Page 40

Methodically, he continued using the soapy cloth to scrub away the dirt coating her body, evidence of her long travel as he moved from her feet to her legs.

Each time he wrung out the cloth, the clear water darkened.

When he got to her thighs, he returned to the bathroom to dispose of the dirty water for fresh suds.

He knew it would take him multiple trips to see this job done right and completely, and he could have easily assigned the tedious task to Maeve or another prime as he sat and watched, but Michaela was his. His mate, his responsibility.

His secret.

Amaros’s fastidiousness had no bounds. He didn’t leave a single area of her body unwashed, even taking the time to part her thighs and handle every part of her folds. Even though he groaned every second, he was stroking along her lovely, mouthwatering sex and the furrowed skin of her ass.

He wasn’t deviant enough to touch her inappropriately while he bathed her intimately, and she was unaware, but he wasn’t a fucking saint, either.

A vampire’s lust was exponential, and there was no way he could see such golden-brown and pink beauty and not pant for the moment she was fully recovered, and he could spend hours tasting her and bringing her to glory again and again.

When her front side was clean, he carefully rolled her over and handled the length of her back just as efficiently. Once finished, he removed the damp towels and placed her on her back again but shifted her further to the middle of the bed, and this time, he dragged a sheet over her.

Just as he started picking up the bowl of clear water and taking it to the bathroom, his hearing picked up on the sound of the prime’s footsteps on the stairs. Humans walked so heavily. However, she was right on time, and he was grateful for Maeve’s punctuality.

He dumped the water in the sink and placed the bowl on the counter. In a blink, he was at the door before the prime had an opportunity to knock. However, as soon as he placed his hand on the brass knob, he knew Maeve was not alone.

“Good morning, Amaros.”

He eyed his second-in-command, who stood beside the prime.

“Marceline, what are you doing here? It is daylight hours. Shouldn’t you be in bed exhausted under a pile of three prime males right now and drifting into sleep?

” he kept his tone neutral as he accepted only the ornately-carved, crystal carafe of warm blood from the tray Maeve held and left the goblet.

“Um.” She fingered the sash of her long silk robe and held his gaze. “I was headed to do just that when I noticed Maeve returning down after I’d prepared her for you.”

Instead of answering Marceline, Amaros brought the carafe to his lips and drank, deep and heavy, until he gulped down all the fresh, warm blood. He wasn’t thirsty or hungry, not after consuming all of Michaela's blood.

What he’d consumed until the angel awoke was all for her.

He’d gorge himself with enough blood to feed the beast she would become.

If he didn’t have enough to satisfy Michaela’s hunger, he’d have to restrain her, or she'd tear through the place, ripping out prime and servant throat to slack her hunger lust. She’d be mindless with it and would have no other choice, and when she came to her senses, she could fall into a newly turned vampiric depression, a sickness that usually only had one way out of death.

Once the heavy-cut glass was empty and only painted inside by the thick blood that was once there, he set it back on the tray.

Marceline’s brow arched high as she watched him, assessing.

“That will be all for now, Maeve.” He dismissed the prime.

“Why drink from the pig when the perfect snack is before you?” She fingered the prime’s long, red hair from scalp to ends.

The female stood still until Marceline dropped her hand back to her side. The prime had sense enough not to stand between the will of two vamps. Maeve mumbled a ‘thank you, Sire’ and then hustled quickly away with her tray.

“I wasn’t in the mood.” Amaros started to step back.

“Not in the mood?” Marceline scoffed as she dragged her hair over one of her slender shoulders. “Even when you’re an ancient, you will be in the mood. Just nothing you can do about it then.”

“As much as I have enjoyed this exchange, I must go.”

“Wait.”

“Good night.” He purposely forced his words out with finality as he shut his door.

He glanced toward Michaela, taking in her golden-brown beauty just because he could. Dragging his gaze away, he returned to the bathroom to clean up, grabbed a book off his shelf, and read while waiting for his next container of blood to be delivered.

He hadn’t been in the bathroom more than a moment or two when he knew someone had trespassed into his inner sanctuary.

