Page 28 of Vampire so Virtuous (Boston Vampires #1)

Her fingers tightened around the torch. “Do I look like a goddamn Big Mac to you?”

“Not at all.” He pointed with his head toward the small table beside her. “You look more like that glass of Margaux. Besides, I don’t eat junk food.”

“Was that another joke?”

He liked the way she lifted her chin, her defiance as tantalizing as her scent.

“More of a compliment.”

“Get rid of this mark, or I’ll prove to the world that Anthony Du Pont is a fraud. This house, your charitable good deeds , your incredibly unsubtle use of the same name for three generations. I’ll expose it all.”

He stroked his beard, studying the anger in her eyes.

Elle a du cran … she had some nerve. It took effort to keep his expression serious and hide his smile.

“Do you think anyone will care what you tell them? As abhorrent as it may be, money makes your world work, Cally. I have it. You don’t. Whatever noise you make, one call to the mayor, and I’ll get an official apology while you’ll destroy your life and career.”

She shifted in her chair, the scent of her fear growing. “You have dirty politicians in your pocket now?”

“My options were limited,” he said dryly. “I’ve never met any clean ones.”

She aimed the torch at him, her grip tightening until her knuckles whitened.

“You’ve fucking marked me, like a dog pissing on a lamppost,” she spat, as if reminding herself of his crimes were all the excuse she needed to press the button.

“You drugged me and fed from me. You raped my mind and you sunk your teeth into me.”

He had never sat down and talked to his prey before—or had one speak to him like this. Her tone, more than her threats or the vulgarity of her insults, stirred his irritation.

Maybe from her perspective, what she said was true.

But he was a vampire, and she was chattel.

It was like a chicken complaining to a human at KFC.

Did it make any difference that humans were more sentient than chickens?

He still had to feed, he still had to live, and the blood of animals couldn’t sustain a vampire.

Besides, it tasted terrible—he knew; for the longest time, he’d tried.

She extended the torch toward him, her hand trembling slightly. “Undo the mark, Antoine,” she demanded again. “Last chance.”

“Yours, or mine?” he shot back, riding the heat within him.

She clenched her jaw—rather beautifully, Antoine noted—the tension only sharpening her features, making her look all the more fierce. “Fine.”

She pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

It was so pathetic it was almost funny, and Antoine’s annoyance subsided.

Cally’s eyes widened, frustration tightening her expression, and the scent of her fear swelled enticingly. Her hand trembled as she pressed the button again, and then again, her thumb digging into it desperately.

He waited a polite interval. “Shall I ask Marcel to bring fresh batteries?”

She waved the torch around, pressing the button repeatedly, and when it pointed at a magazine on the coffee table, a flicker of fluorescent light reflected off the cover, showing the beam was working. She swiftly pointed it back at him.

He inclined his head toward her hoodie. “Do you have anything else in that pocket?”

Cally dropped the torch in the side of the chair, but didn’t reach again for her pocket.

Instead, she pulled the collar of her hoodie down at the front, revealing her delicate, pale throat.

Not to offer herself, this time—more was the pity—but to extract the chain she wore around her neck.

She pulled it up to reveal a crucifix. A small one, in silver, like she’d had limited choices.

She held it out toward him, her eyes wide, and the scent of her fear deepened, adding an exotic spice to the air.

Antoine lightly rubbed one eye with a fingertip. The UV light had prickled, but had been weak enough to ignore. “I’m afraid I’m not the best person to point a cross at,” he said apologetically. “I’m an atheist, you see. But I do admire those with faith.”

Cally gave him a furious glare, then reached for her bag. Antoine looked on with interest.

“What does stop you?” she asked with an edge of despair. She pulled out three large, fat white bulbs. “Garlic?”

“I am French. I do not think those will harm me. However, do feel free to eat them—I hear they improve blood flow.”

She grabbed for the cross again. “Silver?”

He see-sawed his hand. “More a werewolf thing.”

She froze. “There are werewolves too?”

“Not to my knowledge. Pity, really.”

She glared at him and pulled open her bag. “Does fire work?”

“Do you have any?” he asked, intrigued to see what she’d pull out. A butane can and a lighter? A portable flamethrower was unlikely, the bag wasn’t big enough.

“No,” she said. “But I have this.” She was holding a wooden stake, the end sharpened to a vicious point with the crude homemade marks of a knife.

Antoine offered some encouragement. “A stake through the heart kills most things, and vampires are likely no different.” There was still a good chance he could heal from it; he’d recovered from some nasty injuries over the years.

“In fairness, a knife would be a better idea. Easier to slip through my ribcage. The challenge, of course, is getting it in there.”

Cally stood abruptly, the bag falling to the floor, spilling a Bible onto the carpet.

But she wasn’t about to attack, despite holding the stake before her with both hands.

Instead, she began to edge away from him and toward the door.

The spicy scent of her fear filled the room, making his mouth water.

It was difficult to keep his fangs from extruding.

Antoine leaned forward, tucked the bible and torch into her bag, then set it on her chair.

Cally was halfway across the room, backing away, watching every move he made.

“Do you think I will let you leave so easily?” he asked.

“I came so you could remove your mark,” she replied, so steady that he wouldn’t have known she was afraid if he couldn’t smell it. “Since you clearly won’t, we’re done.”

“I think there’s more to it than that,” he said, watching her. “You have declared me to be a vampire, a creature that has drunk of your blood, and yet you walk willingly into my house, then threaten and attack me.”

“You won’t hurt me,” she said, taking another pace backward toward the door.

“Oh? Why so sure?”

She didn’t answer, just shook her head. “I’m leaving. Stay the fuck away from me, Antoine.”

