Page 30 of The Veil of Blood and Magic

But there are other ways to make him come for me, the thought of which has me melting a little more atop him.

I shift, wiggling an arm between us until I can plunge my hand beneath his leather pants and grip his considerable length.

“Dove,” he groans, hips thrusting into my grip, almost dislodging me from his throat. I’m sipping now, already sated on his blood and not wanting to take so much that he’ll have a long recovery.

I shiver at the pet name he’s given me, riding his hand harder as I pump him, as I lick and lap at the two puncture wounds I created on his neck. Having his blood while his fingers are inside me is an ultimate high, especially as he leans forward, drawing our bodies flush as we crash against each other in shameless need.

I feel his desire crest, feel him harden in my hand as I approach that sweet, sharp edge of release at the same time. It’s beautiful, the way his desire feeds me as much as his blood. He’s giving me everything on a silver platter, all wrapped in one gorgeous, powerful package, and in the back of my mind, my instincts warn me against such pretty presents, but it’s too dull a concern, drowned in the pleasure and taste of his blood.

Obliterated in the way he stretches me with his hand, the way his cock feels velvet smooth and hard as steel in my hand. In the way he groans as another wave of slickness coats his fingers when he grazes his thumb over my throbbing clit, giving me just enough pressure to fly?—

“Jagger.” His name tears through me with the force of my orgasm, and I sink my fangs into the other side of his neck as I ride through the waves of my pleasure, taking one last drink, pouring the sensation back into him enough that he spills hot and heady into my stroking hand.

We tremble against each other as I lick the wounds, willing all four of them to close—a trick that took me a decade to learn.

Jagger shifts, gently withdrawing his hand, licking my flavor clean off his fingers in a claiming way that turns me liquid all over again.

“You taste like my favorite note sounds,” he says, moving to pull a cloth from his pocket, cleaning me up where he spilled.

He gives my ass a light smack, grinning up at me, his eyes clear and sharp, not a hint of the blood loss affecting him.

Goddess, he really is as strong as he tastes.

“You taste like autumn.” The admission is rolling off my tongue before I can stop myself, my mind sluggish with pleasure.

Something churns in his eyes at the words, but just as quickly he urges the emotion away. “Anytime you’re hungry,” he says. “Feel free to turn me into a snack.”

I laugh at that, the levity of his offer quickly stripped away.

For now. He’ll be my snack for now.

Because we only have a few weeks until we reach Lingate.

Because he wants me strong and pretty and healthy when he hands me over to the Collector in exchange for a hefty purse.

And even though that thought threatens to diminish the fun we just had, I push it away.

Because I just used him for the same reasons, and it might make me more the monster to his hunter, but I can’t find a scrap of shame to care.

Chapter 8

Zev

The music, as well as the whiskey, is a welcome reprieve from the incessant thoughts in my head.

I lean heavily against the marble bar, swallowing back another hefty mouthful of the amber liquid the half-pixie bartender pours in my crystal glass.

Every second that ticks by tightens my muscles.

Every second we waste in this place, pleasant or no, is another I’m not making my way back to the palace with the key to getting what I need. I’ll never admit it, but the Succubus was right about needing to be fed and healthy for the Collector. He won’t make a fair trade if I don’t bring her in pristine condition.

“I must say,” Sirius—the sorcerer who happens to be Livana’s supplier—says as he takes the empty spot next to me. He has to move a long, maroon cloak out of his way to sit on the sleek barstool. “We don’t get many of your kind in here.”

“My kind,” I repeat, focusing on my drink as the bartender brings Sirius a crystal glass filled with a clear liquid without him asking for it.

“Yes,” he says after he’s taken a sip. “Drifters. They know my rules, so they usually linger in the alleyways outside my establishment, like mold in the cracks of a crumbling building.”

I grunt and take another drink. If the sorcerer is trying to rile me, it’ll take more than that. I’m used to being hated by both monsters and mortals. Half the drifters at the Academy hate each other, thanks to the Collector’s ability to turn us all into enemies.

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