12 comments/ 23477 views/ 20 favorites White Heart By: Trudy_Antone He caught her at the edge of town, feeding. Disgust clawed at his stomach as he watched her devour the tiny bundle, teeth ripping at flesh, blood flowing from the corners of her mouth. How could he have allowed this to happen? Stopping to rest during the long chase, he'd taken his eyes off her for only the briefest matter of time; time enough for her to procure a baby. Self-hatred coursed through his body. Somewhere an innocent mother was catatonic, collapsing in horror beside an empty bassinette; and all because he'd given in to human weakness, allowing himself to recoup because the chase had become more exciting than the kill. No longer. Soundlessly he withdrew the wooden stake from his belt, not needing to weigh it in his hands, not needing to adjust his grip because the stake was a part of himself, an extension of his body. He raised his arm, gathering himself to rush forward and strike. "You misjudge me." Her voice was a rich caress, cushioning his thoughts in dark velvet. He froze, muscles tensing. How could she speak to him so when he hadn't felt the push against his mind, hadn't felt the psychic heat that signalled he'd been sensed and found? His defences were better than that, equipped to repel the strongest will. Frowning, he warily lowered the stake, but not his guard, ready and waiting for the flurry of her predictable attack. Demons had their tricks, he knew them well – knew enough to project uncertainty when he was anything but. The lure and the bait were as important as the long hunt. Her head lifted; her long, elegant, hair shimmying down her back like a river of black satin. The electric thrill of it held his eye. She knew who he was, knew he would be dressed from tip to toe in black, knew that he wore a heavy, gold cross against his heart, knew that the jagged scar across his right cheek heightened his fierce magnificence. She'd been waiting for this moment for over a hundred years. Slowly she turned and raised her prize for him to see. He stared at it, unmoved, accustomed to atrocities and visions of insanity, but what she held startled him in a way that nothing had for centuries. It was a lamb, a piteous newborn lamb, not human flesh. For all the death and destruction he'd witnessed, sight of the bloodless creature shocked him unspeakably. He blinked, unconvinced – a trick of the moonlight, some impossible sleight of hand his enhanced eyes had missed. What sort of creature would condescend to animal blood when the sounds of the festival stirred the night? Sounds of small, vulnerable children playing in the darkness, the majority of whom were wilfully, wantonly separated from their parents, their protectors. Easy targets. "Do you see?" she asked. He said nothing, wondering what new evil this was, what fresh challenge he had encountered. "Ah." She laughed – a ripple of strength and sweetness that stole his breath. "You see, but you refuse to believe." "What are you?" he demanded, ashamed of the raw emotion in his voice. Not fear – never fear – but a telling combination of curiosity and need. "You know what I am." She stepped closer, revealing her face beneath the lamplight, her exquisite, alabaster beauty marred only by the blood on her chin, the vicious curl of her lip above the glint of white, elongated fangs. "Why else have you hungered for me, stalked me, tracked me to this place over seven long nights? You know what I am." "Yet you haven't partaken of human blood." Again he felt shame – shame that he had deigned to speak to her, shame that the mystery of her had stopped him from ending her life when he was close enough to drive the stake through her heart. She laughed again – she had known that she would confound him. The sound tightened his loins, rolling around him like a maddening haze, bringing to mind visions of tangled sheets and candlelight. "I am what I am," she said plainly, dropping the bundle to her feet and running the back of her hand over her mouth and chin, rubbing the red liquid from her skin. Her fangs retracted while she spoke, leaving a beautiful woman – no more, no less – and a sudden impression of innocence that rocked him to the core. "I ask myself why you would bother with me when there are countless others more deserving of your attention," she pondered. He didn't answer because she was unworthy of an answer; so far beneath his consideration that justifying himself would only drag him down to her level. He took the prey that crossed his path – that was all. There was no need to distinguish between qualities of evil. He had the time, the power and the patience to eventually hunt them all; to end the stain of darkness upon the earth. Rushing her with preternatural speed he pinned her against the lamppost. Her strength was great but his was mightier. It surprised him that she put up so little fight when he manacled her hands behind her back, chaining her in place. He stepped back, waiting for the beast to emerge – it went against the grain to slay her in her human form. She seemed like a sweet virgin, a pure woman of good thought and deed. He knew better. Angry all of a sudden, the ice cold righteousness that preceded a kill failed to descend over him. "Change," he demanded. "No." Her luminous eyes defied him, her head twisting to the side showing him the smooth porcelain column of her throat, the graceful knot that lifted and fell as she swallowed her fear. "Kill me as I am." "Change," he demanded, louder, his jaw contracting as he slapped her hard across the face. "No," she said softly, staring him in the eye with a sorrow that skewered his perception. He'd encountered hatred, contempt, mania, but this? Her psyche pierced his guard long enough to comprehend that it wasn't herself she felt sorry for, but him. Her pity enraged him. "Change you devil," he yelled, backhanding her with a fury that rammed her head sideways and back in to the post. "No." She righted herself and shook her head sadly, a tear tracing down over one smooth cheek. "I won't. I'm not a monster. I breathe the same as you do." His gaze dropped to her chest, taking in the low cut of her dress, the delicate rise and fall of her sumptuous breasts. Her cleavage was a dark valley in the lamplight, a black ravine that called to him. The stake twitched in his hand while another sturdier beast came to life, his trousers suddenly painfully tight. Her tear floored him. To grasp that evil was capable of such deceit...capable of tears. Dropping the stake he whirled away from her, furiously trying to overcome his heated body, struggling to restore his focus. He drew the bottle of holy water from his pocket and turned back, a dangerous smile hardening his lips. "Do you know what this is?" She nodded slowly, her unwavering eyes never leaving his face. "You want to hurt me first, to burn me with hate. You want to validate your kill. So be it." Her stoicism, her – dare he think it – courage, almost had his admiration. Almost. If she wasn't a filthy, defiled creature, he would find room in his heart for mercy, but he didn't have a heart, he didn't believe in mercy. The only thing that truly affected him was her lack of terror – usually sight of the bottle was plenty enough to bring out the beast. He unstoppered the flask, ready to fling the contents in her face...but couldn't. Her unearthly beauty was astounding. To ruin such a visage was akin to defacing a priceless Monet. Instead he went behind her and poured the tiniest amount on her wrist. Her scream tore the heavens asunder, masking the sizzle of bubbling skin. The smell of charred flesh assaulted his nostrils. With a practised ease he retrieved his stake from the ground and waited for the results to tell. His efforts were futile. He'd never experienced such will before, never met anyone capable of trapping the vampire within, had never suspected such power from a mere girl. "It burns, it burns," she screamed. "Oh God, please help me. Oh Father who art in heav–" He slammed his fist in to her temple, aghast at her blasphemy, incensed at the words of prayer falling from her corrupt lips. "Change you fucking bitch. CHANGE!" he screamed at her. Head bowed, her beast remained dormant but he caught a whisper of words, a chant of Latin so low that even his unnatural ears couldn't gather it. With a fistful of hair he wrenched her head up, cursing when he saw the whites of her eyes. She'd fallen in to some kind of devil trance. He pushed in to her mind expecting darkness, the black void that he'd found in every vampire he'd ever killed. As such, his mind was open, totally unprepared for the dazzling white that hit him, searing his brain and blasting him backwards. When he came to she was slumped at the foot of the post, out cold. *** For six days she defied his attempts to rouse her. He'd carried her home refusing to examine the reasons why he hadn't staked her and moved on; at the very least left her for the sunlight to consume. He told himself it was his peculiar sense of honour – his reluctance to kill unless the beast was at the fore. He consoled himself with the excuse that her unusual mind needed further examination. Not once did he admit to himself that her stunning face and the potential of her voluptuous cleavage