Eternal Hunger rb-1 Read online

Panicked, Sara released him and shot back to the steps. When she did, shafts of sunlight broke free all around her and flooded the space. Like a snake in search of a mouse, defying all logic and reason, the light slithered about, searching for its prey. She was delusional—had to be. And yet, as she watched, white-hot rays from the sun above them clamped on to the man’s wrists and forearms, searing into his flesh, branding the sensitive skin with the same strange key-like symbols that etched his face.

  “Oh my God. Your skin.” She shot forward again, blocking him from the light. “It’s smoking—” Sara dove into her purse, grabbed her cell phone. She flicked it open.

  NO! The man reached out, knocking the phone from her hand.

  She gasped. “What the hell are you doing?”

  IN.

  Ignoring him, Sara reached for her cell phone again.

  “Please,” he said aloud for the first time, his tone dark and impassioned. “In.”

  “No!”

  The man grabbed her wrist, his thick, long fingers squeezing lightly. Sara sucked in a breath as the muscles in her neck gave out and her head dropped forward. She felt instantly warm and light-headed. She didn’t know how it was possible, but his fingers . . . on her skin . . . it made her feel—

  “Ahhh,” she uttered, electric currents shooting up her arm into her neck, her face. Her mouth started to water and she heard something in her mind again—something unintelligible. And yet she instinctually understood every word. She got to her feet, went to her door, and shoved her key in the lock.

  It was incomprehensible, but she knew exactly what she had to do, and once the door was open, she bent down and curled her wrists under the man’s armpits. It was like trying to move a bulldozer, and after several seconds of struggling to pull his enormous frame over the threshold, the man dug his heels into the concrete and helped her. But once inside her apartment, he let out a pained groan and collapsed on the floor, lying against the hardwood, still as a stone.

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on here,” she said in a panicked voice, quickly drawing the curtains over the closed blinds, “but you need a doctor, like, yesterday.” She ran to the couch and searched behind the cushions until she found the cordless. She was about to dial 911 when she heard something moving in her kitchen.

  She stopped, looked up. “Who’s there?”

  There was a moment of utter silence; then a man stepped out from behind the wall that separated the two rooms. “It’s me, Dr. Donohue.”

  Wearing a suit that was two sizes too big, the young man stared at Sara with wide brown eyes. He was tall and thin, his straight dark hair almost to his shoulders now. It had been just hours since he called the hospital looking for her, but three months since she’d last seen him, since she’d stopped treating him—three months since he’d snuck into her office and declared his love, offering her the bluebird that lay stiff and lifeless in his hands.

  Sara tightened her grip on the phone as she moved to stand in front of the man on the floor in an utterly asinine attempt to protect him. “Tom ...”

  “You remember me.” He smiled broadly, looking remarkably like a dimpled serpent. “I didn’t think you would.”

  Adopting the motherly tone he’d always responded to, Sara said gently, “Tom, you need to leave now. This is very inappropriate.”

  His smile widened. “You said that to me once before, remember?”

  “I think you should go home. We can talk later.”

  Tom wagged a finger at her. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve tried to talk to you, but you won’t answer my calls.”

  “If there’s something you really need to see me about, then maybe we can schedule—”

  “No!” He frowned, his eyes filling with tears. “You’re lying.”

  Fear rose in Sara’s throat, but she kept her eyes trained on him as she searched the phone’s keypad with her thumb. Where’s the fricking on button?

  “I’ve been waiting all night for you.” He moved toward her, his polished loafers making a scraping, sandpaperlike sound against the wood floor. “Where were you?”

  “Working.” Sara shifted her hand higher on the cordless. To the left, then up two buttons.

  “Working with him, that disfigured mute you love so much,” he said with an exaggerated pout. “All you care about is him. The rest of us are just your experiments.”

  “That’s not true,” Sara assured him gently. The image of Gray that shot into her mind made her all the more conscious of remaining alert and alive.

