Page 3 of Born in Blood

His jaw tics, and he glares at me. “Unless you want to explain the mess of bodies around the corner. Or perhaps wait for the rest of the duke’s men to find you and string you up by your ballocks for defiling his soon-to-be-bride.”

He turns and marches swiftly in the opposite direction, forcing me to jog to keep up with him. As terrifying as he is, he’s right; neither of those outcomes sound the least bit appealing to me. I glance sideways at him. His jaw is set, and he strides with a purpose that both confuses and assures me.

“Where are we going?”

“To my lodgings in Whitechapel.” His response is brusque.

“Whitechapel?” I scoff, unable to hide my surprise.

He comes to a stop and turns to me, arching a thick dark brow in either amusement or disdain. It’s difficult to tell. “Do you not approve?”

I shrug. “It’s just not the kind of place I’d expect a gentleman like you to be lodging, Mr.…?” I pause, waiting for his name.

“What makes you think I am a gentleman, Alastair?” His voice is low and dangerous now, and icy tendrils of fear coil around the base of my spine. He may have saved me from the men who wanted to tear me to pieces, but I can’t help the feeling that I have merely traded one precarious situation for another.

I tip my chin anyway. “You dress like a gentleman.”

He snorts a harsh laugh. “The English put so much stock in what a man wears.” He reaches out and drags his index finger along my cheekbone, his touch leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Despite my desire to pull away, I find myself fixed to the spot by his scrutinous gaze. “Is it not the character of a man which indicates his status—or lack thereof—as a gentleman?”

Despite the tenuous nature of my current situation, I bark out a laugh. If that were true, then I would be considered nothing better than a vagabond. “Who are you?”

“My name is Alexandros. But you may call me Sire or Master, whichever you prefer.”

I balk at the idea of calling anyone by such a title. Not even my father engenders that kind of respect in me. And this stranger may have saved my life, but he has most certainly done nothing to earn my respect.

His lip curls in a half smile, half sneer, and he cups my jaw in his hand. “That displeases you?”

I wrench my head, trying to free myself from his grip, but he is freakishly strong. “I serve no master, and I bow to nobody.” I snarl my response as anger begins to prickle beneath my skin.

“Oh, you do not need to bow to me, young pup.” He runs his tongue over his top teeth, and that’s when I see the glint of his?—

Terror clamps around my heart like a vise, and all the breath is sucked from my body. Are those fangs?

“But you will kneel.” He squeezes my jaw harder, pushing me down until I’m forced to my knees at his feet.

“What the hell are you?” I grit out the words.

He bends down, bringing his face close to mine. “That all depends on you, Alastair.”

Somehow, I don’t think that’s true, but I cannot stop myself from asking the question. “What do you mean?”

“I will be your end…” He licks his lips. “Or your salvation. Certain death or immortality. Which is it to be?”

I stare into his eyes, which are darker than tar, and I am unable to look away. He holds me there, transfixed, even as I fear falling into the chasm of nothingness that stares back at me. I am many things—most of all, I am a survivor. So I give him the only answer possible. “My salvation.”

He bares his fangs once more, which are sharper than a wolf’s teeth, and smiles. “I hoped you would say that.”

Chapter

Two

ALASTAIR (AXL)

I’m on fire. My skin burns while my blood boils through my veins. Was I caught earlier and tossed onto a flaming pyre? No.Hefound me. He killed those men. Then he… My body is wracked with violent tremors. There was pleasure. White-hot, soul-affirming, life-altering ecstasy. The kind that makes a man fall to his knees…

I shake my head, eyes screwed tightly closed as bone-searing pain bleeds through my ears. I’ve never known anything even remotely akin to this, and I am no stranger to pain, having endured the kind of beatings that not even grown men could withstand before I was old enough to use a razor.

But this is different. Surely this is hell. The one the self-righteous priest clutching his scriptures spoke of every Sunday morning. Fire and brimstone and agony.

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