had a potent hold on him. He didn't dare risk entering her mind again but he did resort to methods both foul and bloody to bring her around. Shallow cuts on her thighs elicited no response. Pushing her dress up around her waist had been a necessary evil. The discovery that she wore no underwear and the explicit vision of her hairless mound had haunted him ever since. His blood thickened in his veins every time he thought of it. It had taken all his strength to pull away, every ounce of willpower to not touch her, not slide his fingers over the tempting quim, not spread her legs and behold the secrets within, not lower his head and steal her unique flavour with his tongue. He'd allowed himself a sniff and that alone – the sweet freshness of her cunt – had near pushed him over the precipice, the hard throb in his cock demanding satisfaction. Angrily he'd rolled her over and seared her buttock with a hot iron, branding his mark in to her taut, flawless backside. He'd wanted her to come alive, screaming, fighting him off with sharp, gnashing teeth and removing all thoughts of sin. He'd wanted her beast to leap forward so he could slay it. Amazed, he'd watched as her wounds healed before his eyes, her skin knitting back together leaving no trace of any scars. Leaving her in chains under the watchful eye of a servant he'd retreated to his vast library, burying himself in lore and demonology until his eyes were bleary, his neck an aching crook. There was nothing, nothing that came close to explaining the anomaly of her mind. Foiled, he'd restlessly prowled his fortress, only venturing out at night to hunt and kill. He'd tracked an old man, notorious for serial killing and turning all of his hapless victims. He'd found a lair of four teenage boys and picked them off one by one, enjoying the paranoid delusions of the last survivor. And on the sixth night he'd stumbled across a young trio in the woods. A maiden had been sandwiched between two sadistic men, screaming her heart-wrenching suffering to the moon. A master of the bait, he'd watched with interest, knowing a dangling worm when he saw one. Had any misguided fool rushed to her rescue she would've been the first to devour the catch. He waited as the men senselessly thrust in to her slick pussy, her tender ass; waited for the blood lust to consume them. He was staggered by their stupidity, their openness, though it didn't surprise him. This was the greed that marked their kind – the inability to control their darkest impulses. It made his job easy – too easy – the animalistic frenzy leaving them incapable of guarding against him. He waited til their fangs burst forth then swooped down on them in the throes of orgasm, decapitating the woman and the man who humped beneath her, driving a stake in to the beast that filled her ass. Three in one night. It wasn't a record by any means but it helped to cool his growing impatience with the enigmatic girl. "Master." The call sounded in his head, quickening his journey home. There could only be one reason for it – sleeping beauty had awoken from her trance. *** Her strange, fearless eyes traced his passage in to the room. He almost faltered when he registered the bottomless green of her gaze, the black rings that circled her irises. He had never seen eyes like hers, could not fathom the random fate of genetics that bestowed such splendour on one so evil. There was enough chain attached to her leg iron for her to sit with her back against the wall. She looked comfortable, serene, more at home than she deserved; it raised his hackles. Without speaking a word he marched to her tether, viciously yanking the chain and dragging her across the concrete floor, shortening her bonds and re-bolting the pin so she was caught in the middle of the room. "It won't work you know," she said quietly. What lovely timbre was it that leant her voice such silky magic? His head jerked up, his eyes unable to break her hypnotic stare. "You can cut me and burn me, and still you won't bring out the demon in me." He coloured, wondering exactly how much she'd been aware of during her comatose state. "I know you stared your fill of my naked body. I know you spent in your hand the minute you left the room." His fist lashed out, cracking her across the cheek. "You dirty bitch," he spat. He didn't know how she was getting inside his head, pulling his thoughts from thin air, but it had to stop. No-one had ever gained that power over him. No-one. "I know you want me," she confronted him, unflinching when he slapped her again. "I know you yearn to be inside me." "Fuck," he screamed, storming towards the door then stopping just as quickly. The stakes in his belt, the sword at his side... Who was the Master here? Vampires quaked at the sound of his name and here he was running from a feeble hostage, a pissy little woman who deserved to die. "So kill me," she whispered. He spun on his heel intending to do exactly that, beast or no beast be damned, but his heart thundered to a halt when he saw her pose. Kneeling on the floor she held her hair back with one hand, holding her neck ready for the swift cut of his blade. Her other hand was clenched in her dress, holding the front down, exposing her chest, her luscious breasts framing the point where his stake should enter. The coolness of the chamber raised her pert, rosy nipples like forbidden fruit. "Do it," she ordered, her eyes defiant, an intense shade of green like a spring garden after a sprinkle of rain. His cock stirred, thrumming to life with an inevitable greed. "Oh no." He shook his head. "If you think I'll make it easy for you, you are sadly mistaken." He almost walked out then and there, but another more tempting thought entered his head, a notion that couldn't be denied after years of experience – the certain knowledge that there was one fool proof way of bringing out the beast. He crossed the room in a blur and fell upon her luscious body, shoving her on her back so harshly that her head made a satisfying thud as it connected with the unyielding floor. It was a wonder her skull didn't split open. Contrary to the force of the blow, she didn't cry out, rather her hands meshed in his hair pulling him down for an ardent kiss. He smiled coldly, exultant that his plan was taking effect. Lifting his head he denied her her wish. She was lower than a whore, not worthy of his mouth on those red, desecrated lips. He moved down her body, sucking her nipple in to his mouth, biting down hard to hurt her. This wasn't about care, he had no desire to cater to her pleasure – this was about slaking his lust, punishment pure and simple. She struggled only minimally – seemingly resigned to her fate. Or perhaps she liked it rough. Her dress fell apart in his hands as he ripped it from her body, the sight of her bald pussy filming his eyes with red heat. Cruelly he forced her legs apart, pushing his pants down to his knees. In one savage thrust he rammed in to her. The barrier inside her tore before he realised what it was. Her scream of pain all but shattered his ear drums. He scrambled backwards, unceremoniously landing his bare bottom on the cold concrete, staring in horror at the slash of scarlet that graced his cock. Her legs drew up to her chest as she curled in to a foetal ball, sobbing in misery. Gods, how was it possible? Given the nature of evil how on God's earth was it possible? No demon in evidence, no vampire at all, just an innocent virgin who'd been brutally deflowered. If he hadn't witnessed the gleam of her fangs when he'd caught her feeding, the enormity of his barbarity would unhinge his mind, sending him crazy. He was Liam, keeper of the Way of the White, sworn to a code that precluded and defended against rape and pillage. Remembering the sight of her feeding was almost enough to expel the sympathy from his stunned brain – almost, but not enough. Her pitiful cries stung his body like salted wounds. Leaping off the floor, he fastened his trousers, realising for the first time that she had had access to his weapons and instead had chosen to caress his face, to clasp his head seeking his kiss. He could have summoned a servant but he was loath for anyone to behold what he did next. Striding from the room he entered his chamber lifting the luxurious fleece from his bed. Coming back to her he folded the material over her naked flesh. "What are you?" he asked, his voice surprising him with the tones of long forgotten gentleness. She turned her head and stared at him through tear flooded eyes. "You know what I am." "But how...how have you kept yourself pure?" "I have certain...powers. I hold myself apart from the others." He nodded, grudgingly obliged to accept her word though a part of him remained wholly unconvinced. Evil was evil. Guilt did not obliterate his suspicion – he'd lived too long for that. Perhaps her innocence was a trap, a steel clawed honey pit that threatened him more than any other foe. Still, he felt an odd kind of duty towards her. Sending a silent command to his minions he released her ankle bonds. "Come." He held out his hand. Rising from the floor she stumbled towards him. She seemed unbelievably trusting – another facet of her that screamed liar just as it begged him to believe. Bravely she stepped to his