Jeanne Stein - Chosen

I groan a little and try to move away. “Lance, wait. We need to talk about—”

The words die on my lips.

He’s smoothing the hair away from my neck, nuzzling my earlobe, tracing his tongue along my chin line. The tremor starts in my core, heating my blood, sending sparks of arousal to every part of my body.

I’m lost. In the rhythm of Lance’s heartbeat. In the feel of his lips at my neck. When he opens the vein, starts to drink, the world is reduced to tactile pleasure. His hand slips between my legs, his fingers begin their persuasive and skillful exploration, his penis throbs against my skin.

I don’t want him to stop. I moan and push back against him, urging him on, until I can control it no longer.

The first waves of orgasm come quickly. I want him inside me. I push him away, feel the skin on my neck tear as we reverse positions. Blood trickles down my breasts. I don’t care. I’m on top, guiding him between my legs, forcing him deep inside, opening his neck. His blood is what I want. Blood that tastes of Malibu and the sun and me and—

The host from last night.

She’s there and I want to drink her in. Lance had her. I want to have her, too. She tastes like good wine and expensive perfume. Her blood rolls over my tongue and down my throat but as much as I drink, I can’t rid him of her. Not completely.

Anna, stop.

Lance’s voice from far away.

No.

I burrow my mouth closer to his neck, continue to drink, impervious to everything except the need to drain him of this woman’s blood.

Lance grabs a handful of my hair, yanks hard, pulling my head away from his neck.

I fight it, fight him, lunge again for his neck. She’s still there. Still running through his veins. I want her out.

He flings me back on the bed. His hand is at his neck. Blood runs between his fingers, down his chest, soaking sheets and blankets. His eyes are wild, questioning, afraid.

Anna. Heal me.

For an instant I stare at him, uncomprehending. The animal disappears when the human Anna grasps what she’s seeing. My stomach lurches.

What have I done?

Lance. I’m sorry.

I reach for him and he hesitates only a second, searching my face, assuring himself that he recognizes the human, before bending near me, allowing me to close my lips around the jagged wound in his neck. This time, I’m not drinking, not taking in blood, but sucking gently to repair the damage. The artery mends, the skin knits closed. The angry flush of my assault fades as I watch.

But Lance is pale, weak. I drained too much blood.

What have I done?

I open a vein in my wrist with my teeth and hold it to his lips. He grabs my hand and sucks at the dripping blood eagerly. He’s like a starved animal. He drinks until the color returns to his flesh.

Then he stops.

He stops.

He wipes his hand across his mouth and without hesitating, brings my hand once more to his lips to close the wound. Then he bends his head to my neck and I feel the rush of cells regenerating, of skin renewing itself.

When he’s done, we both sink back on the bed. Instead of the pleasure of coupling, we’re drained, exhausted and confused. I feel it in Lance as strongly as in myself.

I had questions for Lance. I imagine now he’ll have questions for me. But nothing he asks can be as disturbing as the questions I have for myself.

A shudder of disgust racks my body. We’re lying close, but not touching. I’m afraid to touch him. Afraid he might pull away.

I’ve never lost control like that. Never felt the bloodlust so strongly I didn’t know when to stop. I’m embarrassed and ashamed, hiding it behind a curtain of carefully guarded thoughts. I want to say it out loud, admit it to Lance, but the truth is too damning to drag into the light. I was jealous. Jealous of a mortal woman. Jealous of the woman who may very well have saved Lance’s life.

Lance breaks the silence first.

“I should never have brought you here.”

His simple declaration fuels my shame. He blames himself.

Not what I expected. Not what I deserve. My shoulders tense, a second tremor of disgust raises bile in my throat. I open my mouth to object and he puts a finger over my lips.

I didn’t know he would be in town. Stupid. I should have asked Adele when I talked to her. I didn’t think.

A thousand questions present themselves, but the most important thing I can say now is the truth. You’re here because of me. Because of that thing that attacked me in my garage. You’re here because you were helping me. None of this is your fault.

Lance doesn’t answer. His mind is troubled; he is unconvinced. I take his chin in my hand, turn his face toward mine. We have to talk about Julian. Why did he attack you last night? Why did you let him?

Lance releases a long breath. He doesn’t try to pull away, but he doesn’t meet my eyes, either. Julian is my sire. I owe him.

Owe him? I think of the animal who sired me—Donaldson—who never planned to turn me, only to rape and kill. Somehow the idea of owing a sire anything is as repugnant as it is ludicrous.

I sit up in bed, pull a corner of the bloodstained sheet up and shake it in Lance’s face. Julian is the reason this happened. What the hell is going on? He’s more than vampire. He possesses magic. How?

Lance sits up, too, leans against the headboard. He claims his mortal mother was a gypsy, his father a warlock. He’s been vampire nearly five hundred years.

A warlock? I flash on Belinda Burke and her sister, Sophie. Both witches, the female equivalent. The black magic witch of the pair, Belinda, I killed with my own hands. Magic is passed along in the genes like bone structure and eye color. That explains the magic, though I didn’t know it was possible for a warlock to become vampire. Two incredibly potent creatures combined in one. Leads me to the next question.

How did he become vampire?

This time there is no hesitation. Lance begins to talk as if sharing the story might lessen the burden of his guilt.

He was born in Labourd in Basque in the sixteenth century, during the time of the Spanish Inquisition. His father was burned at the stake as a Sorginak witch. His mother barely escaped to Italy with her own life and the child. But when he was sixteen, plague hit her village. She died within a few days. Julian was left to die, too. That’s when he was “rescued” by a mysterious stranger who restored him to life and took him to live in Eastern Europe.

Lance releases a breath, looks away, then back at me. You’re not going to believe who he claims sired him.

Let me guess. Vlad. Dracula. Who else would such an egomaniac claim as his sire?

Lance’s eyebrows shoot up. How did you know?

If Lance’s expression weren’t so serious, I’d be laughing. You are kidding, right?

He shakes his head. No. And he seems to be able to back it up. He has documents that date back to the fourteenth century, given to him, he claims, by Vlad.

Now I do laugh. How could you believe that crap? Is that how he seduced you? What was going on in your life that would make you vulnerable enough to fall for such bullshit?

Lance tenses. Anger shadows his eyes and tightens his mouth. He pushes away from me and swings his legs out of bed.

I’m immediately sorry for the outburst. Truth is I know nothing about the circumstances of Lance’s becoming. I was taken without my consent. Perhaps he was, too. I watch him as he disappears into the bathroom. He slams the door shut and I hear the shower. He’s back in a few minutes dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I jump out of bed and step in front of him before he reaches the door.