something. A bite from a stranger. The wanting brush of skin against skin. Sometimes, if the man were clean and reasonably handsome, she would allow his hand under her skirt, but that was rare. She kept her lovers separate from sustenance.
It is not blood; I want to be touched tonight. To feel passion. To surrender to climax.
A carriage rolled by, forcing her shoulder against the limestone wall of a three-story home. A nail jutting from a windowsill snagged her sleeve.
Viviane tugged and cursed as the lace at her elbow tore. She touched her abraded skin and sucked at the bleeding wound. The skin knitted together under her lips, and within a few breaths it had healed.
Moving briskly through an alleyway so tight her shoulders brushed the walls with alternating steps, the darkness overwhelmed. A whisper of wind brushed her ear so tangibly she felt sure someone had touched her.
She would not tolerate an untoward mortal man thinking he could seduce a lone woman this evening—that was an engagement she always controlled. However, if it be a cutthroat, then do follow; she would lure him to an unfortunate result.
Viviane stepped on a moving ropelike bit. Her ankle twisted and upset her footing. The kitten heels were not made for sure balance. Something squeaked. Dread scratched her senses.
“Sacre bleu.”
She could feel them teem about her skirt hem and across her toes. Slithering. Sharp, pin-quick claws. A silent swarm. So suddenly they’d come upon her. Had she wandered into a nest?
Odor of rot assaulted the soft tissues in her throat. Terror lifted in her belly. The intensity of her racing pulse hurt her ribs. Her shoulders dropped against the wall. Eyelids fluttered.
“No,” pealed from her mouth. “Please, I, cannot …”
Disgust and fear consumed her bravado. An agonizing moan keened from her lungs. Yet Viviane could not cry out for the scream lodged in her throat, clinging as if for safety from the horrible creatures.
Too many of them. The horde rattled.
Which way had she come?
Tiny fangs pierced her ankle. Viviane shook her leg violently. Her skirts hampered movement. The satin corset constricted. She lost balance and slapped a palm to something hard. Should she faint—
“I have you.” A man’s voice.
Lifted from the ground, her senses blurred. The something hard she’d grasped to steady herself was a man’s chest. She gripped him about the neck, trapping a ponytail tied with ribbon under her fingers. Earthy scent. Subtle vampiric vibrations shimmered under her palm.
Strong and focused, he carried her through the darkness.
Aware. So aware of his breath playing across her décolletage.
The heartbeat against her breast pounded steadily. He held her as if a child, secure in his arms. Viviane recognized his scent. Not a stranger.
Nor a friend.
Sacre bleu, she had fallen into his arms?
“You’re safe,” he whispered. “It’s over.”
He set her down. Clinging but a moment longer to his coat shoulders, Viviane ducked her forehead against his neck. Safe here. Nothing to fear.
Still she could feel rats teeming about her ankles. A prick of fang— She lifted a foot and slid it along her leg.
“No more of them,” he comforted. “I promise. They swarmed over a dog carcass at the end of the alley. I could smell it. You couldn’t have known.”
“I … hate them.” Humiliating, she could not find her breath or stand and face him calmly. But the memory …
The bodies of her parents’ victims, left behind after the Order had slain her parents. The dead mortals had not been buried, for she was too young to manage digging a grave. Swarming with rats.
“I don’t like rats much myself. They are filthy creatures.”
He stroked the hair from her cheek. The touch was rough, his flesh not smooth, unlike Constantine’s soft, thin fingers. Viviane clasped his hand. She closed her eyes and held him there at her cheek. Chase away the memories. Concentrate on his warmth until she recovered her breath and tendered her confidence.
He was too close, too intimate with her. So wrong.
She did not care. Could not think beyond the safe feeling. It wasn’t wrong to take comfort, was it? She didn’t know. Rarely had she received the like. He must think her weak.
“Are you well, my lady? Tell me you were not harmed? Bitten?”
“Yes, a few bites.” Healed now, surely. “So awful. There were too many. I did not hear them until it was too late.”
Still gasping for breath, Viviane followed the stroke of her fingers down the front of his frockcoat. Simple pearl buttons wobbled on threads in need of tightening. The coat was old, a comfortable piece. He was not a Nava tribe member then, for they deemed a man worthy by not only his unbaptized state, but as well by his dress and aristocratic bearing.
The observation distracted her, and she needed that. Breaths settled. And her heartbeat resumed a normal pace.
His scent, earthy and rich, like a wide-open meadow or a vast, enclosed forest, appealed. Complex. Not dusty or perfumed as so many of her kind preferred.
Realizing her fangs had lowered she willed them up. Tucking her head, Viviane chastised her body’s irrational reaction. Anxiety always put her to defensive mode.
Yet so did desire.
“I thought you were Constantine.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“I am not disappointed.”
“Pleased?” he asked hopefully.
“No.” She wobbled, grasping for the wall.
Rhys Hawkes pressed his body against her, hugging her from breast to hip. It was a lover’s easy pose. His eyes held hers and he bowed to her. Would he kiss her? Dare he?
“We stand outside your home.”
For the first time she realized the wall behind her shoulder was the Chevalier stable. Truly her mind was out of sorts.
“I would escort you inside,” Rhys said, “but fear the invitation will not be offered.”
He slid a hand down her thigh—she’d forgone underskirts for the hunt; much quieter that way—and bent to squat before her. His hand moved over her shoe, tied with red moire ribbon, and up her ankle. Though she wore silk stockings, it felt as if his skin touched hers. Warmth burnished her flesh. He could wrap his whole palm about her ankle, contain her, control her—
Viviane realized he was feeling for the bites, not trying to accost her.
“I
