Page 50 of Fangs

“Again,” he demands. “You’re going to come on my cock until you can’t think.”

He drives me higher a second time, a third.

He is insatiable. My body is no longer my own. It belongs to the rhythm of his hips, the dirty praise, the constant threat of his fangs. Shadows hold me exactly where he wants me.

At last his control fractures.

“Lucy—” My name is a snarl. He thrusts deeper than before, his cock pulses hard. At the same instant his fangs sink into the side of my throat.

The dual sensation detonates through me. His seed floods my spasming cunt in hot, heavy spurts while the first swallow of my blood pulls a fresh, violent orgasm from my body. I convulse beneath him, screaming against his shoulder, every muscle locked in pure, overwhelming pleasure as he drinks and comes and claims me in the same endless moment.

He doesn’t t stop drinking until the last tremor leaves me. Only then does he withdraw his fangs, seal the wounds with a slow drag of his tongue, and collapse over me, still half buried inside my trembling body.

The candles burn low. The library is silent except for my ragged breathing and the soft, satisfied sound he makes against my throat.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “My perfect, filthy good girl.”

I can only hold on to him and try to remember how to exist in a world where this is real.

The Dark One

POV BLAKE

Itaste her still.

The memory of Lucille’s blood coats my tongue like honeyed wine, rich and ancient and utterly intoxicating. It courses through my veins now, a river of fire that thaws three thousand years of ice. My fingers curl into fists, and I feel the strength in them—solid, real, mine. The shadows answer my call with eager obedience. They wrap around me like a second skin, carrying me through the manor’s walls, through the ceiling, through the very fabric of this cursed house.

I am everywhere. I am nowhere. I am watching.

Cain’s chambers materialize through the darkness. He sits at his desk, oblivious, his back to me. His shoulders are hunched, his movements furtive. In his hands, he clutches a bedsheet—pale fabric stained with rust-colored evidence of Lucille’s heat.

I watch him bring the fabric to his face. Watch his nostrils flare. Watch his eyes roll back as he inhales her scent.

He is licking it.

The sheet. Her blood. He has been doing this for hours. I know this with the certainty of a predator tracking its prey. He has been sneaking into her room, sniffing out every trace of her cycle, and savoring it like a fine vintage.

Pathetic.

I could kill him. Right now. My shadows could tear him apart before he draws his next breath. The urge surges through me—violent.

I force myself still.

A knock at the door.

Cain jerks upright, shoving the sheet into a ceramic jar. Herbs spill out—sage, rosemary, something bitter that masks the copper tang. He smooths his clothes, schools his features.

“Enter.”

Francis strides into the chamber, features hewn from granite, his dead eyes calculating. He dispenses with pleasantries.

“The Order is coming,” he says, his voice tight. “Fifty-two of our highest commanders. They believe we are under attack.”

Cain’s expression flickers. “Attack? From whom?”

Francis paces, agitation bleeding through his controlled facade. “The Resistance. They are tampering with the vampires locked in the portrait art collection.

“Amateurs playing with ancient cages?” Cain shakes his head. “They know nothing of the true architecture of curses.”