The Warlord Wants Forever (Immortals After Dark #1)(16)
Author: Kresley Cole

She sighed, meandering to her pile of clothes, ripped and dirty on the floor. She stared at them then blinked up at him, clearly wondering what his next move would be. It hit him full force that no matter how he felt about her, it was his responsibility to take care of her. His stunning wife, with her wild red hair and her soft, pale skin, who was so utterly out of place here, would be living with him under his roof – he’d best get this ancient shell of a keep back to its former glory and give her a home as befitted her.

He knew there would be things she would require that he couldn’t anticipate, because he was beyond unknowing when it came to female needs. Did he dare take her to get her things?

As soon as he’d realized where she lived, he’d left Oblak behind and had had Murdoch purchase a property far from the crowds of New Orleans where they could live during the search. Wroth could’ve traced back and forth, but the time change meant each night he’d face dawn back in Oblak. Plus he’d been weak, and tracing the shorter distance to the renovated mill on the outskirts of town had been less demanding.

Now he needed to return to the mill for the large supply of blood he’d left there. He was thirstier than usual, and claiming her in this condition would not be wise. He assured himself it was only because his appetite had been reawakened and not because throughout the day, he’d dreamed of drinking from her white thighs.

He could check in with Murdoch, send word to Kristoff that he’d found his Bride, and drink in preparation of finally claiming her. While in New Orleans, he might as well visit a Valkyrie den.

"We go for your belongings tonight."

Chapter Seven

"How are we going to do that?" she asked. "You can only trace to places you’ve been to at least once."

"But I can drive anywhere," Wroth replied casually, every inch a modern warlord.

So she was to return to her home in ripped clothing, with her skin still flushed from last night, her body still singing for a vampire’s touch.

Lovely.

She would never live this down. And for an immortal, never was a particularly woeful proposition.

Yes, going back to Val Hall would mean a possibility for escape, but he could kill one of her sisters if they tried to free her. When he rose and strode to his closet, she studied his body, noting yet again how incredibly strong he was.

He turned and tossed her a button-down, catching her gaze just as it drifted south to his hard shaft. She almost missed the shirt and he smirked, making her jerk her face away. "Come here," he ordered and she dragged her feet over. His hands reached out to pile her hair up, just so he could lean down and breathe along her neck, then murmur in her ear, "Bride, this is embarrassing. I think I’ve caught you staring at my cock," making her quiver. She’d teased him the same way when his eyes had been riveted to her neck so many years ago. He added in a sensual rumble, "You like it, don’t you?"

When the question sunk in, her eyes went wide with disbelief, the spell broken. How could he ask her that? When she would be forced to answer? His lips hovering over her shoulder, he said, "Answer me honestly."

I want to curl up between your legs, rest my head at your hip, and draw you over into my mouth to taste you for hours, she almost said, then negotiated her mind into another honest answer: "It’s too big."

He dropped her hair, smirking again. "So it terrifies you more than tantalizes?" he asked using the words she remembered well.

Knowing he was getting his revenge little by little, she gritted her teeth against her answer but lost. "Both."

He clucked her under the chin. "I’ll be sure to break you in slowly, ride you easy the first few times."

Myst of the witty banter and dripping sexual innuendo was speechless. Break her in? Arrogant! When he turned for the shower, she tried not to stare at his back and how it tapered to his narrow hips and his muscled ass with the hard hollows on the sides. She’d been right, it did beg to be clutched.

Damn her claws for curling –

"I believe you like everything about me," he rumbled from inside the bathroom.

She gazed at the ceiling, embarrassed as she couldn’t remember ever being before. Of course he’d known she was staring, probably by the holes she was burning into his skin. As she dressed, she thought that he was right – she was tantalized, and she did like everything about him physically. The way he’d made her feel last night left no doubt in her mind that he could not only get her to ask for him inside her, but beg.

She needed to escape before then, before he "claimed" her. He hadn’t drunk from her and they hadn’t had sex. As long as those two things stayed sacred she could get past this patch in her life.

When he returned to the room, dressed like a male dream, she felt like shuffling her feet for her ridiculous getup, draped in his shirt that fell to her knees. She had never felt insecure before. But she didn’t have long to ponder it, because he put his hands on her waist. "Are you ready?" he asked, staring down at her. Ready? To kiss him, hug him, go to her knees? What?

He pulled her to his body, wrapping his arms around her. "Close your eyes," he commanded. She did. "Open them."

Suddenly, they were in a garage. This was the first time she’d traced and been able to think about the process. She’d dropped an intoxispell or two in her day and found tracing on par with that. She was unsteady at first, but the air smelled like bayou at high tide, which she liked, and was heavy with humidity. New Orleans, but where? "What is this place?" she asked, breaking away from him to look around.

"An old restored mill north of the city," Wroth answered. "Where I stayed while scouring the streets for you for as long as I could manage every night. Before collapsing in agony and weakness."

She looked away quickly, fighting a flare of guilt – and spotted his cars. She tried to be cool, but of course, Wroth caught her eyeing them – especially the Maserati Spyder – and she knew he’d seen her flicker of appreciation. The Valkyrie prized fine things. They were acquisitive to a fault – it simply couldn’t be helped. Her own mother had told her that Myst’s first word was, roughly translated, gimme.

He opened her door to the Spyder, and once she was inside, she curled up on the soft leather, loving it. Joining her, he cast her an inscrutable expression. "We are fortunate, Myst. You’ll want for nothing as my wife."

She’d already been fortunate. She already wanted for nothing. The coven divvied their collective earnings from investments, and the take was always incredibly generous. She had enough money to buy any clothing that struck her fancy, to purchase two thousand dollar hand-painted lingerie sets to placate her obsession. In a deadened tone, she mumbled, "Oh joy. I’m rich."