side before doubling over in pain. He swore, sweeping her in to his arms and carrying her through to his chamber. The bath was full, scented and steaming as he'd instructed. He stood her in it and turned to leave. "Don't go," she implored. "Please stay with me." He gritted his teeth, all too conscious of her nakedness, wondering if this was a ploy of the beast. "I could kill you at any moment," he reminded her, his back still turned. "I'm not afraid." Was that meant to incite him? Even humans were terrified of him, his temper, his prowess as a deliverer of death made him legend in their eyes. His servants bowed and scraped and kowtowed like spineless cowards. And this simple demonic woman declared herself to be undaunted? His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the lessons he would gift her. His sword whipped through the air as he whirled to face her, a fever of rage blanketing over him. She didn't move, didn't cower, didn't beg. "I am not afraid," she repeated, not a hint of a tremor in her voice. White Heart Ch. 02 (AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story contains a child under the age of 18 who in no way participates in any sexual acts.) * Was she a succubus? Was that the strange enchantment that came over him when he'd devoured her pussy? He'd lost all track of time and space and thought with his face buried between her legs. A thousand demons could've stormed his fortress and he wouldn't have had the wherewithal to remember his name let alone defend himself. But would a succubus scream 'Enough'? A succubus fed on pleasure and Liam knew he had delivered plenty. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he'd felt the tremors of her body, known the tightening grip on his tongue for what it was. He'd simply been unable to stop, unable to consciously lift his head from her heated core. She was mana on his tongue, paradise in his mouth. In the long, lonely centuries of his existence he had never tasted a woman so divine, so consuming -- so innately succulent he'd forgotten even to breathe. Now she disturbed his sleep. She disturbed his every waking moment. For all his meditation in the temple he found no respite from the brutal image of her splayed and chained across his bed, wanton, ready. Had he ever seen a face so fascinating, breasts so ripe, legs as well turned and endless? And her bald, sweet quim...melting and sweet, so achingly beautiful stretched open to his gaze. She had been silky, pristine under his tongue; he doubted if hair had ever sprouted there. Liam picked up his mead and hurled it across the room, watching the pale liquid bleed down the stone wall. He couldn't go on like this. This insistent vision, this carnal obsession, threatened everything he held dear. To lie with a vampire... Had he pledged and undergone the twelve trials only to be reduced to this? A man whose brains had toppled below the waist, led astray by his hungry cock. He was better than this. He watched dispassionately as Carlos entered, salvaging the tin mug from the floor, swiping at the cider with a rag. "Get out." The menace in his voice had his servant quaking with fear. Carlos disappeared as quickly as he had come. Liam knew what his servants were thinking. How could he not when their minds were in turmoil, their thoughts screaming in the frigid silence. They wondered, no, they debated, why he had allowed her to live for so long. The fact of her devastating beauty had been noted, repeated as if of vital import to every available ear. Miserable gossips the lot of them. One yardsman had dared to question if he was going soft -- not out loud, of course not out loud. The man was too afraid, too cunning to voice the sacrilege. He'd been sent packing, unaware of how close he had come to losing his head, but it wasn't Liam's right to take life for the sake of disloyal thought. Treachery had to be active, palpable before he could act on it. Cunt struck. They all thought it. And he...he knew the description was dangerously apt, too close to the bone for comfort. But there was a deeper truth. Her abilities posed a conundrum. A man of God and science had a duty to test and conclude; an obligation to unravel the questions she broached. "Master." The interruption brought a black scowl to his face. He turned to see Carlos hovering nervously in the doorway. "There is an emissary from Holfendren to see you. He brings a Lawman and six others. They have captured a witch." "Damnation," he thundered. "Tell them to burn her in the customary way. There is no need to pester me with trivialities." Carlos was prone, his nose brushing the cold floor. "She is barely eight years old my Lord." Liam shot to his feet, icy contempt driving him forward. Witchcraft was notoriously hard to prove, the accusation more often than not the result of a petty dispute or ignorant superstition. Even so, no-one knowingly risked a witch amongst honest citizens. One so devious could cause chaos. Incineration was the only solution. If innocent they went to their Maker, content to be spared the toils of misery on earth. If guilty, who would despair the end of a twisted soul? Either way, no harm was delivered. But killing a child... Killing a child was a swift route to hell. Thus, the cowards had brought the wretch to him. Better he should decide her fate and suffer the consequences. The girl was ushered before him, quivering with fear. Her eyes were coal black, incapable of holding his. Blaring with guilt they flittered fretfully from side to side. She had dealt in magic; he could see it clear as day without need to examine her mind. Some obtuse part of him refused to comfort the envoy. "Leave her," he instructed, neither confirming nor denying their suspicions. "But Lord, is she...?" "Time will tell," he answered, ending the audience. Let them go home and worry their possible mistake. Let them think twice before they bothered him again seeking answers. Watching them slink from his home with sycophantic speed, the light of hope was obvious in the child's eyes, only to extinguish with his next words. "Put her in the dungeon with the woman." He left before her childish heartbreak got to him, suffering a sickening lurch when he realised his mistake. The woman... He'd said the woman, not the demon, not the vampire, but...the woman. After the episode of the pained tongue he'd had her moved to the dungeon, shackled to the wall with a foot of chain and nothing but a chamber pot and bucket of water for company. In many ways this was the answer to his prayers. The vampire had had no sustenance for nigh on two weeks. Starvation was another tool to bring out the beast. The temptation of a young child in the same room should prove too much for her. And when it did, he would be ready. The sudden twist in his gut appalled him, the hope that sprang free in his soul -- hope that she proved him wrong. *** He went to the observation room peering through the narrow aperture in to the dungeon. Knowledge of the woman's splendour had seared its way in to his blood, but fresh sight of her was wondrous. Dazed, he gaped at the scene below him. Dishevelled, unbearably thin, a smear of dirt across her face not unlike the scar marking his own cheek, she exuded an aura of calm and patience, a quality of peace that had eluded him since their first meeting. His servants had cloaked her and thoughts of her lush nakedness beneath the blue robe set his heart pounding. Crying, the girl-witch huddled in a corner as the vampire crooned to her, words so soft he couldn't discern anything but her melodious tone. Slowly the child rose and walked over to the woman. Liam stood with baited breath waiting for the beast to strike. To his utter surprise the woman pushed the girl's hair back from her forehead, wiped the tears from her eyes and engulfed her in a warm hug. Whispering, they sat together on the stone bench, the woman rubbing the girl's back for comfort. