Page 42 of Midnight Conquest

And yet her voice trembled again. A vibration of guilt—orhesitation—he couldn’t ignore. Broderick’s immortal instincts, refined over six decades of lies and betrayal, whispered the truth—whatever she was hiding, it had to do withhim.

“Then what are ye afraid I’ll find out when I read yer mind, lass?”

A flicker of panic—just a flicker—flashed in her eyes before she masked it with defiance. She wouldn’t give in. Not without a fight.

He’d been betrayed before. Once by a woman whose lies left his family butchered. And again, by the beauty who lured him into the cold embrace of undeath. And now this one—what wouldshecost him?

He closed his eyes, focusing on the tether of their touch. Gently, he pushed his will toward her.

“Let me in,” he murmured the gentle command. His words caressed around her psyche, rich with the compulsion he’d honed across the years. “Open yer mind, Davina.”

She stiffened, her brows knitting. Her body leaned toward him despite her resistance. Her lips parted. Her breath caught. For just a moment, he thought she’d yield.

Then she jerked back, shaking her head, her mind snapping shut like a slammed door.

The silence between them throbbed.

And Broderick knew—if he wanted the truth, he’d have to drag it from her himself.

Or taste it from her blood.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I won’t.”

Broderick’s jaw worked, frustration clawing at him like a beast denied. He couldn’t compel her. She was stronger than he’d anticipated—her will a fortress of iron, unyielding and sealed tight.

The Hunger surged, searing and insistent, churning in his gut. His fangs throbbed beneath his gums, aching to pierce, to drink. Her pulse beat so close to the surface, he could nearly taste it—the secrets buried in her blood.

He could tear it from her. Fear could break down any mental defense. All he had to do was bare the monster inside, the creature he’d unleashed upon lesser souls. One glimpse of that horror, and she would fall.

But not her. Not Davina.

He wouldn’t use fear.

Without her willing submission, though, feeding meant revealing what he was.

Unless…

His gaze dropped to her mouth, the quick rise and fall of her breath, the delicate tremble in her frame. She wanted him. He saw it in the flush of her cheeks, the flutter of her pulse, the way her lips parted ever so slightly each time he drew near.

The scent of her arousal.

She may not trust him.

But shewantedhim.

His own fury twisted into something darker, hotter. Possession laced with hunger. If he didn’t use fear, perhaps he’d use something else.

“You dinnae trust me yet,” he growled, rough and full of promise. “But ye will.”

He cradled her face in both hands, thumbs skimming over her cheekbones as he leaned in. Their foreheads brushed. His lips hovered a breath away.

“Relax,” he whispered, the word a soft command cloaked in tenderness. “Let me show ye how trust feels.”

His fingers sank into her thick, tawny hair, and he claimedher mouth.

The kiss was not gentle. It was fierce, consuming. He pulled her tight against him, groaning into her lips, his body hard with need. His mouth moved with ruthless reverence—across her eyelids, her cheeks, the tip of her nose—before returning to devour her lips again.

She moaned, opening to him, and he dove deep, his tongue claiming, tasting.

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