In a flash, he was out of his room, throwing his body full force into the intruder’s and carrying them across the room. A dark-red haze filled his vision as he slammed the person into the wall. “What the fuck are you doing in my room without permission, Marceline!” he roared.

Besides the place he held Marceline , The Jewish Bride by Rembrandt shifted and tilted precariously from where it hung on the wall, the painting jolted by the impact of him slamming Marceline into the thick wall.

His vice’s lips moved, but no sound came out because his hand squeezed tight around her throat as his nails dug deep into the muscles and tendons there.

A human. How is she here? Her body shook from the pain of his restraint.

Amaros didn’t care, and he didn’t let up. “You think you have the right to question me. You crossed a fucking line.”

The veins in her neck and along her temple bulged from the blood flow trapped by his fierce hold.

His blood ran hot. He could kill his friend of centuries for her audacity.

He wondered if Marceline’s mind flashed back to the last time they fought and what he had done to her.

Did her body ache with pain in remembrance?

He hoped to hell it did because if she ever stepped out of line again where Michaela was concerned, he wouldn’t bat an eyelash in killing his second in command.

One thing all vampires knew was that killing someone’s mate was the surest way to weaken them, and if they were weak, they could be defeated. So, Amaros would always protect Michaela with his life. Always.

To ensure he was getting his point across clearly, he pulled her away from the wall only to slam her against it again and grip her throat tighter.

Marceline coughed and choked as her eyes rolled back in her head briefly. She’s marked, Sire—one of us.

It was those words. Hearing the sincerity and Marceline’s words caused him to loosen his fingers and let her go.

They were all leaders and understood the deepest desire they each carried: to find their mate.

Amaros could see the hope shining in his friend's gaze even as the dark-purple bruises, like the color of the night sky, began to fade slowly.

He forced himself to exhale. Even as he stepped back, he kept his body stiff and ready to pounce again if needed.

“She is mine,” he declared, his voice just shy of the anger he’d felt moments before.

He took two more steps back to resist the urge to lash out again.

Marceline rubbed her neck and swallowed a few times as she nodded, understanding. “How did the marked one come to be here?” Her voice was raspy.

“The short answer is I found her in Daniel’s Mouth ill and brought her here.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

“The cave?” She frowned, her voice a little less hoarse, evidence of her age and how quickly she healed. “How did she get there?”

“That I don’t know.”

She sniffed, but instead of looking for answers in the air, she leaned towards him. “She’s marked, but I don’t smell the human sickness in her.”

He shrugged. “It was evident she had been traveling a long time, and she was hungry and thirsty. She didn’t look well.

” Amaros knew he was not telling Marceline the whole story, but he was the leader, and it was his prerogative to share any news how he saw fit.

Right now, he wanted to keep the details of his family a secret.

They would all know soon enough.

“Did she say anything?”

“No. I’m sure I’ll learn more once she awakens.”

She stepped away from the wall and squared her shoulders. Marceline may understand that he was the head of this coven, but she was a fighter and never a coward. “May I see her, Amaros?”

His fingers flexed in his pocket. He wanted to tell her no, but he rolled his shoulders back to ease some tension there. Marceline was already in the room, so denying her didn’t make much sense. He gave a sharp nod.

Turning, he led the way back across the room to the bed. He paused at the foot of the bed, not wanting to take her any closer.

Marceline stood beside him, momentarily quiet, observing Michaela’s still form. Her chest expanded, then lowered with a sigh.

“Were you able to get her name before you began the process of changing her?”

“Michaela,” he whispered, enjoying the remembered taste of not only her blood but her skin as well.

“She is lovely.” Marceline turned and faced him. “Congratulations. Once she is ready, we all must celebrate. I will organize one of my famous balls. It has been a while.”

“They’re legendary. I’m sure it will be grand," he offered as a consolation. He was the leader, and strength and power were necessary, so he would not and could not apologize. She would know this.

After a slight nod, she moved toward the door. “I will ensure your privacy over the next few days.”

“Maeve shall continue to bring blood. But tell her to knock once and leave it.” He directed as he followed his Vice to the door.

“I will do as instructed.” In a blink, she had the door open and was gone.

Amaros did what he should have done when he brought Michaela in; he placed a shield on the door and windows to ensure no one else entered without his permission.