Page 302 of Rage

I survey the hall and spy the faint orange glow along the edge of a tapestry covering a window. “The sun rises. Feed, allow no more than fifteen to flee with their lives, and interview the servants. Pull aside those that may be a good fit for our family.”

Frowning, he drops his gaze to Lord Stilton’s mass. “What about him?”

“The boar drank enough poison to fell a herd.” I sneer at Lord Stilton’s mass. “Spare him until nightfall. He can be the feast for our newly turned siblings.” He smiles at that, fangs glistening in the torchlight. I clasp his shoulder. “We leave before midnight, brother; use the time well.”

A smirk pulls his mouth. “You as well.”

“I intend to.”

Chapter Four

Screams fill the manor like a symphony, punctuated by sobs and scattered begging. I prowl down long hallways and narrow passageways, luxuriating in the sound of terror as I hunt for Declan. More than once, I have found him in the Lord of the hall’s bed-chamber, spread across fine linens in a deep sleep. The screams do not bother him, nor does the blood being spilled in part by his hand.

Bait, he called me, as though he were not a part of the trap.

I catch his scent in a richly decorated hall. The carpets are woven in deep maroons and gold, shot through with indigo. Gilt frames line the walls, displaying vibrant oil paintings of Stilton and his ancestors, and crimson silk drapes the length of the ceiling.

All the wealth on the display turns my stomach.

On the road to this hall, we passed through blight-starved villages and fallow fields bordered by plague pits. Stilton was a pox on this land and his people. They will be better off under the leadership of whichever brother or sister I leave as the deputy of this hall. My siblings will work the fields at night while the villages recover. They will divert the streams, build mills, andingest new life into Stilton’s holding while the wastling lord is neither mourned nor remembered.

But that is work for nightfall. Now, there is a hunter to be dealt with.

“Declan.” I sing his name as I turn a corner, trailing my knife along the walls. Sparks fly behind the scrape of my blade, shushing when I cut through a tapestry and across a painting. His scent fills my nose. Salt and sweat, the heat of his muscled body mixing with the earthy smell of horse he can never quite scrub out. At the end of the hall, I close my eyes and inhale, filling my head with Declan Margrave.

Left.

My body moves on instinct, easing into a silent prowl: one door, two, three. I halt at the fourth, smiling when I see Declan has taken no pains to protect himself from me. The lock has been mangled, the knob dangling from bent screws. He forced his way in, stealing this chamber for himself with all the arrogance I expect from him.

I slip into the room, silent as midnight, and the scent of Declan envelops me. My steps falter, hunger itching my fangs. Though I fed from Lady Stilton, turning her drained me. I need to feed again, and the longer I deny myself, the harder it will be to maintain control.

Not that control has ever been a concern where Declan Margrave is concerned. He is weak, and I am not. He may play at being the hunter. He may delight in putting me in my cage and torturing me for the entertainment of wastling lords, but when it is just us, either alone in a room or tangled in the wood, Declan keenly understands which of us is in control.

He lies sprawled across the bed, muscled chest rising and falling in a deep sleep. The candles on the bedside table are nearly burned down, and their meager flames send gold dancing in the strands of his dark brown hair. The sheet is twisted lowaround his waist, tight against his groin, and heat blooms in my belly as I rake my eyes over him. Hunger and need warring within me.

And then I see it—the holywood stake.

Declan’s favorite toy rests on the pillow beside his head, placed within easy reach as an invitation. Golden firelight licks along the silvered tip, liquid and smooth as if freshly oiled. I trail my eyes over the bedside table, noting the bottles and neatly folded squares of linen. Desire puddles warm and hot between my thighs.

I smile, flexing my hand as I decide how to play this. He has been wicked, my Declan, and he must be punished.

My fangs descend as I kneel on the edge of the bed. He does not move when my weight dips the mattress. If anything, his breaths deepen as I lower my face to his hip, jaw relaxing as hunger drives me. This close, his scent is intoxicating. My mind reels, and I allow myself one lapse of control, flicking my tongue out to taste him before I feed.

I lick across a vein, and his pulse throbs in response, tempting me to scrape my fangs across his taut skin. Goosebumps rise as I trace the divot of muscle and bone, and Declan hums in his sleep. The deep, rich sound stokes the fire building inside of me—the need to feed and to punish. To take my pleasure from Declan’s body as easily as he doled out pain to mine.

Ours is a dance, a twisting of limbs and minds. When I am caged, I have no choice but to follow him through the steps, but when the bait has been taken …

Then I take the lead, and my pet is all too willing to dance to my tune.

“You’ve been bad, Declan,” I murmur, my fangs lengthening. Sweet venom pools on my tongue, coating my lips. I swallow itdown before pressing my mouth to his hips, sucking to draw a vein to the surface.

He writhes in his sleep, hips rising and falling. A hand comes down on my head, and I smile despite myself. It is better when he wakes for this. Better he when is reminded of what I am so that he and I both know he enters this willingly.

I am a terror. His monster and his master. I would see the hunger and fright in his eyes before I sink my fangs into his hip and slake my thirst.

“Rhona.” He groans my name, swallowing the vowels in the low, rumbly way I cannot resist. Fingers burrow into my hair, upsetting the crown my sister braided. “Please, Rhona.”

“You are awake.”

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