Page 25 of Yearning For Her

Lowering his gaze, he thrust his hands into his pockets and kept walking with his jaw clenched. “Not going to happen.”

Gods, how he wished it was simply a matter of willpower. How he wished his struggle was merely against the idea of being tied down, of being dependent upon a human. The truth was much harder to accept.

He needed Willow. And he couldn’t have her because he couldn’t find her. He didn’t know her last name, her profession, didn’t know where she lived. He had no idea what she did in her free time. All he knew was that she was fucking gorgeous and that she’d flipped his promise around on him.

She had been the best sex of his life.

Four hundred years of fucking, and she’d blown it all away in a single night.

When his thoughts wandered, it was Willow who dominated them. When he slept—which was happening with disturbing frequency as his hunger intensified—he dreamed of her. Not even slumber provided him any respite. Her face was the first thing in his mind when he woke, and it was the last thing there before he succumbed to hunger induced exhaustion.

She’d cursed him. Somehow, that little mortal with the purple hair and alluring curves had placed a powerful curse on him, and now he could think of nothing but her. Now he could enjoy nothing but her.

Was there inhuman blood in her ancestry, or was she simply more than she appeared?

No. I would’ve sensed something. Would’ve tasted something.

But if she was only human, what did that say of him? Kian, who’d seduced and fed off mortals for most of his existence, had fallen under the spell of a woman who, despite her broken heart, despite her sorrow and pain, despite her loneliness and longing, had ultimately shrugged off his influence. She’d been the one to walk away. She’d been the one to leave him wanting.

He halted his steps and drew in a deep breath. Part of him longed for the sting of icy winter air, for the withering summer heat of the desert, for any extreme to suppress his feelings. Yet he knew at heart that no such distraction would work.

Kian lifted his head and glanced around. His heart stuttered when he realized where he was, when he understood where instinct had carried him during his aimless escape from the nightclub.

This was the bridge where he’d first spoken to Willow. He’d walked dozens of blocks to return to the place where all his troubles had begun.

Hands trembling, he stepped to the railing and leaned on it, looking down. The reflections on the river’s surface weren’t nearly so vibrant tonight, weren’t nearly so breathtaking, and he knew it was because of her absence. She’d granted the sight its beauty.

No, that wasn’t quite right. She’d been the source of all beauty that night.

“This is where you agreed to be mine for one night,” he rasped, squeezing the railing hard enough for his claws to scrape the metal. Kian closed his eyes, bared his clenched teeth, and let out a long, harsh breath. He almost swore he could smell her on the breeze, but no. That was his imagination, joining in with the rest of the universe to ensure he was suitably tormented.

Her laughter rose from his memory, ghostly and distant. Not mocking or malicious, not mean-spirited. It was simple. Delightful. As clear and pure an expression of amusement as there had ever been or could ever be.

Kian would hear it again with his own ears. He would taste her lips, her tongue, her flesh, would drink from her essence both of body and soul. He would hold her as they moved in unison, and he would ensure her pleasure was so immense that her mind would shatter. And he would feast upon that pleasure. He would gorge himself upon it. There was no choice in the matter.

Feed from Willow…or die this prolonged, agonizing death.

No more rest, no more sleep, no more futile attempts at seduction and feeding. Everything in him, all the strength and magic he had left, would be turned toward finding her.

Kian opened his eyes. “Sorry, Violet. One night wasn’t enough. You’re still mine.”

Eight

The midday sun blazed down on Kian. It wasn’t particularly hot, but gods was it bright. Even with the hood of his overcoat up and his eyes slitted, the light was barely tolerable. Each step annihilated a little more of his fading strength, but he kept walking at a steady pace, forcing his pained eyes to scan his surroundings. Every storefront, every restaurant, every car, the face of every pedestrian, none of it could be allowed to escape his notice.

Chance had brought him to Willow once. He’d given it every fucking opportunity to do so again over the last six days.

He’d been alive for more than four centuries. How was it possible for six days to have felt like a lifetime? How could his perception of time have been so drastically warped?

How could it be so fucking hard to find a single human?

Humans bustled along Memoree’s streets, coming and going from various eateries. Lunch time, they called it. He’d enjoyed a midday feeding every now and then, though nighttime hunts had always been the most bountiful.

He’d spent his days scouring Central Boulevard, starting at Eden and working his way outward. He’d been desperate enough to ask after Willow on several occasions, but such inquiries had produced no useful information. Most of the people he’d questioned had reacted to him with a strange blend of confusion and attraction. He’d chosen to ignore the third most common feeling they’d emitted—pity.

Kian didn’t want their fucking pity. He just wanted to feed.

Just wanted Willow.

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