Hellfire

Interval Twelve

Lucius swept his eyes open, waking slowly, his muscles rippling dangerously as he flexed and bared his teeth to the unfamiliar room. His mind was sluggish and his body strangely warm, refusing to let go of the ghost Susan had left behind. He felt her beside him, her frame nestled against his chest, his arm locking her in place, but the more he woke, the less solid she felt until she faded away altogether. Within seconds, he was in his bed at the Beckinwell Estate.

Alone.

Lucius growled huskily, his sharpened teeth swollen and his sex aching as his body caught up with the lustful need he'd felt in his dreamscape. He slid his fingers through his hair irritably, leaving behind a coating of frost as he rolled onto his back. His blood was on fire, hot and needing, and he resisted the urge to look about the room to see if she was there. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It had just been a dream, nothing more. Just his dreamscape. But, just like Morrigan's curling whispers and oppressing presence had felt real, the little girl who had gone from his life so long ago, so had Susan. She had stood amidst an old memory of his, the tension in her obvious by the stiffness of her spine and the way she tilted her chin. Every inch of her fascinated him, drawing him to her with her scent, her soul, her feminine features, making his teeth burn to bite and his tongue starved of her taste. Her eyes had flashed about the dreamscape, blazing with ferocity. Fear.

He rubbed his face and clenched his swollen teeth tight to rid the ache to find Susan and hold her, to prove she had nothing to be fearful of. He knew that was wrong. She had every reason to look at him like a threat. He was.

Lucius breathed evenly, trying to rid the sensation, the thoughts, and the instincts, but failed. The dreamscape of her lingered, her fire beneath his fingers and her body pressed against his, something he had been craving since she had poisoned herself and stared at him without recognition. Her skin burned beneath his fingers, supple and ever so soft, her swan throat sensual, drawing his teeth to swell, her mouth inviting and full. It made him want to dance with her, not to heal her, but himself. Her touch, her presence, her scent was what he needed to face down his own guilt. To remind himself he was a man. And, when she danced with him, all he felt was her fire and ferocity glowed, her sensual touch searing against his frigid skin, reminding exactly what he wanted.

Her.

That sensual, blazing witch.

A dangerous want, but a want he couldn't get rid of all the same.

A want that was deep in him now, shackling him to her.

Tension stiffened in his body as remembered how, despite her terror, she trusted him. Forgiven him. Despite what he'd done, there was still that pool of warmth she protected within the blazing fire of her soul; serene, passionate, and honest. Loving. Feeling her move with him, pliant and trusting, and seeing that gentility simmering beneath that wilderness shifted his rage from self-destruction to sheer determination and desire to protect, calling to the male in him to protect his bride.

But she was his witch, not his bride. Mortal. One he'd kill if he didn't take control. No matter how he soothed away her fears, there was no turning back what he'd done, no forgetting. He refused to ignore the beast in him. The bloodthirst. He wasn't going to make that mistake again, no matter how much he wanted to coax her to his bed.

He had to control himself. He had to let her go and love another.

Determination flexed through him, a ripple of strength beneath the frost and taut skin. He would not harm her like that again. He would not betray her trust in him. He would not let the beast in him out to kill, not her or anyone else. He had taken enough life because of that old blood.