  Tom noticed the man on the floor behind her, cocked his head to one side. “Who’s that?” His tone instantly changed from childlike to menacing. He looked accusingly at her. “You brought someone home? Are you going to be with him? Let him touch you?”

  There. Sara stabbed the call button on the phone. Knowing she had only seconds before Tom’s aggressive side surfaced, she looked down and dialed. But she never completed the call. Tom descended on her, knocked the phone from her hand. Terror pulsing in her chest, Sara ran for the door, but Tom was right behind her. He reached out, grabbed her wrist, and hauled her back against him. She winced in pain, but she wasn’t about to give in. The little bastard was going to get a knee to the balls if it was the last thing she did. She kicked at him, twisted in his grip, tried to bite his shoulder, get her hands free, get to his eyes with her nails.

  “I like you like this,” Tom hissed in her ear, clamping his hand over her mouth. “Why do I like you like this?”

  Where was the phone? The front door? Was it still open?

  Sara’s gaze went wild, looking, searching as her breath remained jailed inside her lungs. Then she saw it—the front door. Open a crack. She had to get out, get free. She bit down on Tom’s hand, then jammed her elbow into his gut.

  “Bitch,” Tom cursed, releasing her.

  Momentarily free, Sara made another run for the door, but tripped over one of the couch legs and landed on her hands and knees.

  Get up! Move!

  Behind her, she heard Tom mutter the words “You little whore ...”

  She scrambled to her feet, her lungs aching for breath. But she never made it to the door. Tom caught her coattails and yanked her back. She stumbled, losing her balance as panic closed in on her. She pushed against the feeling. There was no way she was going to be taken down like this.

  She scissored her legs, but just as she managed to get her feet under her, Tom grabbed her shoulders and whirled her to face him. Sara opened her mouth to scream, but before the sound cleared her throat, Tom’s fist slammed into her face. Time stopped, then slowly picked up again, and then she was flying back, her head hitting the hardwood floor with a nasty thump. Blinding pain assaulted her, followed by pins and needles. No. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs ached for air, but there was none. The room narrowed. From the back of her mind, she heard a growl—slow and menacing. Was it her? No . . . didn’t come from her. She struggled to stay conscious, turning her head to the side and blinking.

  Again. The sound of an animal.

  Her gaze lifted. The man on the floor. Was it him? No, he was still lifeless, eyes closed, skin pale, except for the key-shaped brands on his cheeks. Oh God, she wanted to help him, warn him, but her body felt impossibly heavy—

  Suddenly, without warning, the man’s eyelids popped open, his head jerked back, and within seconds, he was on his feet and heading straight for Tom. Sara struggled to stay conscious, to focus on the impossible scene playing out before her. The man was so huge, his face a mask of animal rage.

  “Who the hell are you?” Tom cried out, backing up, his eyes little balls of terror as he stared at the stranger.

  “Very thirsty,” the man hissed.

  The image of Tom’s terrified face drifted down the tunnels of Sara’s clogged mind. So tired. She just wanted sleep. Her gaze flicked upward. The man had Tom in his clutches, his feet dangling off the ground like a puppet. Tom was swinging his fists . . . hitting nothing but air . . .

 
Sara’s head pounded with the slow beat of her heart. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was the man’s teeth.

  No. Not teeth. Fangs.

  3

  The puny male squirmed in Alexander’s grasp. He weighed less than nothing, his jabs little more than the delicate slap of a butterfly’s wings. Alexander’s fangs quivered against his lips, the stinging pain from his burns fueling his ire.

  “Please,” the human begged, his watery brown eyes wide and scared. “Let me go.”

  Alexander lifted his brow. “She asked for release, didn’t she, cockroach?”

  “What?” he sputtered. “What? I don’t—”

  “The woman asked for release,” Alexander roared. “And did you listen to her? Give her what she asked for?”

  Trembling like a wind-up toy, Tom stared at Alexander, his bulging gaze moving from one branded cheek to the other.

  Alexander grabbed the bastard’s neck with both hands and growled, “Speak, human! Did you give her what she asked for?”

  “No,” Tom croaked.

