Sharon Page - Blood Curse

But she had never been in such a vulnerable position in her life.

“Please untie me.” It took every ounce of control she possessed, but Ophelia spoke in the meekest voice she could.

“Not just yet, my dear. You look very appealing this way.”

The softness of his voice sent a shiver of terror down her spine. What did he want from her?

“Please . . . my arms ache. I’m frightened. Do you mean . . . to kill me?” There, she’d asked it.

“No, Lady Ophelia, I do not mean you any harm. In fact, I might be the closest thing to a savior you have. Now wait there. There is something I must do—to ensure your safety. Then I will be back.”

Ravenhunt drove his curricle into the stews that ran off Whitechapel High Street. He had no coachman, kept no servants.

He’d lived alone in his rented house on the outskirts of Mayfair ever since he’d returned to England. Lady Ophelia was the only other person who had been in it.

He slapped the reins sharply to set his two blacks galloping down the cobbled street. With expert touch, he veered around carts and slow carriages.

In London, none of the naïve and innocent mortals had any idea what monsters prowled their streets. Some vampires hunted the elegant, wider boulevards of Mayfair, or the dark streets surrounding the gentleman’s clubs and gaming hells. For the purpose of feeding, Ravenhunt now came here, to the maze of intertwined, narrow lanes, and rickety buildings packed with unfortunates.

When he’d first been a vampire, he’d been driven by lust and hunger. Too many of his victims had been fair maidens or voluptuous courtesans. He tried to forget their faces now. Those pretty faces wild with lust as he’d drunk their blood, then white with fear as they understood he was taking their lives along with their blood.

The prettiest ones he had changed into vampires, then abandoned.

He alighted from his carriage and tied the reins to a post. With his gray coat swinging around him, he strode deeper into the stews, passing through a narrow passage onto a dark, stinking lane.

“Slumming, Ravenhunt?”

“Feeding,” he answered brusquely. “I don’t hunt fragile maidens anymore, wolf. I like my prey bigger and stronger. Unlike you, I like my food with fight.”

The wolf was the Duke of Wolfcairn, prowling the stews in human form. As a human male, he was two inches taller than Ravenhunt. He was lean, with black hair and a shock of white-gray in it. The wolf’s laugh held the undercurrent of a growl. “I don’t prey on the weak or the fair either, Ravenhunt.”

Wolfcairn wore a gentleman’s attire and carried a gold-tipped walking stick. Ravenhunt dressed to disappear.

“I forgot. You aren’t Ravenhunt anymore. Gave that up to your young cousin. Too cowardly to keep up the ruse of mortality?”

Damn, he hated encountering Wolfcairn. The wolf liked to goad him—just as Wolfcairn liked to goad all the outcasts of the demon world who hunted here, in the depths of darkness, dirt, and poverty.

Raven was an outcast. He avoided all members of the demon world, like other vampires, wolf and dragon shifters, warlocks, satyrs.

There were many vampires in London. The vampire queens controlled different clans. There were even the “tamed” vampires who belonged to the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena.

Raven claimed no allegiance to any queen or any vampire clan.

In the shadows, Raven saw a warlock perform magic tricks with handkerchiefs and flowers to dazzle a large-bosomed ladybird who had been waiting on the street corner in a low-cut velvet dress.

Raven came here for blood, as did the wolf. Others, like the warlocks, came for sex.

“I am not cowardly,” he said coldly. “I gave up my life and title to protect someone I love. You are damned arrogant, Wolfcairn, and bloody stupid to keep your title. Unlike you, I don’t need a title to prove my power and superiority.”

“Indeed? What about a wager? A thousand pounds’ wager that, if we chase the same prey, I will catch it first.”

“I don’t have time tonight.”

“No time? We have eternity, man,” Wolfcairn pointed out.

“Someone is at my home, waiting for me.”

He remembered what Lady Ophelia had looked like. Stretched out on the bed and tied up.

Lovely, slender limbs. Her shift had been soft, clinging muslin that draped damned fetchingly over her pert, pretty breasts. Her golden hair had fallen from her pins, and it flowed around her in a halo of shimmering waves. Innocence shone in her big blue eyes.

Hades, it was like handing a six-year-old boy a cream cake and warning him not to eat it.

His cock had been going mad in his trousers, throbbing, pulsing, and bucking against the placket.

And her neck—

Pure temptation. Ivory skin, soft and perfect.

He had to get control of his hunger. He couldn’t bite her and feed from her. So he’d come here to do it instead.

“Why aren’t with her, you fool?” Wolfcairn asked. “Why hunt for prey in here when you have a delectable treat at home?”

“Never mind, wolf,” Raven growled. “I accept your wager.”

A woman’s sobs reached his ears. He saw the wolfman turn his head toward the sound and tip up his nose as if he was scenting.

“A female in distress?” Wolfcairn asked.

“Probably a dockyard brute abusing some poor, bedraggled street tart.”

“The perfect appetizer,” the duke said. “I will even give you a head start, vampire.”

“I don’t need favors from you,” Raven snapped darkly. “On the count of three.”

But by the time he’d reached two, Wolfcairn was already running for the dark alley. Screams now came from there.

Cursing, Raven ran, using his vampire strength to catch Wolfcairn. He couldn’t lose this meal. Not when he had to return to Lady Ophelia.

How could he have just left her here?

She should be thankful he was gone and he hadn’t hurt her. He was obviously mad. How could kidnapping her and tying her to a bed make him her savior?