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes he would not have believed it. Part of him rejoiced while the baser, cynical aspect that ruled him demanded to know what she was really up to. Her actions flew in the face of convention -- the opposite to everything he knew about vampires. Like the slaughtered lamb on the first night, he wondered if the woman was playing tricks. Slowly her head lifted, those dark-rimmed mysterious eyes so full of sadness, looking straight at him. He reeled back as if she'd struck him. How did she know he was there? How could she be aware of him when he hadn't felt her psychic probe? Gathering himself, he strode down to the dungeon to confront her. Stealth was impossible given the shriek of the heavy portcullis. He waited until the iron grate was clear then entered the room. One solitary torch burned in a sconce high upon the wall, the dank air was frigid, chilling his bones. The child cringed back behind the woman burying her face in her hands. "What is it that you two speak of?" he asked, his tone ominous as if they conspired against mankind, against him. The vampire's unnerving, fearless eyes fixed on his. "I tell the little one not to be afraid. That no harm will come to her here. That you will protect her and see her safely home." A dangerous stillness settled over him. "By what right or presumption do you make such promises on my behalf?" "Please Milord, the child has done no wrong." The vampire slipped to her knees, prostrating herself at his feet, her arm pulled back at a strange angle still cuffed and chained to the wall. Midnight black hair spilled over his boots and across the floor -- silk against stone. Sight of her genuflection made him angry. "Get up!" he roared. Toadying from his servants was expected, but from her...from her it smacked of wrongness...of leverage. She knelt up and he was treated to an unadulterated view straight down her robe, the tempting push of her pale breasts nestled in blue velvet. "The child has done no wrong," she repeated softly, obstinately. No. What was wrong was the sudden urge he had to lift her to her feet, pull open her robe and plunge his swollen cock in to her. To take her here and now. To sate the burning greed in him that grew stronger everyday. Quickly, he looked away, his eyes resting on the child. "You have practised witchcraft." It was a truth, not a question. The girl-witch made to speak but was silenced by a sudden look from the vampire. "Sir," the woman intervened. "The girl, Justine, her father died from plague. Her mother fell ill. She used herbs and tried a simple strengthening spell. The only power in her words came from childish need. There was no malice in her intent." She paused, her eerie gaze sweeping around the dungeon, taking in the instruments of torture hanging from the walls. "This is no place for a child. Especially when she is an innocent." Innocent. A sudden stab, a vision of bright blood smeared across his erection reared its ugly head. He had punished the woman and she had been innocent. The enormity of his discovery affected him more than he cared to admit. He made a decision that would likely send him straight to hell. Within seconds a servant appeared in the doorway. "Remove her," he pointed at the child. "Grace," she screamed, reaching out for the vampire. "Be strong sweetness," the woman crooned, tenderly brushing Justine's reaching hand as she was taken away. When the girl's cries fell silent she asked, "What will you do with her?" He hardly heard her -- he was frozen in a stupor. Grace. Her name was Grace...such a lovely name, a pretty name, befitting of her as a maiden, not so her vampire origins. He snapped himself from his pointless reverie, lust warring with anger, warring with self-contempt. "You tell me," he drawled, a self deprecating curl touching his lips. "You seem to be the only person on this earth who speaks their mind to me. You tell me." She stared at him for a moment. Once again he was struck by the notion that she pitied him. "Justine has an aunt in Wintervaden. She would be safe and loved there." He closed his eyes, wincing at her words. Once he had loved and been loved. Once there had been eleven others like him, all walking the earth in purity. Now the world had moved on and he barely thought of those days except to think of the slaughter as a lesson -- a lesson to guard against weakness. His jaw tensed. "And what would be the benefit to you? What will you gain if I do as you suggest? Do you expect rescue from her fellow witches?" His words surprised her; widened her eyes to two deep pools of startled green. Then suddenly she laughed -- the tinkling smooth, bell-like sound that confused him, aroused him, sent him crazy with visions of entwined limbs and heated flesh. "Your home is known as the impenetrable fortress for a reason. Do you put such little faith in your own defences?" Where his home was concerned, no. Where she, where Grace was concerned, he was starting to realise her abilities were so far reaching anything was possible. "Why do you advocate for her?" he asked, more than curious. "Someone must stand up for her," she replied, frowning softly as if the answer was self-evident. For some inexplicable reason, sight of the furrows on her brow sent a sudden rush of blood to his loins. How long had it been in this mad world since he had witnessed a kindness? More...a kindness that was sincere. "Milord," she said softly, catching hold of his ankle, that look of pity, no...of empathy, shining from her face. He meant to step back, he wanted to step back, instead, he moved forward, the light in her eyes impossible to resist, the yearning in her voice speaking directly to his need. Her hand gripped the back of his leg as she hugged his knees. Her face was so close yet too far away from the burgeoning part of him that longed for her, had hurt for her from day one. Her eyes lifted to his, trapping him in bottomless tranquil green. Slowly she rose up on her knees and pressed a tender kiss to the hardening swell of his groin. His heart stilled then sped up, his lungs working faster as she nuzzled him, rubbing her soft cheek back and forth against him, lifting his steel to a painful throb, filling him with reckless craving. A voice in his head screamed madness, this is madness, but sight of her pink tongue darting from her mouth, licking at her lips as she moaned softly, ended his control. Caught in the fatal grip of desire he gave in to the madness and eased his pants down over his hips, gasping at her keening whimpers as he held out his rigid flesh, guiding it to her questing tongue. Gods! She tasted him from base to tip, long delicious laps that made him shiver and burn and catch hold of her head, running his fingers through the satin sensation of her hair. He wound the silken stands around him and stroked his length with them as she bathed the head of his phallus with her tongue. The guilty pleasure of it was agonizing. Letting go of her dark tresses, his hands strayed to her jaw urging her to take him inside. Those scarlet lips were so delicate and pretty opened wide; they encased him, sucked him in to the warm cavity of her mouth, the hot, wet depths of her throat. His hips rocked forwards as he slowly began to thrust. It was wrong, so wrong of him, but he couldn't pull out, couldn't stop himself from groaning aloud, from pumping in to her mouth with increasing abandon, all the righteous voices of conscience drowned out by his mounting desperation for release. He knew he should desist, that what he was about to do was sacrilege, but he couldn't help himself, couldn't unlock his eyes from her gaze let alone remove his flesh from her exquisite mouth. Helpless, he shook and wrenched and shuddered, unleashing his sacred seed to the back of her throat with an animalistic howl. Time seemed to slow, the air about him thickening to treacle as his mind left his body and soared high above him, observing him from a distance, his spent flesh still juddering in the aftermath, his stomach clenching in lust and anguish as she daintily swallowed his deposit -- something he hadn't let happen since Ariel died. Conscience and sanity returned, slamming him back to earth with a distressing thud. Hanging his head in shame he stepped out of her grasp, resettled his trousers about his waist and listened with shock to his own rasping breaths, his bewildered, tumbling thoughts. He'd fed a vampire the seed of life, violating the laws of his kind. And she had suppressed the rules of her very own nature. She could've bared her fangs and shredded his manhood. Why hadn't she? Falling to his knees before her, he clasped her luminous face between his hands. "Why?" he gasped. "Why didn't you hurt me? You must be starved for blood." Her eyes were bleak, her skin tightly bonded to her elfin bones, her fragility from lack of nourishment suddenly blaringly obvious. "My hunger for you has nothing to do with blood." As if a crazed stranger possessed him he lifted his wrist to her mouth. "Here," he offered. "Drink." She wrenched away from him, climbing on to the stone bench and bringing her knees to her chest. She was shaking, her head moving frantically from side to side. He went after her, pulling her ankles to the ground and forcing her legs open, kneeling between her feet. "Drink," he demanded, exposing his neck to her, ignoring the dark warning in his head that screamed cunt struck, subordinated, brought to your knees by a coarse, common orgasm. Bending her head she lowered her lips to the beating pulse in his throat and kissed him. "I will not. I cannot," she whispered against his skin. He tugged her head back and stared in to her eyes, strengthening his mind and pushing forwards in to hers. Again the sensation of blinding white but this time he was prepared for it. He searched her motives seeking deception and found something unbelievable yet irrefutable. She was telling the truth. The truth from a vampire! And more. Like the shocking discovery that she had been a virgin, he found another glaring inconsistency. She had never tasted human blood. His mouth fell open in wonder, his mind grappling with the warped reality before him. "How...how," he stuttered. "How is this possible?" She smiled wistfully, her angelic face so sweet that it caught his chest in a vice and squeezed. "That is a long, long story..." her voice trailed off. A story he wasn't yet ready to hear. She continued, "Justine needs to go home, she needs you to take her." He stood immediately. "I will go now." But before he left he lifted his hand to her face and gently wiped the