  “No. You terrified her. Wounded her.” Alexander brought the man’s face close to his own. “You deserve no less than that.”

  Tom started to cry. “Please . . . no.”

  Unfazed, Alexander leaned in and sniffed the air around the human. His nostrils flared angrily. “Weak blooded and pissing in your pants. You should be grateful you didn’t manage to kill her, human. I would like nothing better than to end your miserable—”

  Alexander’s skin began to vibrate and arrows of pain shot through him, making him wince. He looked down, at the hands that encircled the human’s neck, and his jaw went rigid at the sight before him. The sun-seared burns on his wrists and forearms were fading, shrinking into permanent tattoos—the markings that identified him as a morphed male, just as the ones on his face forever identified him as a progeny of the Breeding Male.

  How had this happened to him? A Pureblood paven didn’t go through morpho until his three hundredth year. He had another century, for fuck’s sake! His fingers dug into the thin skin of the human’s neck. Just a few days ago, he’d been a creature of the night and of the day—of a life that was his own. Then the hunger hit, followed by the sun . . .

  A sound, nothing more than a sigh really, floated up to Alexander. The woman. She stirred. Alexander glanced down, and his temper ebbed slightly. The human woman who had heard his thoughts, who had saved his life, now writhed in slow motion on the wood floor several feet away, her heart-shaped face contorted in pain.

  Alexander changed his grip on the male, one hand slipping under his arm, the other remaining around his throat. He squeezed, just enough. Killing the piece of shit, pulling the breath from his body, would surely be a proper punishment for what he’d done, but Alexander knew that such a temporary wave of satisfaction would lead to big problems, problems he and his brothers had made every attempt to avoid—that is, until the premorph hunger had claimed him.

  He released the man, and with a defeated sigh, the skinny human passed out and slid to the floor, his long body hitting against the wood with a dull thud.

  Alexander went to the woman and dropped to one knee beside her. She breathed comfortably, but the red bruise on her pale cheek was already starting to darken and swell. Rage rippled through him like the aftershocks of an earthquake, and his hands and fangs trembled with the desire to tear into the flesh of the human passed out behind him.

  The woman stirred again, her full lips moving, her brow coiled with tension. Her color was good, but she needed rest and a doctor. Until then, Alexander would offer her what comfort he could. In addition to new powers morpho provided, individual gifts were also given to each Pureblood paven. Alexander already understood his as well as he understood his own name. He brushed back the woman’s long, dark hair and placed two fingers on her temple, breathed calm into her blood, then watched as her body relaxed. When he believed her to be sleeping gently, he reached into the pocket of his coat for his cell phone. Dammit. It wasn’t there. He looked around the room, his gaze quicker than it had been only hours previously. Near the threshold leading into the kitchen, he spotted the cordless. He reached in its direction and muttered a terse, “Come.” The phone shook against the ground, then flew across the room and into Alexander’s waiting hand. He stabbed at the numbers, then pressed the receiver to his ear.

  “Alex?” Nicholas’s voice was laced with panic. “Where are you?”

  “I need two cars at 340 West 11th, off Hudson. Garden apartment.”

  “Why?” Nicholas demanded harshly.

  “I have two unconscious humans and no protection.”

  “No protection?” A stunned silence vibrated across the line. “What have you done?”

  “Protection from the sun,” Alexander said angrily.

  “What?”

  “I’ve gone through morpho.” The words were bitter on Alexander’s tongue.

  There was a pause. Then Nicholas uttered a curt “Impossible.”

  Yes, Alexander mused, as the brands on his hands and face twitched with residual pain. “Get the hell over here. I need to find out what’s going on.”

  Ten minutes later, Nicholas and Lucian walked through the door. Both standing well above six feet, both broad and lethal, they surveyed the one-room apartment and its contents with the same military vigilance they’d relied upon in battle more than a century ago.

  “Damn,” Lucian said, his severe sand-colored gaze shifting from the man on the floor to the woman on the couch. “You did it.”

  “Did what?” Alexander snapped, standing sentry beside the woman, monitoring her physical condition.

