Shadow's Claim (The Dacians, #1)

by Kresley Cole

His wanting for this female was primal, undeniable, bordering on . . . savage.

Her taste was bliss—her cries, the scent of her dark hair, the way she moaned with each swirl of his tongue. What a gift he’d been given with this sorceress! Impulses warred. He wanted to suckle her for hours, to lick her sex and taste the orgasms he’d wrung from her. He wanted her pale hands gripping his cock, her red lips sealing around it as he thrust. To feed his length inside her . . . inch by throbbing inch.

He snarled against her breast, increasing his suction as he drew his head away. Then to her other nipple. What would it be like to pierce that taut peak with a fang? Blood from the sweetest little font.

Panting breaths between plump, red lips. Hips rolling with need. Nipples wet and swollen from my tongue. His heart thundered for her. Forever for her. She’s stunning. All she needed was his bite, emblazoned on her skin.

He could scent her desire. She needs to be mated.

She is o comoara, a treasure. My treasure.

He knew he had only a second before he ejaculated for the first time in centuries. Two choices. Rip down his pants—or raise his wetted fingers from her sex to his lips. The latter won. As he sucked her cream from his fingers, he groaned around them, beginning to spill into her hand.

“Ah, my wanton little sorceress”—his heated words fanned over her ear, making her nipples pucker against his damp chest—“you are a treasure.”

But I’ve had a sample of your taste, dragă mea, maddening me. First I feast. . . .”

“So that is the way of it? You believed I was another when you gave yourself so freely!” He captured her wrists in one fist.

Between gritted teeth, he said, “I am Prince Trehan Cristian Daciano. And you are my woman.” Pinning her arms above her head, he vowed, “After tonight, little Bride, you will never mistake me for another again. . . .”

Raw instinct burned inside Trehan, aggression overwhelming him. The need to mark his mate grew irresistible, not necessarily for blood but for dominion. For possession. She’s mine.

He leaned down, parting his lips to lick her neck, instinctively preparing her for his bite. Just below her collar, soft, pink skin beckoned him. “I feel your pulse against my tongue. Ah, your flesh . . . it tastes so sweet.” If her skin tasted like this, her blood would be like heaven. Hot, rich, heaven sliding down his throat.

He heard a sob, felt moisture on her face. Tears? She was crying? Her small body trembled against him as she whispered, “I-I can’t s-stop you.” The idea of her in such distress cut through his frenzy. Somehow he forced himself to draw back, to not plunge his dripping fangs into her.

Reason whispered, Your little Bride is terrified, can’t see in the dark, has no idea who’s in her bed. Instinct screamed, Mark her! So another male can’t take what’s yours!

Perhaps he oughtn’t to be kneeling there, bare-chested, with his spend drying in his pants, for her initial impression.

It was everything he could do not to touch her, to comfort her. But I’m the one she fears. . . .

When she’d whispered, “You know you can do anything to me. I’m yours—I always will be. . . .” The thought sent his anger skyrocketing once more, his fangs sharpening again. Trehan wanted her to tell him those same charged words, whispering them in his ear.

“You fear me. You shouldn’t. I will never hurt you,”

“Look at me, then. Know the male you belong to.”

He was handsome, she supposed, in an angry, brooding way. He had chiseled cheekbones and a strong chin. His wide, masculine jaw was clean shaven. His hair was thick and black, his irises like onyx from his emotions. She wondered what color they would be normally. Individually, his features were pleasing. Together, they appeared too severe, his expression harsh.

“Tell me your name, female.” Her head snapped up. “I’m Princess Bettina.” “Bettina,” he said with that unusual accent. “Bettina,” he repeated in a huskier voice, as if he liked the way her name rolled from his tongue. His supremely talented tongue. She almost shivered, recalling how he’d used it on her breasts—licking her nipples, wickedly flicking them.

“You know I said those things because I thought you were someone else.” A muscle ticked in that broad jaw of his. “And I reacted as I did because I was keen to see what pleasures you intended. Keen to know ‘how right I was to come to you.’ Your eyes were promising irresistible things.”

“His loss, female; you delivered. It seems I savored treats meant for another.” Now she glared. “You are amazing!” “Parts of me, at least.”

“How did you get past my barrier spell?” “With ease.” Arrogant male!

“I told you who I am. I’ve told you what you are. You’ve blooded me. I didn’t choose for this to happen with you. Fate decided this. And now we must bow to her commands.”

All at once, he understood—that was her book collection. Those were her drawings. Weapons, gold-smithing, design . . . “You made that?” She shrugged. Clever little sorceress. How did she craft a pressure sensor—

My Bride, the mistress of the legendary House of Shadow, is a drunken, senseless Sorceri. His ancestors must be tracing over in their graves right now.