smear of dirt from her cheek. *** The child cowered on the floor in the small chamber. A meatless little thing with stick-like limbs, she eschewed the comfortable bed, the warmth of the fire, the thick pile of the rug, to hunch on the cold stone behind one giant urn. "Come out," he ordered, not meaning to sound so stern but it had been an age since he had dealt with a child. Justine's ragamuffin face peered around the corner, terror shining in her eyes. "I will not hurt you," he said gruffly, gritting his teeth in annoyance. She stared for a moment then pulled her head back in, whimpering in fear. Grace had made her feel safe but this man was a monster -- huge, forbidding, fierce. Liam growled with impatience. Damnation, if she wouldn't come to him he was compelled to go to her. Lowering himself to the stone in front of her he tested a kindly smile that resulted in her cringing even more. His grin was grizzly, the result of muscles long unused. Had he stared in a mirror he would have been horrified at the grimace on his face. Without preamble he examined her mind. Her aura was yellow-orange, the typical range of a child, but there were splashes of red, markers that told him she was no stranger to pain and suffering. Evidence of black magic was nowhere to be found. Grace had told the truth. Again. Except... It was only because Justine's thoughts were open and laid bare that he became aware of what had truly occurred in the dungeon. When he had scanned Grace he had seen only what she wanted him to see. He hadn't noticed at the time that the rest of her was hidden, kept secret. And when she had mentioned the child he had obeyed immediately, not stopping to question or press her for further answers. The realisation was like a deluge of ice water down his spine, freezing his blood to the core, settling like an iceberg in the pit of his stomach. Was she controlling him, using him, lying by omission? Remembering her unearthly healing powers he suffered another nauseating lurch. Did she have the ability to repair her own hymen? White Heart Ch. 02 "I want Grace." The child burst in to tears. Her words pulled him back to the present situation. He nodded gravely. He could understand the child wanting Grace -- he understood it very well, but in a vastly different manner. He wanted answers. He wanted no more confusing enigmas. He wanted his self-containment, his peace back. But most of all he wanted Grace's shapely legs wrapped around his waist, her tight heat drawing him in. He made a silent oath that he would have that, by God he would, but until then... "Can you sit a horse?" he asked Justine. She shook her head. "Very well." He got up from the floor and stretched his weary limbs. He would take the child home this very night. Moreover, Grace was going with them. He would not travel with a girl child alone; she needed care he had no earthly idea how to provide. And he would not leave Grace to his servants. God knew what she could induce his powerless underlings to do if she could manipulate him so effortlessly. Was he playing straight in to her hands? Contrary to making him angry the thought excited him. He had ways and means of limiting her, he found himself hoping, praying she would put him to the test. White Heart Ch. 03 Her bewilderment was priceless. For once he felt the subtle caress as Grace finessed his mind and met resistance. Her technique was opposite to his -- where he went in with an arrow, she sent out tendrils of mist. Satisfaction brought a twist to his lips; he'd blocked her from his thoughts and discovered something about her. If only he'd remembered the charm earlier; an ancient relic with warding power that had hung in the temple for eons, thick dust encrusting the chain. Now it was tucked under his shirt beside his cross, humming with energy. He vaulted his horse with a lithe spring, feeling carefree, almost young again. A silent summons sent a whir of black racing past the horses -- the beast hounds would accompany them, skulking in the shadows at the four points of the compass. Travelling long distance with a vampire and a child he was taking no chances. They set off; the ladyfolk riding in tandem behind him, their mare tethered to Lanzig his grey stallion, with the pack horse following behind. Wintervaden lay five nights to the East; they would ride through the dark and make camp before dawn. Grace could not travel in sunlight, and stopping at night with the scent of a child would draw all manner of evil. Liam rode with his mind stretched out before them, probing the approaching landscape for surprises. The hounds ran likewise, reinforcing his psychic guard, staying in a constant mind meld with each other. They formed a protective shield that only the ignorant or mad would dare penetrate. It took extraordinary concentration to maintain, more so than usual. He put it down to the feminine whispers of his companions and silenced them with a harsh reprimand, satisfied they wouldn't connive behind his back. Skirting the ruins of an obsolete city, they passed toppled skyscrapers and collapsed houses. The giant statue of the White Lady, so magnificent in its time, lay on its side in the mud, both arms sheared off. Those alive today didn't know the meaning of the word 'bomb', but Liam knew what the countless gaping craters signified. He was one of the few men on earth who remembered electricity, computers, cars that ran on oil... The world had since moved on, leaving nothing but cold memories and weed infested rubble. Many eyes were upon them -- vampires, demons, mutants -- none brazen enough to interfere with their passage. The fear he inspired kept them at bay, at least for this night. The crumbling city presented a warren of hides where evil could go to ground. Soon he would launch an assault on its citizens but for now his mind passed over and on, letting the monsters be. As night wore on they came to a refuse dump stretching leagues to the north. Polluted and dead it housed no life, not even the smallest insect. Justine became agitated, forgetting his call for silence, speaking for the first time in hours. "A klear pit," she cried, making protective wards in the air. "No child," Grace corrected her. "The word is nu-clee-ar." Liam started in surprise, craning his neck to face her. "Can you read?" he asked with a frown, his question causing a perceptible crack in her composure. He sensed no small amount of frustration for giving herself away. "No," she shook her head, her gaze not meeting his. Un-fooled he brought Lanzig to a halt, studying her with narrowed eyes. "Who taught you?" Literacy had died out centuries ago. Only those with supreme power maintained the art. "I don't know." It was a lie. He knew it and she knew he knew it. He had a sudden impulse to haul her from her horse, to beat her until her skin burst open and the truth bled out of her. He told himself, were it not for the little girl, he would do exactly that -- vent his rage without mercy. If Justine were absent he would force Grace to her knees and extract what he wanted... Liam's violent thoughts switched to erotic images of Grace on her knees in the dungeon, her ruby lips forming a tight seal around his manhood. Cursing under his breath he turned away, urging Lanzig on. His determination to coerce the truth from her kept him moving forward, his thoughts simmering over her falsehood as the moon rose and fell above them. Soon they would camp and Grace would have nowhere to run. They entered the Glede Forrest and crested a long, low rise, emerging in a clearing that Liam knew well. He dismounted Lanzig and reached for the girl; Justine was light as a dandelion. He set her beside a rock and came back for the woman. Raising her skirt she swung her leg over the mare, gifting him a glimpse of creamy thigh and moulded calves, distracting his mind with the thought of other, sweeter jewels beneath her clothing. Catching her around the waist, he brought her to the ground, his stomach clenching as her hip slithered over his. Quickly he moved away before -- God forbid -- he pressed her to his reckless cock. The hounds settled in the shadows, guarding the perimeter as he made camp in silence, spacing the two tents with a calculated distance, watching as Grace carried the child to bed. "Wait." He stopped her as she edged inside. "You will bed with me." His news was greeted with joint protests, but the hard bite of his eyes brought silence. He sent the child in to deep sleep with one mental push. Grace reluctantly left her charge, meek until the tent flap closed behind her. "You can trust me with the child," she declared, following him to bed, her chin set at an obstinate angle. "We have opposing definitions of trust." Lifting his shirt over his head he shrugged it off, noting the way her eyes roamed over his body. His expression turned hard. "I bet my life on the fact that you can read. What else have you lied about?" he asked. The angle of her jaw, her pupils flickering up and down, were omens that she wasn't as sweet tempered as she seemed. "Only that which you are sure to disbelieve or misunderstand." "Riddle upon riddle," he scoffed, seating himself cross-legged on his bedroll. "Like the preposterous statement that you can be trusted with a child." "I can." "Of