Anya Bast - Witch Blood

Outwardly to the non-magickal world, Stefan was a benevolent social icon, known for his goodwill and his generosity. In reality, as head of the Duskoff Cabal, the violent little club warlocks kept, he pillaged and plundered his way through witches as though they were his personal stockyard, slaughtering here and there when he felt like it.

Like any sociopath worth his salt, Stefan was a charming, handsome monster. The world should thank her for what she was about to do, even though she’d had to turn her back on the Coven Rede to accomplish it.

He leaned in toward her, burying his nose in the curve of her neck and sliding a hand past the hem of her short, black Versace. “We’re finally alone,” he whispered, “as you requested.” The car pulled forward, rocking her against his body.

She tilted his face to hers and kissed him, pressing herself into the curve of his body. She cupped his groin through his black pants and felt his hardness. “So we are.”

“Then why so shy? Tonight you will not escape me, Isabelle,” he breathed against her skin with his smooth French accent.

Part of her plan had been to tease him sexually. It had been a little like taunting a starving tiger with a slab of meat, but she’d been successful. It had hooked him, made him want her more…and allowed her limited intimate contact with him. A definite plus.

She raised an eyebrow. “I think it’s you who won’t escape me , Stefan.” If only he knew. She unbuttoned his pants. “Take them off.”

He grasped the hem of her skirt. “You first,” he purred.

“Noooo, you,” she shot back coyly.

He shook his head. “Take off your dress for me, Isabelle.” His voice held a thread of steel and his eyes had a brutally cold glint in them.

Her sly, sexy smile faltered. Damn it! This was not going the way she’d envisioned it. In her head, she’d been fully clothed when she brought him down. Having no choice unless she wanted to raise suspicion, she allowed him to draw her dress over her head, leaving her in only a lacy red bra and panty set and her shoes.

“Mmm,” he murmured in appreciation right before he pressed his lips to the swell of her breast. Oh, yeech. Yeech, yeech, yeech!

She yanked him forward by the waistband of his pants and kissed him roughly, biting his lower lip hard. He jerked a little and she tasted blood. “Off now,” she commanded.

“I adore a woman who likes it a little rough.”

Then he’d love her.

He slipped his shoes and pants off. She glanced down and lifted a brow as if in sexual anticipation. He gave her a cocky smile, the smile of a man who’s sure he’s about to get laid. How wrong could he be? He was about to find out. She reached out and took him in her hand.

And she squeezed. Hard.

AT THE SAME TIME, SHE FLOODED HER BODY WITHmagick. It exploded from the center of her chest with a warm pulse. Power shot down her arm, centering in her fingers. They tingled and twitched as she fought to retain the heavy burst of emotion-drenched magick. The water in his groin responded instantly to her will, the molecules jumping to do her bidding. They grew cold, then even colder.

Stefan’s eyes bulged out of his head and shock took his expression from arousal to terror in under a quarter second. A soundless scream erupted from his mouth, his lips forming an O of unvoiced pain.

“I thought you liked it rough, Stefan?” she asked through gritted teeth. She had him right where she wanted him. She’d known she’d had to get him by the balls…literally. There was no other way to trap a warlock as powerful as he was. She’d needed to get close enough to get him in a susceptible position, without his hired muscle present, make him let down his guard and then take advantage of his vulnerability.

She squeezed the soft flesh of that vulnerability in her hand a little tighter. “Awww…not having fun? I’m sorry.” She twisted until he gasped. “ Really. ”

Stefan made a gurgling noise somewhere in his throat.

“Does it frighten you to stare into the eyes of your own mortality, Stefan? Do you ever wonder what happens to us when we die? Do we blink out like a light, or do we live on?” She paused, tilting her head to the side. “Is death only another life? Hmm…what do you think?”

“I don’t…know,” he gritted out.

“I think you’re about to find out.”

“Who…are you?” His lips formed the words, but there wasn’t enough breath to give them life. She eased up a little. He’d pass out otherwise and it was too soon for that.

“That is not the relevant question at this juncture. The real question is about Angela, Stefan.”

Confusion clouded his eyes.

Oh, that was the wrong answer. Power flared down her arm, making her fingers ache. His head snapped back in pain and she forcibly eased up on him.

“Angela?” he gasped.

“Angela Novak. The last witch murdered by your demon.” She clamped down harder. “You can’t even remember her name?”

His lips peeled back in a grimace. “Not…my…demon.”

“Well, no. Maybe not technically. Your father, William Crane, raised the demon that killed Angela. Crane and his minions. But your father is dead and you’ve taken his place at the head of the Duskoff. The Duskoff is the reason the demon exists in this dimension. Therefore, the Duskoff is responsible for Angela’s death and the death of Melina Andersen, the first witch the demon killed.”

“But I wasn’t with the Duskoff then.”

“Oh, spare me. You’ve done enough horrible things to warrant this, Stefan, and don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t raise another demon if you could.”

“No,” he whispered, his head falling back from the pain.

“No? What do you mean, Stefan? Wasn’t it you who was going to sacrifice those four witches last winter to pull a demon through? If it wasn’t for the Coven, you would have succeeded. That alone makes you deserving of punishment.” She cocked her head to the side. “And aside from all that, what about Naomi Nelson, that earth witch you roasted when you were eighteen? What about Robin Taylor—”

He pulled his head forward and focused on her. “I can help you. Help…help find the demon. Right the…wrong.”

He was making bargains now, was he? How dare he try.

She opened her mouth to respond, but heat flared white-hot against her palm. They both cried out in pain. Isabelle snatched her scorched hand away. Damn it, she’d lost focus for a moment and he’d taken control from her.

Stefan rolled to the side, his hand between his legs, cupping his privates. Her hand hurt like she’d been holding it over a flame, but he had to be in more agony than she was. He’d burned himself in a very sensitive place in order to unseat her.

Isabelle raised power as fast as she could, despite the pain. The air crackled as Stefan also drew magick to defend himself. In the same moment, the entire limo lurched to the side. Isabelle slammed against the opposite seat and cried out as her back twisted. The limo came to a swerving, squealing, smoke-under-the-tires halt. She fell to the floor of the limo, her face contorting from the pain searing down her leg and through her lower back.

She glanced up through her tangled dark red hair, seeing Stefan kneeling on the floor of the vehicle in front of her, looking as though he might retch. Outside the sounds of boots pounding on pavement and shouting reached her ears.

Fighting through the discomfort, she resumed drawing magick and directed it at Stefan. Sensing the swift buildup within the confines of the limo, his head snapped up and he also tapped power. The air snapped with electricity from their combined efforts. It was a magickical showdown and they were both battling through injuries.