Page 49 of Immortal Bastard

His knuckle grazed her arm and her dainty fingers balled into a tight fist. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you, pintura. I’ll make this right. I promise.” He had to believe, in time, she’d forgive him and see the beauty of an immortal bond.

Several minutes later, her knuckles unclenched and her heart rate slowed. She was finally asleep.

He shut his eyes and pressed into her mind. No thoughts. No dreams. She dozed exactly as the rest of the immortal race slept.

The bishop’s words echoed in his mind. The ache of hunger battled with his desire to do right by her. But what was right? Should he respect her decision to starve herself or protect her from pain? This foolish starvation would change nothing. The pain was unnecessary.

The more he thought about her hunger strike, the more frustrated he grew. Perhaps forcing her hand would prove she had nothing to fear. She’d understand that feeding was a pleasant, intimate exchange that most immortals valued above all other physical interactions.

Unsure if his offered comfort was merciful or if he was making another grave mistake, he pushed deep into her psyche and took hold of her free will, cradling her close to his chest. Her head lolled as his fingers swept her hair away from her face. Unable to stop himself, he pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“I ache for your forgiveness so that we may make a happy life together.”

He simply held her for a moment, enjoying the novelty of the weight of her body in his arms. He needed to earn her forgiveness, but first, he needed her trust. Only then, would he win her love. What he was considering would delay that trust, but also speed them toward acceptance.

A sharp pinch came from deep within. Another hunger pain, followed by a long, gargling growl as air worked through her intestines. She softly moaned, her face tightening in agony as she slept.

The hunger symptoms he could manage, but her suffering he couldn’t bear. Expecting him to leave her in such agony when there was a simple solution was as absurd as asking a fish to fly or a bird to swim. Impossible.

Perhaps her stubbornness outmatched his will, because when another sharp cramp took hold, his resolution not to interfere crumbled. She would never accept her new life if she didn’t find peace. There was truly no cause for this unnecessary misery, and he wanted it to stop. He wanted her comfort and happiness above all else.

His fingers moved to the collar of his shirt and he hesitated, knowing this was not the way one earned another’s trust. But perhaps he could prove to her that she was capable of the unthinkable and the obstacles were only in her head.

Needing the intimate contact, he removed his shirt. It would have been easier to feed her from his wrist, but he wanted to hold her skin to skin. He was a selfish bastard.

He shifted her close to his neck and cupped the back of her head. Slicing his throat with a sharp nail, he whispered, “Take from me what you need, pintura. Feed from your mate until your hunger is gone.”

He drew in a sharp breath as her little teeth latched onto his skin instinctually. His body immediately hardened at her suckling. She drew from his vein much like a sleeping babe feeds for survival, proving her repulsion to blood was strictly psychological.

Her physical instincts and hunger drove her enough that she required no compulsion to feed, he merely held the command for her to sleep.

He gripped her hip as her thighs pressed tight. He tried to still her rocking motions as her body chased additional friction. It was common for mates to bond when they fed and her immortal blood hungered for such a connection—as did his. He wanted to give her what she craved, but knew—deep down—she would not want that, so he tensed and held his breath, trying not to draw any satisfaction from the way her body gyrated against his.

There was no denying how much he wanted her. She was the other half of his soul, the light to his darkness, the answer to his prayers. Denying himself access to her body was a sort of masochistic torture he hadn’t anticipated, but more than anything, he wanted to be the mate she deserved, the mate she wanted.

He believed himself an honorable male and deeply craved her to see him as such, despite their rocky start. He would not take from her what she did not consciously offer. But he would always provide for her and protect her, no matter what she believed she needed and no matter how much she hated him.

Unfortunately, his body was not aligned with his thinking and the longer she pulled from his vein the more his cock hardened. She drew his release closer to the surface with each precious sip of his blood.

“Delilah…” He breathed, pressing his lips into her shoulder and forcing his mouth to remain closed.

Unconscious of her actions, she greedily took from his vein, the result of not feeding properly for days. Ecstasy, a natural consequence of feeding, amplified his pleasure through the link they shared. Soon enough he’d have a mess of his own to clean.

Her body responded to the sensual process, and he could scent her arousal, hear her quiet purr. He ached to meet those carnal needs as well, but he would not—not until she came to him willingly of sound mind.

Mating was their most sacred vow. The act went hand in hand with feeding, and while he did not touch her in any lustful manner, her moans increased and her muscles tightened until her body finally climaxed. To his shame, his release naturally followed.

Her delicate finish was innocent and affirming, reminding him that much patience was needed on his part. He traced a finger over her hair, in awe of her perfect ear, as she continued to gently feed.

“That’s right, little one. Let me take care of all your needs.”

Fragile tremors shook her body as she remained asleep. This was what she did to him. She stripped him down until he was defenseless against her beauty and touch, leaving him with the mess of a young male in his lap.

The desire to earn her trust and true, conscious affection carved a hole in his heart. A jagged breath escaped and he shivered as her tongue reflexively closed the puncture wound at his neck, another natural instinct that came to her as effortlessly as breathing.

Reluctantly, he lowered her back to the bed. She showed no adverse response to the blood. On the contrary, her flesh was once again rosy and her eyes no longer appeared sunken in.

A droplet of his blood remained on the curve of her lower lip. Leaning down, he licked away the trace. She sighed and he groaned, forcing himself to leave the bed and clean away the mess he’d made of himself. When he returned, she lay exactly as he left her.

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