course you can," he agreed, but his pale eyes raked over her. "The question is why? You can read, you refuse to partake in human flesh, you have kept yourself pure." It wasn't his way to acknowledge she would still be pure if it wasn't for him. He locked eyes with her, considering. "You have a conscience of sorts." "Yes." She said it with conviction; and a hint of impatience with him for labouring the obvious. "You may sit," he indicated the foot of the bed. It was early for proper ceremony -- by rights he should stand her for ten turns of the clock -- but somehow, traditions seemed to dissolve around Grace. "You must be hungry." There was bare hesitation in her movements as she sat; a furtive look in her eyes that she veiled by staring at the ground. It stiffened his spine; sharpened his concentration. Wasn't there a blush to her cheeks, a newfound redder tint to her lips? His mind turned inwards to agonised bloody images of a torn throat and tiny, trusting hands. A child silenced in the night. All the blood drained from his face. "What have you done?" he roared, launching from the tent and speeding across open ground, a blur under the shadows. Grace was mere seconds behind, following him to Justine's bed. "How could you think--" she began, dropping to her knees. "Shut up," he stopped her. The child was peaceful in sleep; for a long time Liam just watched her, not quite trusting the rise and fall of her chest. She didn't stir when he turned her over, inspecting her neck and limbs for puncture wounds. Tucking the blankets around the girl, Grace tried again. "You must know by now, I would never--" Grabbing her by the arm he hauled her out of the tent in to the cold and shook her. "But you've drained something haven't you? Haven't you?" "Yes," she trembled in his grip, "a rabbit." He stepped away, his mind ticking, analysing. Not once had she dismounted her horse without him. Not once had she left his sight. The only means he could think of involved magic or supernatural allies. One hand strayed to his chest, brushing the crucifix that hung around his neck. He wasn't aware he'd made the gesture. "How did you get the rabbit?" he asked, touching his belt. "If you lie to me..." His stake was in his hand, needle-sharp and fire-hardened. She moved in front of him, undaunted. Again, that spark of courage he so admired yet simply couldn't credit to a vampire, or a woman. "I will tell you all," she said. *** It couldn't be true; his mind rebelled at the thought, unable to grasp it or turn it, his stomach churned with acid. "Call them," he rasped, his throat working in short bites. No matter what she said, he couldn't believe it. They answered to no-one but him -- the connection was sacred, it couldn't be severed. He didn't feel the shiver. Not a whisper or breeze or thought. One moment he was watching her, his eyes hanging on the flawless quality of her skin in the moonlight, and the next, the next...the hounds were rushing in from the four points, crawling on their bellies to her feet. To her feet... Agony and wrath... He leapt on her, knocking her to the ground, the wooden stake driving towards her chest before a blinding tonne of fur smashed in to him, his shoulder erupting in agony. Howling, he fought the dog off, regaining his legs only to sway on his feet in shock. His hounds...nurtured for more than half a millennia, were the only creatures on earth he held faith in. He couldn't comprehend that the rancid fangs of one of his own canines had been lodged in his flesh. And all because of her... They circled her as she approached him, their bodies slinking low, paying homage. It infuriated him, watching his animals worship her like a queen, even as she walked and talked and looked like one. So beautiful... "Let me see to your shoulder." He could drown in her eyes, the dark rings drawing him in, holding him buoyant in a tranquil sea. Grace... She'd plagued him, aroused him, defied him. He'd wanted for nothing for so long, now his desires ran to three simple things: to undo her mind, to fuck her senseless, to end her life. Nothing could happen with the dogs by her side, with everything once his, now hers. He sent her one hate-filled glance then he ran, disappearing like smoke through the trees. First his family, then his brothers gone, now the dogs taken from him, their allegiance no longer trusted. He would loathe Grace more if he didn't feel the loss so keenly; the pain in his heart more debilitating than the night he'd found Ariel in Sander's bedroom... His chest tightened; he recognised the thought for the self-deception it was. He could ponder the dogs but he could not touch on his dead wife -- that was a memory that stayed locked else it drove him mad. He ran faster. A giant tree loomed in the distance, its leafless limbs reaching to the heavens. Dead for centuries, its root system was deeply ensconced, too secure to topple. Once the entire forest had been filled with monolithic flora, now this lone specimen was the last of its kind. Not unlike him. Liam stumbled in to the tree, leaning against the solid trunk, his fists clenching and unclenching, the loneliness of his existence haunting him. His eyes were gritty and he swiped at them with the back of his hand, the prospect of his long, bleak future, stretching before him, a painful tapestry in his mind. How had he come to this sudden, aching vision of isolation? His mother's expression when he'd told her; her eyes skipping away from him, her blonde fringe falling forward to cover her face... "Do as you must." Her voice -- full of pride -- instilling in him an unrealistic confidence, but later he'd heard her arguing with his father, the urgent fear in her tone. "He is yet twelve, the youngest to ever take trial." She'd begged her husband, "hold him here for awhile longer. He cannot go without your leave." But his father, a cold and distant man nearly thirty years her senior, had backed his son. Hand in hand behind the line of priests, they'd witnessed him as he walked out into the desert. He had never looked back, never regretted a single step... "Gods!" The sob ripped from his throat, shocking him, disgusting him. The more he tried to stem the swell of emotion, the more his eyes stung, flashes of his life tumbling through his mind. Ariel in her bonding dress, her smile radiant as she pledged to him... Ariel holding Sander up for his kiss, his son tangling chubby fists in his hair... Ariel changing, her face suddenly long, then sharp, then bloody, every shred of humanity gone... "No!" He raged. "Not this." Sander only three years old, his tiny throat shredded. His filicidal wife, his beloved Ariel, with congealed smears over her mouth and chin... Slumping against the tree, the rough bark pressing in to his naked chest, Liam struggled to recall the prayers that returned self control. His thoughts were fuzzy, drowned in visions of his broken family. What point was there in Keeping the Way when hope was beaten and dead? The teachings eluded him, the words he had known nearly all his life, lodged deep inside, blocked. The Gods had deserted him. The last of his formidable guard shattered; his face caving in as he shed the only tears he'd succumbed to in five hundred years. "My son," he cried, his voice tearing in half the way his heart had done so long ago. "My son." He laid his forehead against the bark and sobbed, deep shuddering breaths racking his lungs, rivulets of salt tracking his cheeks. Lost in despair he didn't hear Grace approach, didn't know she was there until a gentle hand touched his back. With that soft touch he lost reason, springing to the attack with a vicious war cry. She grappled with him; her strength superior to his as she forced him down, staking him to the ground with her body. Liam twisted in shock beneath her, his fist coming up to cuff her but she countered in a rush of movement, batting his wrist away before he could blink. She bent over him, her mouth open to speak. He heard the brutal hiss; smelt the acrid stench of smouldering flesh as her collarbone came in contact with his crucifix. To think he had wished for it, wanted her to change.... Helpless, his mystical strength surpassed, he gave himself up to fate, waiting for his aberrant life to end as he stared up in to her beautiful face, Grace's fine-boned, elegant visage... His blood froze as her dark-rimmed eyes bled out, scarlet tears sparkling on her lower lashes, her pupils turning black and lifeless as stone, then firing again with a malevolence that made his soul quake. Almost were-like, she bayed at the sky, her canines elongating as she rolled her neck and arched her spine, her sinuous body undulating above him. Gods help him; the musky smell of her, the downward thrust of her hips, brought his cock to a painful full mast even as his mind recoiled in terror. Liam forgot to prepare his way, forgot to think or utter his last vows as she lunged at him, her razor-sharp teeth snapping at his jugular. He bucked at the first cut but only his feet jerked; she kept the rest of him immobile, his head arrested in her hands. Staring wide-eyed at the lightening sky, Liam's last thought was that he would never know the colour of the sunrise. There was a snap and a wrench at his neck, jerking his head sideways. The