Michele Hauf - Her Vampire Husband

“As did you. But do you really think this is going to work?” She patted the bottom of her hair with a palm and pouted coyly. “That we’ll fall madly in love and set an example that will bring the werewolves and vampires together in some kind of freaky lovefest? Come on, Credence.”

He did not care to hear his name spoken that way. The memories it stirred would only hamper his need to remain staunch and in control.

“Madly in love?” He pressed a hand to the door over her shoulder and leaned in. The move put her off, which pleased him. Come on, princess, you’re not allowed to tease without retaliation. “At this very moment, I can’t imagine that happening unless hell turns to ice. You, Lady Saint-Pierre, are standoffish, spoiled and contrary.”

“And you are an aristocratic bore.”

“Uneducated,” he countered.

“Old.”

“Uncouth.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

He smiled. “Ill-mannered.”

“Ah. I’ll take that one. And I’ll counter with dull and uninteresting.”

Did she really want to play this game? Because he’d show her how far from dull he could get.

Creed slid a hand over the sparkling choker caressing her neck, fitting his fingers up under her chin. Her eyes flashed defiantly. A bit of the faery dust had nestled at the corner of her eye, glinting mischievously.

“Tease,” he countered softly.

“You like it though.”

That glint in her eyes would be his undoing. It challenged, bedeviled and defied with a knowing he thought her too young to possess.

“I prefer my women to follow through with their promises.”

“I’ve promised nothing,” she said.

“You promised to honor and obey me.”

“ Obey was not in the vows. Trust me on that one, buddy.”

Now he smoothed his hand under her jaw. The jut of her chin was sharp. Every bone stood out, defining, creating remarkable dimensions to explore. Her flesh was soft, warm, alive. And beneath the flesh, her blood smelled darkly sweet, a wicked perfume.

“You had better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking, longtooth.”

The demeaning curse should not go without a swift slap.

Though he wasn’t taken to harming females, some could only be controlled with physical coercion. Like witches. And others. He’d once worked with a female vampire bounty hunter in the fifteenth century. She’d liked it rough.

But Creed had made a vow. And he had meant it when he’d promised her father he’d protect his daughter, and ensure no harm came to her. Some things in war and love were never fair game.

So instead, Creed leaned in for a kiss.

She was quick, sliding her fingers over her lips before he could make contact.

Creed tugged her hand away. She struggled, and because he didn’t trust his strength, he conceded, flinging back her arm and stepping away.

Pacing before her, he looked to the carpeting, not wanting to show her his defeat.

“You’ve already stolen one kiss from me,” she said, defiance brightening her tone. “The rest should be earned. If you can earn them, I’ll be more than willing to give them.”

And she slipped inside the guest room and slammed the door.

Creed fisted his fingers at the door. A nasty condemnation slid across his tongue, but he gave it no voice.

Turning and stomping down the hallway, he threw open the door to his bedroom.

“Green-haired wench,” he muttered. “Thought I’d had to deal with the last of your kind in the sixteen hundreds.”

BLU TRACED A FINGER along the stainless steel kitchen countertop. Cold, precise, engineered for maximum inhospitality.

Much like her new husband.

The glass-fronted cabinets displayed many crystal goblets, snifters and shot glasses—and only a few plates. The wine fridge was as big as the regular refrigerator. She peered at the labels on the wine bottles. Some bottles had hand-printed labels and the years were from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries. She was no expert, but did know some rare wines sold for tens of thousands of dollars.

“Nice. Bet he’d throw a fit if I tapped into one of those.”

Much as she’d like to witness a vampire conniption, wine didn’t interest her; she needed food. Sustenance. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday noon. Her prenuptial nervous stomach hadn’t allowed her to do more than nibble. Now her stomach growled like a banshee.

She opened the fridge door and gaped at the bleak interior. “What? You have got to be kidding me.”

“ Bonjour, my new wife.”

She spun to find Creed leaning against the counter. She hadn’t heard him enter. Bad werewolf. She should have smelled him the moment he came down the stairs in the other room. Vampires had a vivid scent, earthy and yet refined, perhaps a little sweet.

Damn, she was off. It was the house. It was filled with new and odd smells. And it was so open and vast. She couldn’t acclimate.

Or it might be nerves still.

“You’ve no food,” she complained.

“Never had a need for it.” He stared at her head, a curious grin toying with his expression.

“Yeah? Well, I require food to survive. I’m famished.”

“I’ll send Housekeeper out for something. What do you like?”

“Anything edible. Preferably meat, fruits and veggies. A nice porterhouse steak would fit the bill. You seriously don’t eat? Must save on the grocery bills. Please tell me you don’t have a fridge with bags of blood in here somewhere. That would so make me retch.”

“Wouldn’t want to see that. Though now that you’ve put the unsavory image in my brain it’s stuck there.”

“You’re welcome.”

She closed the fridge door and turned to face him, crossing her arms over her stomach. Now she scented him strongly. Dark, spicy, brewed together with some kind of masculine musk.

“And just so you know,” he added, “I don’t do bagged blood. It must be warm and have a heartbeat.”

“Peachy. Thank you for that image.”

That pleased him enough to grant her a lift of brow. “Turnabout is fair play, and all that.”

She’d give him the point. But only because he wasn’t so awful to look at during the day, even though the shades were pulled on all the windows, reducing the daylight to a dim mire. Hair blacker than the dress she’d worn last night feathered about his face. Eyes equally dark studied her curiously.

“What’s wrong, vamp? You’re staring again.”

“Your hair.” He gestured, his fingers tracing a loose circle between the two of them, but gave up trying to figure it out. “Yesterday it was…and now it’s…”

“It’s called violet. You like it?”

Head tilting, he seemed to search for something nice to say, but decided silence was best.

A shake of her head swung Blu’s shoulder-length violet bob. The long bangs that dusted her eyelashes tangled in the silken strands and she blew upward to disperse them.

“I think it’s one of my better colors,” she said perkily. “Goes with the skirt, too.”

He studied her plaid pleated miniskirt, drawing his eyes the length of her legs, where she twisted the ball of one foot on the floor. She was barefoot, the only way to go when not out partying.

“You’re quite a loud dresser, aren’t you?”

“Loud?” Blu chuckled heartily. “This is but a whisper, buddy. And it’s me, take it or leave it. I like to play with my looks. You don’t like it? I don’t much care. Now where’s the housekeeper? What’s her name?”

“Housekeeper.”

“Yeah. What’s her name, and I’ll go tell her what kinds of food I like.”

“Housekeeper,” he stated again. “That’s what I call her.”