  Lucian tossed the black cloak he’d brought with him, a makeshift sun shield for Alexander, over one arm of the couch. “Drained them both.”

  “Bullshit,” Alexander growled. “The woman’s blood is untouched.”

  “And the man?” Nicholas asked, walking over to Alexander, his stride heavy with predatory grace.

  “In a coma, I believe,” Alexander said.

  When Nicholas reached his eldest brother, his black gaze moved over Alexander’s face and forearms. “Have you seen yourself?”

  “No,” Alexander said, his jaw tight.

  “It’s not pretty.”

  “Then not much has changed, has it?”

  A quick grin touched Nicholas’s lips, showing off the tips of his fangs. It was gone in an instant. “You have the markings of our father.”

  The circles branded into his cheeks screamed “I am descended from the Breeding Male.” Alexander nodded. “Yes.”

  “And of your true mate,” Nicholas said, eyeing the key-shaped markings within the circles. “Is this good news or bad?”

  Alexander sniffed. “You mean am I relieved that I don’t carry our father’s gene to screw and impregnate any female that crosses my path?” He heard Lucian snort with amusement behind him. “Yes.” He was glad of that, and had felt deep concern for the day he would morph and find out what future he had been given. But was this good news? Instead of a Breeding Male’s empty circle, he had the mark of a true mate inside of his, and his body, without his consent, would soon be on the hunt for her.

  “Going through morpho explains the extreme hunger,” Nicholas said. “Is it gone now?”

  “It is different,” Alexander said. “I have more control, but the blood I desire isn’t as random.”

  Nicholas’s ink black brows drew together in concern. “What are you saying? You must be selective in the vein you choose? Not just any female will do?”

  “The hunger remains, but it too has morphed into something I’m not exactly sure how to feed.” His nostrils flared. “Blood has become the appetizer ...”

  “Not the main course,” Nicholas finished for him.

  Alexander said nothing.

  “Sounds great. Can we finish the question-and-answer portion of this game show later?” Lucian said, impatience registering in his tone. He looked at Alexander, arching one pale brow.
“Are you going to tell us what went down in here?”

  A growl began to build low in Alexander’s chest. “Take care not to push me today, Little Brother. I don’t feel so good.” He raised his chin and inhaled deeply, trying to rid himself of the unnecessary aggression surging through his blood. “Sun came up and I needed shelter.” Alexander looked at the woman, felt a deep tenderness roll through him. “She provided it. Without question.” His voice conveyed a hint of awe.

  “What about the man?” Lucian asked.

  “He was waiting for her. The little prick attacked her.” Alexander stared at the bruise on the woman’s face as she slept peacefully. A low snarl escaped his lips. “I should have drained him.”

  “Good thing you didn’t,” Lucian uttered tightly. “That would’ve been another problem we don’t need.”

  Sensing another round of morphed male hostility in the air, Nicholas asked a practical question. “What do you want to do with the man?”

  Still hovering close to the woman, Alexander eyed his brother. “You take care of him, Nicholas.” He lifted one thick eyebrow. “Make sure he never comes back here. Make him forget that she even exists.”

  Nicholas nodded quickly. “Done. And what about her?”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Lucian offered with a wicked grin.

  “No!” Alexander snarled, his upper lip lifting, exposing his fangs. “No one touches her.”

  “You sure the hunger’s eased, Alex?” Lucian said, his grin widening. “You’re acting like an animal over a feed. Perhaps she has the vein you desire?”

  Nostrils flared, Alexander stared at Lucian, ready to strike with either words or fists.

  “Easy there, boys,” Nicholas said dryly, stepping between the two. He eyeballed Alexander and said in a low voice, “Duro.”

  The tender word for “brother” barely registered with Alexander. Blood was rushing in his ears as he tried to keep himself under control. This was not the debilitating pangs of hunger; this was something altogether different—a barely restrained ferocity when it came to the woman who’d saved him. Jesus, how could he even think about striking his brother? The brother he’d protected and cared for, for more than a century?