Ophelia shut her eyes. Toad. Warty, smelly toad.

Calling him names did help to stave off fear.

Would he come back?

Her stomach rumbled. She had not eaten since her dinner at Mrs. Darkwell’s and she had not eaten much. She had been too caught up in the excitement of planning her escape from the house. No one had noticed her lack of appetite since she ate alone, of course, so she would not accidentally touch someone.

A mouth-watering aroma reached her nose.

Her tummy clenched in sheer pain. Dinner now seemed like it had been a century ago. But if those delicious smells were for her, she was not going to feel grateful, for heaven’s sake.

The only reason she was hungry was because some dangerous, villainous man was holding her prisoner. Out of pride and anger, she should refuse his food. But she had learned through her captivity with Mrs. Darkwell that she had to eat, even when her stomach was in knots with fear. Starving herself hardly helped in an escape.

Could she appeal to the servant bringing the food? Maybe convince whoever it was to free her?

Hope flared. Then the tiny flame of it went out as fast.

Ravenhunt strode into her room, carrying a tray laden with dishes. Sweet scents and savory aromas swirled around her.

Heavens, she hated this man.

It was a crime he was so handsome. That behind the high cheekbones, full lips, and dramatic black eyes lurked the heart of a madman.

He smiled. She stared up at him, mute with fury. How desperately she wanted to kick him. How could he smile kindly at her?

“Are you hungry?” he asked softly. He put the tray down on the vanity table.

“Yes,” Ophelia said, keeping her voice shaky and weak. “I am starving. I’m faint with hunger. Can you untie me so I can eat?” She hated sounding like such a weak ninny. Ravenhunt made her want to roar like a tigress and slash at him with claws.

“Sorry, love,” he answered gently, a rueful smile on his lips. “Then you would touch me, and we can’t have that.”

“You’ve already touched me,” she pointed out dryly. “It didn’t hurt you. And the gloves make no difference, usually, just so you know.”

“I do know that. I made certain I did not touch you for long. I wouldn’t want to risk what those pretty hands could do to me.”

“You touched me for quite a while, though, bringing me here. Normally that would make someone seriously ill. But you are—you are stronger. I want to know who you are! And how you know what I am!”

“I was hired to kidnap you, love, and I had to be fully warned about what you are.”

“Hired?” She squealed the word. “By whom? What madness is this? Who would want—?”

“Questions later,” he interrupted. “First you must eat. Afterward we will amuse ourselves.”

“For heaven’s sake, let me go.”

“I’m sorry, love, but I cannot. You will be here for a very long time. You can entertain yourself by asking questions. I have other ways of amusing myself.”

“How are you going to do that?” She hated him and his smugness.

He grinned. “By pleasuring you.”

Pleasure her?

“You are completely mad!” Ophelia shouted. She hated this. Hated being bound to a bed, utterly at his mercy. She had read horrid novels at Mrs. Darkwell’s about girls being taken captive. It wasn’t thrilling in reality. It was terrifying.

With Darkwell, she knew why she had to be a prisoner. She’d accepted it. But she didn’t deserve this. This she could fight.

She had begun hurting people with her horrible power when her monthly courses had started. Ever since then, she’d tried not to cause pain to anyone.

But she wanted to hurt Ravenhunt.

“You can’t touch me,” she threw at him. “You just said so. You can’t pleasure me. You must keep away from me.”

“So they say,” he responded, in the typical jaded drawl of a London gentleman. “But Society also used to say I was completely mad. And you are hungry.”

As if he’d summoned it by his words, her stomach growled again.

“Unfortunately, I assume you still consider me a foe, so I cannot take the risk of untying you yet.” Tossing that casually over his shoulder, he walked past with a small table, which he set beside her bed. On his next journey to her side, he brought the tray and set it on the table.

“I apologize for taking so long to prepare this.”

Ophelia sputtered. “You should apologize for making me your prisoner.”

“Considering I saved your life, pretty one, you should be thanking me.”

“Saved my life? What rubbish—”

She broke off. Ravenhunt stood at the side of the bed, one elbow propped against the bed column. She had forgotten how tall he was—over six feet. Gracefully, he settled on the edge of her bed. She fought against the ropes, but couldn’t get her hands close enough to touch him.

A moment ago, she would have happily slapped her hands all over him to hurt him. Now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to kill him. Not until she found out the meaning behind his cryptic words.

What did he mean, he had saved her life?

She opened her mouth to form a question and a spoon slipped in. Something creamy touched her tongue. Hunger made her close her lips around the silver spoon and suck off something that tasted like sweetened chocolate. It startled her. It was dark and lush and wonderful. She had never tasted anything so good.

She released the spoon. Stared up at him. “Who begins a meal with the dessert?”

Shadows clung to his high cheekbones and full lips. His smile was gone, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Someone who is trying to make amends.”

Firelight reflected on his dark, dark eyes, making them gleam like the eyes of a predator. She flinched.

He looked away and pressed another spoonful of the creamy chocolate to her lips. “I forgot you need light.”

He put the spoon down. The bed creaked, the mattress lifting as he stood up, long legs straightening. Firelight limned him with a reddish-gold glow as he moved across the room. A light flared, then another and another. He left two candles on the vanity, and returned, carrying one to the bedside table.

Strangely, the fact she could see him made her hope that seeing her might touch some decency in him. The way he had fed her was surprisingly gentle. And he had spoken of wanting to make amends.