“My mother was a Sorceri, my father king of this demon realm,” she said with a touch of smugness, but Trehan was in no way impressed with royalty. My Bride is a drunken, senseless halfling. Of all the potential mixes in the Lore . . . This creature was the product of two of the most opposite immortal species. As far from a proud, logical Dacian female as possible. He exhaled. No matter. Bettina was still his.

“That’s why you were trying to seduce the demon!” His relief was profound. “So he’d save you.” And now I will save you.

Trehan felt as if he’d had his fangs knocked down his throat. Of all the males in the world. That death demon was notoriously popular with females of all species, had plowed through half of Dacia’s maids before he’d absconded in the night. My Bride is in love with my target.

“You’d tell me, but only to save your precious Caspion.” Again he grappled with his temper, with a jealousy so raw he’d never experienced the like. “And what will he do to save you? Is he entering the tournament?”

So it’s either me tonight or one among the males lining up below? I would think you’d be more receptive to me. Surely I’m a better alternative.”

“The male you love is in a brothel right now; I’m here with you.” His words hit home, making her flinch, but he took no satisfaction from it. “You’ve some skill in seduction, for a virgin. You’d be wise to use it right now.” He could scarcely believe he’d said that to her. In the past, he’d spoken only after careful consideration of his words.

It seemed this jealousy was eroding his reason, his impulse control. Trehan, a Dacian, had nearly bitten her.

To protect his realm, Trehan must eliminate that demon; his Bride would never forgive the murder. He needed to think. To approach this rationally. Which was impossible when the tears in her eyes affected him physically, and when the memory of her pulse against his tongue still made him thirst for the forbidden.

“Please, no! I’ll do anything.” Her face flamed as she asked, “Don’t you need to . . . to claim me?” Yes! The temptation to sink into her virgin body—to lose himself in the silky wetness that he’d touched, he’d tasted—nearly had him reaching for her once more.

“V-vow not to hurt him, and I’ll be yours.”

She’ll sleep with me to save him. Gods, the pleasure would be unimaginable. His cock hardened, twitching within his damp pan...

“The next female I take to my bed will be there because she craves what I alone can give her.”

Cas reached forward, lifting her gold collar. “At least he didn’t bite you.” She recalled how hard Daciano had fought not to. I will never hurt you. . . . “He stopped himself when he saw I was upset.” “A very lucky break for us. To be bitten by a vampire is . . . altering.” He glanced away briefly before facing her once more.

Cas took her shoulders again. “You can’t tell anyone else about this! No one is supposed to know the Dacians even exist. Already too many know. I’d be betraying Mirceo even more.”

He’d assured his newfound Bride that he had no plans to return for her. True at the time. But now . . . The idea of never seeing her again made him crazed. She’d asked him, “What do you want from me?” He wanted to go back in time and answer: “Everything! Everything that is mine by right!”

Unless a vampire claimed his Bride completely, he would be filled with aggression, irrational jealousy, and uncontrollable sexual urges. Perhaps Trehan should have agreed to her offer and taken her. Aggression? Check. Irrational jealousy? When he thought of Bettina responding with such abandon to Caspion, Trehan traced to his feet, wrestling with a murderous rage. Check. Uncontrollable sexual urges? Upon returning home to wash and change, he’d grown achingly hard just from the evidence of his release in his pants. After all, he hadn’t scented or seen it for the better part of a millennium.

Princess Bettina was the first daughter born in generations, described as “elfin” in appearance. Though a halfling, she’d inherited no outward demonic traits, yet she was reputed to possess a notable—but undisclosed—Sorceri power. Fascinating. A delicate, little sorceress born into an archaic and violent demon world.

With these three books, he’d established a trio of facts. His physical need wasn’t only grueling, it was dangerous. Though her line was partly demonic, it was proud and worthy. The little sorceress would be under constant threat and would need him as well.

Judging by her book collection, she was fixated on her craft. Trehan was as obsessed with arms as any Dacian, probably more. He surveyed all his weapons displayed in gold cases and thought, She creates weapons; I wield them.

The wounds were fading; he found he didn’t want them to. No, he hadn’t sunk his fangs into her flesh, but she’d given him her own bite. When he remembered the blood welling across his palm and her flash of pride, for some reason he grew aroused once more.

Viktor hesitated, then backed away. “It won’t prove amusing to end you without a fight.” He loved nothing more than fighting. Not surprising—he was the last scion of the House of War, the wrath of the kingdom.

He didn’t know if Viktor was blooded. His cousin utilized an old witch’s spell to camouflage whether he had a heartbeat or not. Trehan had a theory about that. . . .