Page 47 of Little Mate

That need to be free. That almost bare cunt with just a neatly trimmed triangle of hair is a weakness.

“So, I can steal whatever I want?”

“Yes.”

“Even the royal mantle?” Fuck, she’s going to be the end of the monster many have tried to kill and all have failed. Because I can see the image she’s painted vividly, the way the blood-red cloak would drape over her bare body while she sat in my chair, long legs crossed while her upper body arches for me.

Exposed and indecent. Mouthwatering.

“I demand that you do.” A small giggle escapes her at that, lips parting to reply, but a knock at the door cuts off the response. I smirk. “Enter.”

Two massive doors part and three of my elders, all women this time, walk inside with our meals. A dome-covered plate for her, and a man dressed in an expensive suit.

Gabriella looks over at him, brows furrowed. “He’s evil.”

“Most of my donors are. I enjoy killing my own heartless kind.”

“You’re not like him, Theo. He has no heart.”

“And I do?”

“You do.” Leaning over, she grips my chin in a tiny hand and squeezes. Demands my full attention which I give, staring into her soft, gem-like eyes. “Never say that again. Understood.” My nod is indulgent, and the women watching gasp—become nervous of my reaction. I’m volatile, an asshole, but never with her. It’s impossible for me to do so. “This…” she says while turning a little to place her other hand over my chest “…is mine. I hear the cadence no one else can. I feel each pump in my veins, merging with my own in synchronization.”

“All of me is yours.” I nip her palm before placing my face in her hand again.

“Thank you.” Our eyes stay connected for another minute before we sit back and a woman places the food in front of Gabriella, while mine is thrown beside my left leg and away from her.

The man whimpers, his body bruised, and several cuts wrap around the areas where his chains tore through the skin. The blood is fresh, the potent scent tickling my nose and my fangs descend, yet I don’t eat.

Not yet.

An audible click is heard next as the elders exit, and I tilt my head in the direction of her plate. “Please eat, love.”

“I will when you do.” There’s a stubborn set to her jaw as she says this, her brow raised. “With you or not at all.”

“So demanding,” I chastise playfully, while my hand fists the back of my meal’s head, forcing it back in an uncomfortable angle. A yelp rends the air, and a scrawny hand tries to fight my hold, but a low growl from me and he stops, freezing in place. Even his crying is done in silence now. “Are you sure?”

She nods, lips twitching at the corners. I also don’t miss the way she eyes my teeth, not in fear but desire. “I’m not afraid of your nature.”

Her scent matches the words. This is arousing her.

“Maybe you should be.”

“Still a no.” Lifting the dome from her dish, she licks her lips while eyeing the butternut squash ravioli with hunger. However, the way her thighs squeeze under the table—the minute shift is unmistakable—is more than enough proof that she’s feeling needy. Yearns for my touch. “My compliments to the kitchen staff and the hands who prepared this.”

Those inside the kitchen pause their cleaning, as do the elders, their low our pleasure in unison meeting my ears a few seconds after. They’re all busy with preparations for the party we’re hosting in a few nights; the deep scrubbing after bleeding out a few donors—the storing of bottles with O negative for aging inside our temperature-controlled cellar—is messy work.

Its hospital-grade refrigeration can keep the sanguine beverage fresh until we decide to use it.

“They heard and are feeling happy to have pleased you.”

More blushing. More of that tempting scent, and it’s getting harder to not sink my teeth into her graceful flesh.

“First bite is yours.” Fuck me. What a tempting offer.

“As you wish.” It takes no effort to lift the asshole—he weighs no more than a feather—and I bring his neck to my lips. He’s fighting in earnest now, his cries filling the room.

“Please stop! What are you people?”

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