Venice Vampyr - The Beginning

The shot echoed in the alley just as Dante slammed his body into Viola and simultaneously jerked the pistol from her hand. They crashed onto the cobblestone street, Dante landing on top of her. He instantly rolled off her, but she didn’t move.

His sensitive nostrils picked up the scent of her blood immediately. “No!” he screamed. He’d come too late. When he’d seen her standing there under the gas lamp, he’d hesitated to approach her. He hadn’t figured out what to say to her. Too late had he seen the pistol in her hand. Only when she’d lifted it to her temple had he reacted and started to run.

Dante looked at the wound on Viola’s head, pushing away the hunger for her blood at the same time. He should be ashamed of himself. Even now, with blood oozing from her head, he wanted nothing more than to taste her. He shook the thought off like a dog shook his pelt free of water.

Hesitantly, he smoothed his hand over the wound, wiping away the blood, afraid of what he’d find. But his fingers didn’t encounter a gaping wound. On the contrary, all he felt was an abrasion. It was bleeding mildly. He bent his head closer, training his eyes on the wound. The gas lamp provided some light; his superior night vision compensated for the rest.

There was no hole. The bullet had only grazed her, and most likely the violent way with which he’d knocked her to the ground had made her faint. Dante pressed his hand to her chest and felt for her heartbeat, even though he could hear it. But he needed to reassure himself. Instinctively, his hand moved, cupping one breast. He jerked it away from her.

Gods, he was so depraved, he’d even fondle an unconscious, injured woman. His stomach growled, the scent of her sweet blood assaulting his senses. There was no use, as long as she bled, even slightly, from her head wound, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else. He brought his lips to her wound and licked over it with one single swipe of his tongue, forcing himself to pull back from her immediately.

His saliva closed the wound and healed the skin, but he took no notice of it. He was too distracted by the taste of her on his tongue. Her blood was sweet and rich just like he’d expected, but there was another taste in it, and he couldn’t determine what it was. It seemed foreign, just the way her scent had struck him as foreign when he’d first inhaled it at the club. Dante shook his head. His mind was probably addled, his senses not clear given the shock he’d been dealt.

Viola had tried to kill herself because of what he’d done to her.

Had he been such a cad? Maybe he wasn’t any better than Salvatore. At least the wounds Salvatore left on women were visible and would heal over time, but the wounds he’d left on this innocent woman were internal. He hadn’t seen just how much he’d hurt her. But he had hurt her—so badly that she’d wanted to take solace in death.

The knowledge hit him in the gut. She’d tried to take her life minutes after she’d left his bed, minutes after he’d accused her of lying and trying to trap him. Minutes after he’d been inside her, had physically hurt her. She’d wanted to leave this world with the misconception that sex was a terrible thing, that it hurt women. And that he was a terrible lover.

That particular knowledge hit his ego.

No woman he’d been with had ever done this—at least he hoped not. He’d always tried to make sure the women he fucked enjoyed themselves. Frankly, it was more fun for him if they did. But Viola—he’d disappointed her so badly that she couldn’t even bear to go on living. What did that make him? More than just a bad lover—it made him an accomplice in her death. And that was one thing he didn’t want to be.

Yes, he’d killed—but those had been men who’d threatened his life or that of his fellow vampires. He’d never killed an innocent, and he wasn’t about to start now. He needed to convince the woman who still lay unconscious on the cobblestones that life was worth living. And that sex was worth having. Again and again and again.

Knowing what he had to do, he put the pistol in his coat pocket and gathered Viola in his arms. He barely felt her weight as he carried her the fifteen minutes it took to reach his home.

Lights were ablaze when he entered, and voices and laughter drifted to him through the open door of the parlor.

“Dante?” his brother Raphael called out to him.

“Not now.” Dante headed for the stairs, but his brother was already at the door and stepped into the foyer.

“Rumor has it you had a fight at the—” His brother interrupted him. “Did you have to bring dinner home? I thought we’d discussed—”

Dante swiveled and faced his brother. “She’s not dinner.” He was surprised at the defensive tone in his own voice.

“I smell blood.”

“She’s injured.”

Behind him, Isabella emerged. “What’s going on?” His sister-in-law looked as ravishing as ever. Dante noticed how Raphael instantly took her hand in his. Honeymooners, Dante grumbled internally.

“Nothing. I’m merely helping an injured woman.”