Page 67 of Immortal Bastard (The Order of Vampires)

Fury hissed from her pores. “Good. I hope it’s excruciating.”

“Another lie.”

She looked for something else to throw at him, but there was nothing in this simplistic hell hole of a room. Tears stung her eyes as frustration choked her. Disarmed and dejected, she whispered, “Get out.”

“No. Distance is not the answer—” The moment he touched her she went ballistic, punching and clawing.

“I said get out! I don’t want to look at you! I don’t want to hear your voice! You make me sick! I hate you! I hate you!”

He caught her wrists and stilled her body as the fury built into a volcanic rage. Jerking her arms left then right, she tried to break his hold as she spewed every turbulent thought she had at him.

“You stole my life! You’re erasing me!” Crazed and vicious, disdain exploded out of her until she exhausted herself trying to escape his hold. “I hate you,” she panted, defeated and out of steam.

He collected her in his arms. “Do you feel better now?”

His lips pressed to her hair as he hugged her tight. She hated how much she relied on his physical bolstering. She ached to collapse into an unconscious heap on the floor, desperate to escape the turmoil overwhelming her, but he forced her to face it. He held her when every part of her felt like breaking, proving his vow never to let her go.

“I promise you, pintura, this change will bring more good than evil.”

Mentally she wanted to stop fighting, but self-preservation forbade it. With a jolt of impassioned rage, she shoved him and his grip once again tightened.

He met the fire in her eyes with blazing preparedness. In that single, silent glance, he reminded her that he was older, stronger, and determined to get his way.

She despised him. “Fuck. You.”

In a dizzying twist, he slammed her back into the wall, pinning her arms over her head and grinding his hard body against hers. “Is that what you want?”

The distraction of his fury felt better than her pain and she shamefully moaned, sinking her weight into him. “Fuck you,” she repeated, whispering the words through clenched teeth.

“Your filthy language only makes me think of all the filthy things I want to do to you. Filthy things I will do.”

Need softened her clenched muscles as he ground his body into her. Any pleasure was defused by an instant chaser of shame.

A gravelly purr emanated from his chest as an intoxicating scent surrounded him, luring her in. Body lax with desire, she slipped further into his hold. Sweet relief threatened to overtake her the closer she came to surrender.

How could the target of her anger dissolve her fury so easily, especially when there had been so much? Tears welled in her eyes. There was something greater than her pride at play. “I’ll never stop hating you.” She trembled with emotion. Certain that, in the end, she’d only hate herself more for giving in to him.

“Delilah, your hate I can handle. It’s your indifference that guts me.” His hold gentled and he caressed her cheek.

She shut her eyes, self-loathing making her own traitorous presence unbearable.

“Don’t cry, pintura. There’s no need for this pain and animosity between us. What’s done is done. I only want to take care of you now.” His face nuzzled into the delicate skin of her throat just below her ear. “Unburden yourself. Let go. Let me take away what grief I can.”

Warm lips glided to her pulse, soft and hypnotic. Her body recognized his touch in ways that made no sense, and she relaxed into the comfort of his hold.

“Christian,” his name crossed her lips like a solemn vow, an exhalation of a dying breath. “Please.”

Kissing her throat, he transferred her wrists into the grasp of one hand. With the other, he delicately raised her chemise and teased her legs apart. “Whatever you need, pintura. I am yours.”

Tipping her head back, she tried not to hate herself for being so weak. Or perhaps it wasn’t her weakness that bothered her at all. Perhaps it was the part of her that couldn’t accept she wanted him. That perfidious desire for his touch consumed her, building and expanding inside of her until she could hardly contain it.

“Hold onto me, pintura.” Releasing her arms, he guided her hold around his neck and lifted her legs, wrapping them around his hips, and she gasped when he pushed into her with complete entitlement as if he owned her. Perhaps he did. She no longer felt like she fully belonged to herself.

His intrusive entrance into her life split her in two. Within such duality, she found value and tranquility in his possessive hold as much as she found discomfort and fear.

His lips found hers. “Feel that?” Slow drugging kisses coaxed her mouth open. “Perfection.” He thrust slowly and a sense of completeness washed over her. The sweet surrender washed away her pain so that she could feel free of guilt once more.