When the only things left alive were Jimmy and me, I lifted my glistening arms to the moon and shrieked my triumph. Then I looked around for something else to kill.
My gaze fell on Sanducci still chained to the ground. Though Jimmy had given me this power, that didn’t matter to me when my demon was driving.
All those old wives’ tales about vampires making other vampires . . . not entirely true. Vampires are Nephilim, but they were created from the mating of a Grigori and a human. You can’t become one just by being bitten. You had to be born.
Unless you were me.
As far as I know, I’m the only sexual empath on the planet. In layman’s terms, I absorb supernatural powers through sex. In other words, because Jimmy is a dhampir, I’m one too, and dhampirs become vampires by sharing blood with them.
Jimmy hadn’t wanted to make me like him. He’d done everything to prevent it. He’d run away. He’d tried to hide. He’d even locked himself up in an enchanted Irish cottage, complete with a golden door and golden bars on the window. Didn’t matter. I’d found him, and I’d seduced him.
Jimmy was strong. He kept his vampire nature contained. But once a month—beneath the full moon—it got free. And when it had, I’d been there waiting. Long before the sun rose, I was just like him.
Why had I done it? Because the only way to win this war was to be as ruthless as they were. The supernatural powers and extraordinary strength didn’t hurt either.
I inched closer to Jimmy, who lay naked beneath the moon. He was so damn pretty. My tongue darted out to wet my lips, snagging on my fangs, which cut the tender flesh. I tasted my own blood and paused for just an instant to enjoy.
For a vampire, sex and violence, blood and lust, are all rolled together. It’s hard to differentiate between them, and we don’t really want to.
My body tingled from the adrenaline, from the change, from the food. My skin cool, the blood beneath coursed so hot. Every sway of the breeze lifted the hairs on my arms, my neck, creating a delicious shiver. My shadow fell over Sanducci like a thundercloud.
His gaze met mine. “No, Lizzy.”
“Not Lizzy.”
He winced. “I know.”
I ran my hand over his perfect chest, his taut belly.
“Let me go,” he said. “You need your collar back on.”
“No.”
His sigh, full of pain, drew me in. I wanted to drink his agony slowly like a fine, expensive wine.
“So sad,” I whispered. “Broken inside.”
Jimmy’s mouth tightened; his eyes narrowed. “Not as broken as you think.”
I lowered my body onto his. Naked hip to naked hip, breasts to chest, his penis hot against my belly. “I can fix that.”
I kissed him. He might pretend to be human, but he wasn’t. He never had been. The violence called to him. He couldn’t deny its allure.
The thought of taking him on the blood-drenched ground, while he was tied, he was helpless, made me so aroused I writhed. In seconds, his penis was not only hot but also hard. He was unable to keep himself from kissing me back.
My hands glided over him. Down his arms to the manacles at his wrists, down his thighs to the restraints, then back up to the soft, tender flesh where his leg melded into his hip. I became fascinated with the skin there, the vein that blared blue beneath the silvery moon.
I licked it, and his breath caught. I gazed up his body. His face tense, torn, he wanted this, he wanted me, and then again he didn’t.
My teeth grazed the vein, my tongue pressed against it; the blood pulsed beneath, and I couldn’t resist. I drank from him.
He tasted both tart and sweet. His groan wasn’t pain or fear but lust. I lifted my head.
“Not yet,” I whispered, my breath brushing across him, making him shudder. “Wait for me.” Then I licked his tip, tested it with my tongue, traced it with just a hint of fang until he cursed and pulled against the chains.
“Take them off. Let me—” His head thrashed. I found myself intrigued.
“Let you what?”
He gave one final jerk against his bonds, and the stakes jiggled, but they held. The scent of burning flesh permeated the air. It reminded me of . . . hell. Not that I’d been there, but I could relate.
“Let me touch those breasts. They’ve been in my mind for a decade.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “I’m twenty-five.”
“What do you think a fifteen-year-old boy has in his head? You’ve had those breasts since you were twelve, even though you did your best to hide them.”
I’d been mortified to develop early. I’d worn loose clothes and hunched my shoulders. Not only because of my mortification, but also because I knew all too well that a girl in the foster-care system needed to slide through life unnoticed.
But I didn’t want to think about the past now. Maybe never again. I was strong. Invincible. How did that song go?
“I am woman,” I murmured.