her perfect tongue to make a little suction and drink from him. He knew the mechanics because he'd done it many times to different partners, but he never knew it felt like this.

Carmine didn't make a sound, but her hands wandered, petting, soothing, driving him wild as she extracted her fangs. Her tongue was hot and wet, her lips smooth. When she began to pull from him, he let out a low, reflexive shout.

She startled and tried to pull back, but he quickly cupped the back of her head again. Holding here there. Can't let her go. Won't.

"No," he gasped, "keep going. Please. Take more, doll. Take what you need."

It took her a second, but she got back into the flow. She melted until she was wrapped around him, clinging to him, their bodies pressed together as intimately as they could be while still clothed.

He was desperate to rock his hips. All he needed was the slightest bit of friction and he'd go off like a teenager. Gods help him if one of those hands snuck down to pop the button on his pants. He'd be done in seconds.

Don't. You can't. She didn't ask for any of that.

But that didn't stop him from turning his nose into her hair to breathe her in. It didn't stop him from running his hand down her back, feeling the elegant shape of her ribs and waist. It didn't stop him from?—

He let out a low sound of complaint when she began to lap at him, closing the wound with her saliva. Atticus's breath sawed in and out of him. We can't be done already. No, no, no.

He wanted to demand she come back. He needed her to take more. If she moved away now, he'd lose every last shred of composure and beg her to stay.

His hands turned into vices on her waist as she sat back a little. Not away, but enough that they could look at each other. The change also resettled her weight — putting her right on top of his cock.

Atticus hissed and nearly lifted her by the hips, desperate to throw her off before he lost control of himself and did something unforgivable, but she rocked a little, just enough, and his good intentions burst like a bubble.

"Atticus?" Her voice was so soft, so blissed out, and the clumsy, shy rocking motions of her hips were so needy.

He gave in to the desire to look at her. Fuck.

She was staring at him with huge, blissed out eyes. Her lips were a little swollen and stained. They parted, so he could see the blood that painted her perfect pink tongue, too. It was on her breath, running down her throat, sustaining her.

He made a sound he'd never made before: some strange cross between a whine and a growl. The roots of his fangs throbbed in his gums. He wanted to devour her.

Like she'd read his mind, Carmine reached for his hand and guided it down. "Please touch me."

"I shouldn't." So why was his hand sliding under the bunched fabric of her dress? Because he was a bad person, probably. Definitely. No one was good enough to touch Carmine, but he had to be lowest on the list by far.

Carmine cupped his jaw and looked at him like— He had no idea. It was some mix of awe and academic interest, like she was trying to savor the moment but also like he was a wet specimen in a jar, soon to be dissected so her keen mind could understand how he worked. It was hot as fuck.

"I want you to," she whispered, leaning forward to brush her lips against his cheek experimentally. "Please, Atticus. Touch me."

He was ruined.

"Fuck. Fuck." He didn't stand a chance. As soon as his fingers hit the soaked gusset of her panties, he was done for. "Did drinking from me make you this wet, doll?"

She paused like she had to think about it. Maybe she did. "Yes."

"Did you like how I tasted?"

That got a much more immediate response. "Yes. Very much. I want more."

That answer deserved a reward. Atticus slid his fingers inside her panties and found hot, silky flesh. Gods have mercy on me. A single exploratory touch soaked his fingers. She was dripping for him. From one taste.

Slick flesh, smooth as silk and hot as fire, scalded his fingers. She was gorgeous everywhere, and when her desire perfumed the air, it was a high the likes of which he'd never experienced.

"Doll," he breathed, rubbing slow, gentle circles and watching her cheeks flush, "do you want me to make you come?"

"More than I've ever wanted anything, I think." She answered in that peculiar, frank way of hers and it had absolutely no right being as sexy as it was. He loved that. There was something so genuine about her, so honest and confident. Carmine didn't hedge her answers or dance around self-consciously. She was just as likely to say something he wouldn't like as she was to tell him yes, she did want him to make her see stars.

Atticus had never been so turned on in his life, and he'd certainly never grinned as he played with a woman's cunt before, but there he was. He was scum, but fuck it, he was the happiest scum on Burden's Earth.

"You tell me to stop if you're uncomfortable. The second you hesitate, this ends. No questions. No hard feelings. Got it?"

Carmine nodded impatiently.

"Confirmation, doll," he pressed, stilling his hand.

Her hips bucked. Panting, she muttered, "Confirmation. Stop. Uncomfortable. Got it. Yes. Please move your fingers."

And because he was apparently an asshole as well as scum, he asked, "Why? You like my fingers on your perfect pussy, doll?"

"Yes," she answered immediately, devastating any shreds of his willpower that remained. "I like your fingers. I like your mouth. Your face. I love your tattoos and your voice and when I smell you, my fangs ache."

He lost his head. That was why he snapped. Kissing her was the only sensible thing to do at that moment. Cupping the back of her neck with his free hand, Atticus crushed their mouths together.

Carmine yelped, but she didn't pull away. Her fingers slid into his hair and held fast as he tasted his blood on her tongue, tasted her. She was clumsy, a little shy, but the longer he stroked her cunt, the more her confidence grew. Her hips rocked and her nails curled into his scalp. Soon enough she was angling her head for more.

She started making noise. That was a surprise. Carmine was so quiet normally that he didn't expect her to gasp and moan and make soft little kitten sounds when he slid a finger inside her and stroked her g-spot while the heel of his palm ground down on her clitoris.

Atticus had tasted the best alcoholic synth in the world. He knew what it was to be intoxicated. Watching Carmine ride his hand as she licked his blood from her lips was better, headier, than that.

When she broke their kiss to toss her head back and scream, her arms banded around him so tightly that her shoulders shook, Atticus met the gods for the first time in his life.

Half-feral and not anywhere close to done with her, he wrapped the fingers of his free hand around her throat and extracted his other hand from her panties. Her scent, cherry and musk and sweet cunt, exploded in his mouth when he sucked his fingers clean.

Carmine sat in his lap, limp and heavy-lidded, her arms draped over his shoulders. Her thighs shook around his hips. She looked like she had been kissed to within an inch of her life. He loved that look on her. He wanted to see it fixed there permanently.

And then she reached for the button of his pants and in her pretty, sated voice asked, "Are you going to defile me now?"