to make her scream, and he did. With his hard thrusts, with the ruthless lunge of his groin against hers, with his low, ragged growls and the harsh rush of his breath against her ear. Her bottom slapped against him, her cheeks shimmering with each bounce. Her breasts danced in front of her—until he clasped them and tugged on her nipples, twisting them until she begged him to stop…
Then begged for more.
“Come.” He said it as a command. She was at the precipice, wound up like a spring, like a keg of gunpowder awaiting the sizzle of the fuse. And on that word, she burst.
Sheer pleasure took command, and all she could do was surrender her body to the intense, wonderful wash of it. She cried out, cried out to heaven above, let her head fall forward and back, until she was dizzy with the ecstasy.
He held her through her wild dance, chuckling gently by her ear. Then the pulses of her wet quim began to ease and she could finally drag in a desperate breath. Sweat drenched her.
Something cold touched her skin.
Cool and sharp, something that felt like a knife’s blade ran along the side of her neck, from her jaw to the lobe of her ear.
Miranda froze in horror. It was not a knife. The flash of white in the mirror stole her breath.
Fangs lapped over Blackthorne’s lips. She could not see his mouth—it was too dark, but moonlight glimmered on his two long, curved teeth, like those on a wolf. It wasn’t possible.
But on some nights she had dreamed of demons chasing her; she’d imagined pounding feet and animal-like growls, and powerful hands reaching for her.
Oh God, she was sliding into one of those dreams. She shook helplessly. She didn’t want to dream of demons now. She wanted this luxurious erotic dream. For one night, she wanted to be free of fear.
She blinked and his fangs were gone.
“Not tonight, my love,” he murmured. “It is not the night to make you mine. Not yet.”
Make you mine. But what did he mean about biting? The shadows seemed to be swallowing the air around her. She wanted to wake up. It wasn’t real—it was just a dream. But she could smell her sweat and his. The tangy aroma of his seed rose from between her thighs. She felt damp, sticky, and sore. All those sensations seemed more real than a pinch to her arm.
How could it feel so real when she was asleep?
The window flew wide on a clatter of glass panes and creaking wooden frame. “Goodness!” She almost jumped out of her skin. Darkness rushed inside as though the night air was pouring into the room.
No, not darkness. In her dream, everything she saw seemed distorted and confused. She didn’t even know what room she was in. She now saw the walls surrounding her were stone. Embroidered tapestries hung upon them. Could she be dreaming of Blackthorne’s castle?
A man now stood in front of the window, inside the room. Another naked man with golden hair that fell past his shoulders. He was erect, ready to take her.
Her dream lover held her shoulders and turned her to face the man who had—who had just flown in through the window.
His golden hair flew around him, shielding his face. His voice seemed to thrum in her blood. “Until you learn about the power of three, you are in mortal danger, Miss Bond.”
She was afraid now. Wake up. Wake up! Miranda shouted it in her head, but she was trapped in the shadowed room, imprisoned by the hands on her shoulders.
“What is the power of three?” she demanded. She yelled it, hoping it would snap her free of her dream. Dreamers never died, did they? They fell but never reached the ground. They might be struck, or shot, or be drowning, but they woke before the end.
Didn’t they?
A sharp, sudden pain ripped into her neck. Screams filled the room and flew out into the night. The screams belonged to her. She could see her body and realized she was floating in the top of the room, just below the ceiling. Her arms and legs were stretched wide, her hair streamed back like a cape, and she coasted on the cool air wafting in through the window.
But she was looking down on herself below, as though she were soaring over her body. The golden-haired man prowled toward her below. Her mouth was wide open in a shriek, but she could hear no sound. His erection wobbled in front of him, reflecting moonlight. Naked, defined by the hard bulges and curves of solid muscle, his body seemed to glow blue-white within the shadows.
He tipped his head up and fangs shot out of his mouth.
He bent to her neck and she felt a dull ripple of pain as she saw his canines penetrate her neck below. Air currents began to spin her. She slowly circled and watched as two demons drank the blood from her body, gulping hungrily, making low moans of appreciation.
Wake up. Wake up.
She was sinking back to her body now, losing blood and growing weak. If she didn’t wake up, she would die—
The golden-haired man lifted from her neck. “Now, angel, we take your power. And make you ours for eternity.”
“We know what you are, Miranda,” the other man murmured behind her. “A witch.”
On a fierce scream, she bolted upright. A heavy fur throw slid down her lap, and the world lurched drastically to the left. Miranda pitched against the side of a moving room but struck softness. A clattering sound, rhythmic but jarring, hammered into her brain. Somewhere, horses gave muffled whinnies.
She was in her carriage, or rather, one of her brother’s carriages. Her corset clamped her lungs, dug into her ribs, and prevented her from taking a deep breath. Lace along her neckline itched, her skirts were tangled around her legs, and her feet throbbed hotly in her tightly laced half boots.
She was alive. Alive and alone. And safe.
It had all been a dream. Thank heaven.
“I am not a witch,” she shouted aloud to the empty carriage. But she was shaking, despite the fierce way she was hugging herself.
Two weeks ago, she had written down her plan to save her impoverished brother and his wife by racing to Lord Blackthorne and convincing him to marry her. How trivial poverty seemed now.
The day after she’d made her plans, a vampire slayer named James Ryder had come to her brother’s house. Like her Aunt Eugenia, Ryder was a member of the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena. And once he began to ask her questions, she realized he knew of her special power.
Aunt Eugenia had warned her never to tell anyone—not even the Royal Society. So she had pretended not to understand him and had played a vapor-brained twit until he’d left in frustration.
But Ryder had come upon her in the park.
You are a demon. Or a witch, he’d said. Only an evil, otherworldly being can possess the power of magic. And as a slayer, it is my sworn duty to destroy you.
The intense, almost fanatical fire in his blue eyes had terrified her. It certainly proved she wasn’t a woman to swoon—she’d never had a better reason to faint. But she’d stayed on her feet, determined to fight for her life. She had blustered