jolt seemed to lift a veil; his will to live suddenly shining through him like the burning sun. He bolted up beneath her, capturing her with his thighs and knocking her back to the dirt. Stake in hand, his fatal stroke plummeted downwards then faltered. Grace was deathly still; crystal tears bathed her cheeks, flushing the blood from her eyes. Her fangs had retracted, her lush mouth sensual and innocent as ever. Pushing in to her mind, he sensed nothing but trust and surrender -- she would give herself up to fate just as he had embraced his. The discovery angered him, confused him, enraged him all over, that a vampire could act in the Way of the White, a lowly woman no less. He pondered a dishonourable death, holding her until the sun came up, then he remembered how easily she'd overpowered him. Resetting the stake at shoulder height, he intoned, "libera te ex inferis," and aimed the killing blow. Were it not for his obtuse reluctance...his superhuman speed and control... As it was, the sharpened wood slashed across Grace's chest carving a shallow gash as he diverted it to the ground. Caught between her lips was a length of black chain; the charm he had acquired in the temple dangled from it, the oval gem fluttering against the pulse beneath her jaw. Raising his hand to the identical place on his own neck, his eyes fixed on the charm, the dark fire of the opal in stark relief against Grace's pale skin. Liam searched his skin for tell-tale wounds...and found nothing but a scratch. Her lips brushed the back of his hand when he lifted the necklace from her mouth, dragging his awareness down below the waist. The throb in his groin was unbearable. Clenching his teeth, he got off her. "You were after this," he held up the charm. "Why?" Grace sat up, so smooth and refined. Liam turned away before his trouser seams burst. "That is The Warden," she answered. "Did you not know what you were wearing?" "A simple thought block," he rebuffed her, ashamed to admit that he knew nothing substantial of The Warden, a trinket he'd had in his possession for five hundred years. "I wear it for protection when I travel," he uttered a complete untruth, enduring the resulting shiver of conscience. "You do not," Grace snapped. She wasn't dim-witted; she knew he had worn it to keep her out of his thoughts. "If you'd worn it before you would surely be dead. You've survived the burden for a third of a day when most wearers succumb to suicide in the first five handfuls of the clock." Liam straightened. Had she saved his life? "The Warden is a prison." Grace got to her feet, brushing the dirt from the back of her skirt, her hands drawing attention to her buttocks, the thought of which promptly dried his throat. "It blocks thoughts, emotions, dreams, abilities, and holds them inside, magnifying the most painful parts. The punishment is two-fold; if the wearer is not driven to despair and suicide, the gem will steal their strength until the heart refuses to beat." She moved closer, holding his forearm with a feather touch, her knowing gaze searching his face. "Your strength will always be greater than mine." "I could kill you at any given moment," he clarified, exasperating her. "So you have mentioned, although you've had a sword at my throat and a stake at my heart, and still, here I am!" Her words softened. "The dogs only came to me because you were fading. You haven't lost them, I promise you," she squeezed his arm. "You haven't lost them." The chain slipped from his fingers, reassurance flooding him, followed by the revelation that she'd reduced his body to nothing but a handprint of skin; the only part of him sparking with life where her fingers rested in open affection. Grace was an abomination. By law her life was forfeit; but her touch, her words, her serene face and hypnotic eyes... Her essential goodness revealed time and time again... Liam forgot the vows he'd made: the heartfelt decision to never kiss another after Ariel; the laws of proprietary that ruled if he did so choose, it was sacrilegious and criminal to take the lips of a demon. Bridging the gap between them he crushed her to his chest. At first his mouth rushed to meet hers, but the touch of her quivering lips under his, the realisation of how slight she was, gentled him. He paused, unsure, then she swayed in to him and the last of his reserve melted away. She broke their kiss; rescinding the contact only to renew it again and again. His eyes closed; his mind awash with a profound sense of coming home. White Heart Ch. 03 Holding her face in his hands, he tipped the angle of his head and parted her lips with his tongue. Grace's mouth opened easily, her hands skimmed over his back as she sucked his tongue inside. Their mouths fused completely, the pleasure of it swift and intolerable. Moaning, they sagged together. Liam dragged her backwards until the trunk of the giant tree supported him. His hands fell to her waist, shaping her body through her dress while he ravaged her luscious mouth, his tongue thrusting, twining, curling about hers. He could sustain this wonder all day -- the thorough exploration of her mouth -- were it not for her hips swirling against him, her motions bringing to mind other places he wished to claim with his tongue, the rhythm of her body inspiring his mouth to move faster and deeper over hers, drinking from her lips like the fountain of the Gods. He brought her closer still, wedging a knee between her legs, lifting the back of her skirt until he cupped her naked bottom. Her skin was silky smooth and soft -- her velvet curves swelling in his palms just so, irresistibly alluring. Tightening his grip, his fingers dug into her flesh as he wriggled her up his thigh, pressing her to his aching erection. Grace squirmed against him. Arms hooked about his neck her head dropped back, her dark lashes long and low over clouded eyes, the pulse in her throat gone wild. He fell on her with a hiss, his mouth lapping at the hollow above her collarbone, his hands rubbing circles over her buttocks -- prising her cheeks apart then releasing them. She moaned every time he did it; the thought uppermost in his mind that parting her buttocks stretched and tugged at her glorious quim. He went for her core with both hands: one to cup her ass, to spread her wide open and keep her that way; the other to run a testing finger through her slippery folds, finding her dripping wet. He groaned, his cock twitching. He stroked his fingers against her from front to back, front to back, over and over until his hand was slick with her moisture and the air was saturated in her heady scent. Her neck rolled forward, her forehead resting on his shoulder. She moved urgently against him, her whimpers breathy and low. He slowed for a moment, his fingers drifting to her entrance, not prodding, just teasing in soft caresses, conscious of how easy it would be to breach her inner lips and thrust inside. Lifting her head to look at him, her eyes held his as she pushed down. The tip of his finger slipped in to her, held there while she clenched around him. "Please," she begged, writhing on his hand. He obliged with a growl; his finger sliding fully home, exploring her secret depths with reverent care. "Gods," he moaned, his entire body now fraught with need rediscovering how tight and smooth she was. She jerked on his hand, her face burrowing in to his neck. "Hold," he whispered, withdrawing his finger little by little, the track of her intimate passage, the whisper of her breath against his skin, the high, needy pitch of her moan, hitching his erection higher, then harder still when her mouth sought his, her teeth tugging at his bottom lip, her tongue spearing in to him. Turning her sideways, the divide of her bottom cradled in his hand, he penetrated her, two fingers charging into her pussy then stroking her deep and slow from the inside out. Grace cried out in surprise, her exhalation drawing out in to one long shudder. His fingers scissored over her swollen labia, holding her open and raw, inviting the wind to cool her juices before he slid two fingers in from the front. Alternating hands drove her crazy. It was the sweetest torture of the flesh Grace had ever suffered, his fingers curled in to her both front and back. He plunged in to her, impaling her, the hand between her thighs lifting her moisture to her pouting clitoris, the tiny bud jumping under his touch as he circled and stroked and pinched it, all the while holding her heavenly ass hostage, his fingers caught deep inside. Her hips rolled, her moans escalating, her nails biting in to him as she gripped his shoulder, barely upright. Her inner muscles convulsed around him; it brought him within a hair of losing his wits and spending his lust. He gritted his teeth, his mind savage, his hands playing her faster, harder, deeper, driving in to her quim the way he wanted his cock to be. Her words were unintelligible, her eyes screwed shut as her head lolled from side to side, her body suddenly boneless although her pelvis was bold, backing in to him, swirling under him, lifting the tempo of his hands, A strangled gasp and Grace fell in to the abyss, her cries muffled in his shoulder. Violent tremors seized her body as her muscles rippled around him; his fingers