Blood Wyne by Yasmine Galenorn Page A

to tell you something about myself,” I said, stopping his hand. Closing my eyes, I paused. Then the words tumbled out in a rush. “I’m heavily scarred . . .”
    He stopped, pulling me to a sitting position. “Dredge, correct? That was the Scourge’s preferred method.”
    I nodded, biting back the flare of anger that rose at the mention of my sire’s name. “He raped me. He tortured me, scarring me all over my body before he killed and turned me. The scars remained.”
    “Your lover, she has no qualms, does she?” He reached out a lazy finger and traced circles on the denim of my jeans, over my knee.
    With a shake of the head, I smiled. “No. She taught me to love myself, despite the scars. But they can be disconcerting, and I don’t want you freaking out when I show you my body.”
    “Battle scars, my dear.” Roman tipped my chin up with one finger. “Be fiercely proud of them—reclaim them and change them from what they were first intended to do. Take them for your own. They make you the vampire you are. And vampires—we are predators, we are top of the food chain. We walk among the Immortals.”
    His eyes, so gray and full of mist, frosted over as he straightened his shoulders. “Your scars no more diminish your beauty than the red of your hair, or the curve of your lips. Your passion, your beauty, reside in your soul, and that you possess intact and for yourself only, no matter what your looks. But trust me, you are a beauty in form as well as spirit.”
    I let his words settle, then raised my arms. He eased my turtleneck over my head, gently tossing it to the side, baring my breasts. Slowly, Roman leaned forward, his eyes flickering up at me, and took one nipple in his mouth.
    A fire sparked somewhere low, rumbling in my belly, and I let out a little moan. He wrapped his arms around me and laid me back, stretching out beside me, his mouth still working my breast. I gasped as the sensations began to spread through my body, setting off explosions down my spine, toward my thighs.
    With one hand, Roman unbuckled my belt and I reached up to help him, but he pushed my hands away and then unzipped me. I lifted my ass and slid the jeans down and somewhere between his lips on my nipple and his lips on my neck, my jeans were off and I was exposed in the dim light that filtered down from the chandeliers on the ceiling.
    Roman rose up, kneeling beside me as he slid off his jacket, baring a muscled chest. A thatch of chest hair matched the rich brown of his ponytail, thinning as it trailed in a V toward his abs. His arms were strong, well muscled, and scars laced his wrists and chest—not deliberate, like the scars tattooing my body, but marks left by a whip or a crop. I reached forward and traced one that ran the length of his chest. It had to be thousands of years old, preserved in the flesh, a living fossil of a torture long gone.
    “I fought many battles before I was turned,” he whispered. “My mother was a queen even then. We ruled a small country of nomadic warriors. I waged war by her side, with my brothers and sisters, as we conquered neighboring villages and eventually small territories. I nearly died five times.”
    “Show me.” My gaze lingered on the scars, taking in the scope of what he was telling me. He might even have existed before the Great Divide, when the worlds were ripped apart.
    Roman stood and slid out of his trousers, carefully draping them over a nearby chair. He turned to me, strong, hard, ready. But rather than jump me, he motioned toward a long scar that graced his thigh.
    “A wooden spear almost killed me. I recovered, though. I was strong and healthy and the magic of our shamans was strong.” He pointed toward another scar that marred his left side. “Obsidian arrow. Came close to my heart but missed by just enough to spare me.”
    He turned and lifted his ponytail. His back was laced with scars from a whip. “When I was caught by an enemy. He tried to whip me to death.