“Idess.” Lore’s hard tone finally penetrated the haze in her brain. “When you say feed, do you mean what I think you mean?”
“Yes.” She sank down on the bed next to him, her legs too wobbly to support her for much longer, and the last thing she wanted was to do a face-plant right in front of her captive. That would certainly go a long way toward showing him who was in charge.
“But aren’t you some sort of angel?”
“Consider me an angel in training.” She rubbed her eyes even as she swiped her tongue over the tip of a canine that had started to descend.
“Do all angels drink blood?”
She was so tired she no longer cared about keeping things from Lore. So exhausted, in fact, that she swayed, her head spinning as if she’d had one too many glasses of wine—which was the only alcohol Memitim were supposed to drink. She’d indulged a lot during her wilder days. Now she avoided it—and anything that might chip away at her control and lead her away from the path of goodness she tried so hard to follow. “No. Only my kind.”
“And what kind are you, exactly?”
“I’m Memitim.” She skimmed her hand over the hand-made royal blue and gold comforter she’d bought in the Italian countryside. Small things like this would be what she missed when she Ascended. “Unlike Cherubim and Thrones and all the other classes of angels you may have heard about, Memitim are born on Earth and we remain here until we Ascend. And because we’re tied to the earth and this plane, we must feed if we’ve depleted our energy.” Or maybe what Rami said was true; that they fed not because they were bound to this life, but because of who their father was and that Memitim were, in essence, paying for his sins. The sins of the father they all shared, as it were.
“Why are you depleted?”
“Fighting with you, for one,” she said wryly. “Being shot and losing the Primori your mate killed took a lot out of me, too.”
He was silent for a long time, leaving her alone with the throbbing in her head. “Feed from me.”
Her gaze flew up to meet his. “Ah… excuse me?”
“Take my blood.”
Already her teeth were pulsing inside her gums, eager to extend. “Why are you offering?”
“Because you look like you’re going to keel over at any second. And if you starve to death, I’m never getting out of these chains.”
Her belly was practically twisting in anticipation, her mouth was watering, and her fangs punched down. Lore noticed, his gaze going to her parted lips, and she swore she saw a flicker of hunger in his eyes, as well. She squirmed, unsure about this. She’d never taken from a demon before. In fact, she’d always sought out the gentlest, most decent human Primori she could.
When their emotions remained with you, you didn’t want a psychopath’s blood thrumming through your veins.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’ll find someone else—”
“Take it,” he said, and this time his voice was rough. Commanding. “Take whatever you need.” His eyes dropped, and she followed his gaze to his erection. “Take whatever you want.”
“Arrogant bastard,” she muttered, but there was no power behind the words. She wanted his blood, and truth be told, her treasonous body ached for everything he was so boldly offering.
She had to get out of there.
She flashed. Tried to flash. Her body flickered like a dying lightbulb. Oh, sweet Lord, she was stuck. If Kynan were to be attacked right now…
She had to do it. She had to take from Lore, if only to ensure Kynan’s safety. But the thought of drinking from him, of taking lifeblood from his powerful body… it was dangerous. What kind of emotions would stay with her if she drank from an incubus? Already, the very idea had her warming up all over, her thighs clenching and wetness blooming between her legs.
He tilted his head to the side. His muscular neck was exposed, his jugular pulsing strong and steady beneath tan skin.
Just a small taste. A sip. Enough to give her the strength to hunt down a proper host. Decision made, she mounted him, straddling his thighs. She scooted backward in an attempt to avoid intimate contact, but his wicked grin said he wasn’t going to play that way. He lifted his knees to shift her forward, and she nearly gasped at the feel of the hard ridge of his sex against hers.
Damn him. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, so she braced her hands on his shoulders and leaned in. His scent, earthy and bold, ignited a pleasurable hum inside her. Oh, how she needed this.
“It won’t hurt,” she whispered against his skin.
“Not worried about that,” he whispered back.
She told herself that touching him was necessary, that it meant nothing, told herself all kinds of lies as she dragged her tongue up his neck, right along the jugular. His body went taut beneath her, but with anticipation or dread, she didn’t know. She licked again, taking her time, even though she didn’t need to; her first stroke numbed the bite site. No, this second taste was for her, not him, and there was no lying about that.