gripped and expelled if he didn't hold them there, pushed up inside her. The strength of her climax, the sound and feel of her... Alien emotions hovered over Liam and took hold. Slowly he pulled out of her, restoring her skirt with a pang. Gathering her close, he rested his chin on her head, soothing her back, absorbing the jerky aftermath of her body with his own. Staring in to the distance, the reality of what he was looking at took precious moments to sink in. Storm clouds hid the fact that dawn now moved beyond them -- slashes of red and orange lit the sky, scattered leaves on the forest floor took shape, vague shadows rose from the gloom. Liam's brow wrinkled in dismay. "We must go." He brushed his lips over her hair and pushed her away. Her eyelids were half-closed, the glaze in her eyes sweet and sexy and slightly unhinged; how he imagined she would be if she was moving beneath him, joined to him. Biting his lip he forced himself to remove his hands from her, only to catch hold again when her knees failed. The drowsy flush of her cheeks, her owl-like blinks to regain equilibrium... His world shifted again. How endearing she was. "Grace," her name was a privilege to speak. He shook her slightly, conscious of her fragility more than her strength. "We must leave." To punctuate his words the sky sent a distant roll of thunder followed by slow, fat drops of rain. The weather -- though fortuitous -- could not halt the progress of the sun. Taking her hand he tugged her behind him, lengthening his stride as she found her feet and took the lead. Breaking in to a run they moved over the ground at breakneck speed until Liam let go of her hand, gladly trailing in her wake. Running free with her, watching her hips swing beneath her dress, her hair flowing backwards in the wind; he laughed aloud, exhilarated. Rushing forwards he trapped Grace around the waist, one arm slung low around her hip, his mouth fastened to her neck. He couldn't remember ever wanting a woman so badly. The thought stilled his movements, his conscience crashing down around him. Backing off, he came to stand in front of her, his mouth opening and closing, once, twice, before the question spilled from his lips. "When we reach camp..." The break in his voice exposed him -- he had never felt so small. "Do I have your leave?" His concession was monumental -- lowering himself to seek permission for what was rightfully his. She was a demon, a slave, his prisoner. His heart iced over as he awaited her answer. Her emerald eyes flashed with mischief -- a new facet of her that surprised him, disarmed him, and hardened him like steel all over again. Her honeyed voice swept over him, "That is the only reason compelling me to run home." He stood mesmerised as she whirled away with one last blazing look over her shoulder. Then, blinking the rain from his eyes he raced after her. *** (LOTS of sex coming in the next chapter, I promise... Please don't forget to vote and comment, I appreciate every one x) White Heart He held the tempered steel to her throat. "You'd do best to remember where you are." "Yes...sir," she lowered her eyes and slipped down in to the water, closing her eyelids as the luxurious warmth encased her silken skin. Did he detect a hint of censure in her voice? It was hard to tell, but all the same, an unmistakable air of disapproval crackled in the air. "You mock me," he said, sheathing his blade, his quiet stance belying the violence singing through his veins. "No," she denied, lifting her breast above the water. "I think it is this that mocks you." The bruises where his teeth had nearly punctured her skin turned his stomach. But if she wanted an apology, she had the end of eternity coming her way. Stiffly he turned away from her, marching from the room without another word. *** Keep your friends close, your enemies even closer... The old adage was worthy of note, harder to administer. She was chained to his bed, naked, asleep, and the soft rub of her bottom across his groin was pure torture. He surrendered to his need, pulling her hard against him as he sated his morning erection in the pleat of her delicious ass. Her smooth skin was more tactile, more enticing than the brush of his silk sheets. Her cheeks had a knowing grip about them, holding him tight as he slid back and forth against her. His balls tightened, drawing in, imploding as he drenched the base of her spine in a shuddering rush. He knew she'd come awake somewhere between start and finish but the knowledge didn't bother him. She was an insignificant wench, a cursed vampire beneath his regard. He made to move away but she captured the hand that rested on her hip and brought it to the fullness of her breast. "Please," she moaned, her hips thrusting back against him, undulating in needy circles. Rolling on to her back, her crystal gaze enthralled him. "Please Liam," she begged, artlessly spreading her legs. Hesitation had never been a part of his nature. Hearing his name spoken in such honeyed tones broke his resolve. She was too beautiful to ignore. He had a debt to pay. Hard hands smoothed over her, floating on her skin like liquid gold, warming her flesh, branding her body with desire. He loomed over her clasping her thighs between his knees. Her back arched off the bed, begging him to touch her pebbled nipples but he ignored her silent plea, moving his hands everywhere but... He teased her with a firm hand. Her skin was incredible, so soft that every inch begged to be explored. His slow acquaintance with her body was driving her wild. That was his aim. To show her who was boss and have her begging for more. "Please," she cried, squirming beneath him, lifting her hand to her breast, squeezing her nipple between her fingers. Abruptly he got off her, cuffing her wayward hand and adjusting her bonds until her limbs were splayed out, chained to the four posts of his bed. In pulling apart her legs he noted the glistening sap in her pussy and laughed callously at the torment in her eyes. "Beg me," he told her. "I need...I need..." "What?" he laughed. It was his laugh that broke her; his cold, hardhearted amusement. Her eyes filled with tears, streaming from the corners of her eyes in to her midnight hair. "You," she moaned. Leaning over he flicked one nipple with his tongue, laughing when she all but levitated off the bed. Sitting back on his heels he watched her tears flow thick and fast. "Please God, please, please..." Gagging her mouth with his hand he glared down in to her face. "You don't ever speak that holy word," he warned her. Finally he got what he wanted – a show of terror in her eyes, a bending to his will as she nodded. Lying across her, he gave in to her pleas, squashing her ample breasts together and tonguing her nipples with deliberate thoroughness. He licked and sucked and teased with his fingers until her hips were lifting off the bed, ploughing the air. She was desperate for relief and he was determined to deny her. He could've played like this all day, drawn out the game until she was hysterical, but the scent of her seeping pussy filtered through his malice, snapping his control. Without warning he moved down her body and licked her steaming crease, the taste of her proving his undoing. She had such a beautiful pussy, such a hot, dripping cunt that he lost himself in her tight folds, eating her out with a fierce gluttony. Her clitoris was built for his tongue; his mouth was bereaved without the feel of it caught between his lips, without the concentrated clamping suction only he could give. He couldn't get enough of her taste, plunging his tongue to the hilt again and again, desperately seeking the fountain within, growling as he bathed his face in her mouth-watering heat. He couldn't breathe and didn't care. He wasn't aware of his own hand wrapped tightly around his cock. Wasn't aware of the number of times she came apart, screaming his name. Nothing pierced his frenzied haze until a word exploded in his head sending him reeling off the bed. "ENOUGH," she screamed. "Enough, oh please, ENOUGH!" He came back to himself with a sickening jolt, noticed his cum on the bed centred between her ankles. He was gasping for air, his lungs heaving with the effort. His tongue ached and he had no idea how long he'd been trapped between her legs. Trapped was a strange word to use considering her legs were held apart but he knew it for what it was. A dark force that held her beast in check while unleashing the animal in him. Unfamiliar emotions crowded his mind. It took him a moment to understand what they were – addiction and fear. Bile rose in his throat but he forced it back down. She lifted her head from the sheet, her eyes a stormy toss of the sea. "Liam," she cried, "Liam." She wanted to tell him he was magical, exhilarating, transforming. He took himself to the side of the bed, moving his legs with an immense strength of will. His hand shot out, clasping her throat in a death grip. "You don't ever speak my name again. You don't dare defile my honour with your filthy whore's lips." Hurt clouded her eyes, hurt and something indefinable he didn't care to analyse, but her pain was enough to restore his equilibrium. Satisfied that he'd put her in his place, Liam the White strode from the room.