She turned for the door, hurrying the last few paces across the room, and he waited until her hand was on the handle before he moved.

In a blink, he was behind her—one hand flat against the door, holding it closed, the other pressed against the wall.

His lips brushed against her ear. “Why do you think I won’t hurt you, ma chérie ? ”

She tugged at the door handle in vain, the sharp, high-pitched gasp of frustration betraying her anxiety.

When it didn’t budge, she pushed against him, attempting to force him back—but he had no desire to move.

The sensation wasn’t unpleasant; her body pressed into his, both firm and soft, her efforts futile.

The sharpened stake was still in her fist, yet she hadn’t tried to stab him with it.

Instead, she stopped tugging at the door handle, her movements slowing as she seemed to accept there was no hope of escape. She drew herself upright before answering his question. “Because you care.”

“Oh?” He took a deep breath, inhaling the air around her. To his surprise, the spice of her fear had lessened. It was still there, though less potent, and on balance he found her scent more pleasant without it. “How did you reach such an unlikely conclusion?”

“Because you protected me from that other vampire. Minh, or whatever his name is. If you didn’t care, why not let him kill me?”

“Perhaps I merely wished to deny him the pleasure.”

“I don’t think so. You’d have killed me already.” She turned her head to look at him, their faces almost touching. “If you didn’t care, why intervene at the police headquarters?”

He was silent, breathing in her smell as he considered her words. It made him uncomfortable to be analyzed so. No one else had ever spoken to him in such a way. Certainly never a chattel.

She wasn’t done. “If you don’t care, why did you call me ‘ ma chérie ’ and kiss my hand in the parking lot? Or watch me leave the police station?”

So she’d sensed him. He wouldn’t have expected the mark to embed so fast—though given it was different, maybe it had activated by then. Or maybe she’d seen him.

He gently brushed her hair away to expose her neck.

“If you merely wanted me to leave you alone, wouldn’t you have simply stayed away, or tried to run?

” She shivered at his touch, her body trembling against his, and the sensation stirred him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“Should I deprive myself of the pleasure you offer, when you make yourself so available?” He brushed his lips against her neck.

“I think you are here because you want to be here.”

She trembled again. “No, I…”

He extended his fangs and bit, relishing the sensation as they sank into her soft skin, letting her feel the sharp sting of his teeth piercing her flesh, then the contrast as his serum flooded her senses, pleasure unraveling the pain in an intoxicating rush.

Her blood was as exquisite as he remembered—so rich, so potent, so unlike all the others he’d fed upon since her.

Her taste exploded across his tongue, vibrant and decadent, as if he’d been starving for it all this time.

A low, involuntary moan escaped him, the sound vibrating against her skin.

He drank in small, measured sips, savoring each mouthful, prolonging the experience for both of them.

She gasped, her body arching as if to escape him, but instead, she pushed back into him.

This time, he made no effort to cloud her mind.

Her moan echoed his, soft and breathless, and her head lolled to the side, exposing her neck further, an unspoken invitation.

The stake slipped from her fingers, and she didn’t seem to notice.

He slid one arm around her waist, pulling her sharply against him, anchoring her as he fed.

He hadn’t needed to feed. This was indulgence, pure and simple.

She’d flaunted her defiance, dared him with her presence, and now he was giving her what she craved, whether or not she would admit it.

Her small, breathy whimpers told him everything she would not.

Each pull of her blood set her trembling, the pitch of her sounds rising higher and higher until her body tensed then shuddered against him.

The scent of her grew so much stronger, and it was delicious.

He held her tighter, supporting her as her pulse hammered beneath his lips.

One hand clutched his arm—not to push him away, but as though to steady herself. Finally, her muscles slackened, and she moaned, a sound of surrender wrapped in pleasure.

Then came a gasp—a small, sharp note of horror cutting through her haze.

He stopped then, for it had been enough, and licked over her wound to seal it. He’d been careful to take little; too much, and she’d grow lightheaded, perhaps faint, and he wanted her fully present.

“Was that what you wanted?”

“Fuck… you…” she breathed, her tone defiant but her body betraying her words as she leaned back against him. Her head rolled loosely, still caught in the aftershocks of pleasure.

“We could do that too, if you wish.” He licked her neck again.

Her response was another whimper, soft and conflicted. She twisted and pushed against him, her eyes widening as she felt his bare chest through the vee of his dressing gown.

He moved back only because he wished to, not because she could possibly have affected him—despite her surprising strength.

The absence of his support left her swaying unsteadily.

He readjusted his slipped gown while she reached for the door, steadying herself as she glared at him, her defiance returning swiftly.

“Never,” she said, her voice husky, raw with emotion. “I’ll never fuck you.”

“It was your suggestion.”

Her hand shot toward him, aiming to slap his face. He had all the time in the world to react. Step aside? Let the blow land? It wouldn’t harm him, though it might hurt her more than she anticipated.

In the end, his hand flashed up faster than she could see, grasping her wrist firmly but gently.

“I’ve had more than my fair share of being struck by women, Cally, and I have no wish to experience it again.

” There was an edge to his tone, one he didn’t have to force—his memories had done the work for him—and her eyes widened in surprise.

Her fingers curled as her tension ebbed, offering him no resistance.

He released her wrist, and she lowered her arm, her glare softening—though only slightly.

She turned to the door, pulling the handle, and this time he let her open it and slip through. Marcel was in the corridor, ostensibly rearranging some flowers in a vase, but she barely spared him a glance as she hurried toward the exit.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay, madam,” Marcel said, his tone so polite and proper despite the innuendo.

Antoine walked back into the living room, licking his fangs, the taste of her still filling his mouth.

The front door slammed shut.