Dark Destiny (Principatus) by Lexxie Couper Page B

shadows. “I will give you more tonight. Much more.”
    Amy’s pulse quickened. More.
    A long finger extended from the deep shadows to touch her cheekbone, her lips. “Tonight I shall feed from you until your orgasm drains you of your very will to live.” He paused, and his hand withdrew from her face. “As long as you give me something in return.”
    Her body all but writhing from Raz’s declaration, Amy nodded, searching for him in the darkness. “Yes. Just name it.”
    His chuckle floated from the alley—before her, behind her, above her, she couldn’t tell. “In time, sweet Amy. In time.”
    His words fell over her like a silken promise. She groaned in protest and impatient anticipation, turning on the spot, looking for him. But he was gone, leaving her with nothing but the agony in her neck and the greedy insistent want in her sex.
    A cold ripple of guilt slipped up her spine, singed at the edges by her desperate, consuming need and she shivered.
    Oh, God, what if she couldn’t give him what he asked for? What would she do then?
    You’ll give it to him, Amy. No matter what it is, you’ll give it to him. If he asks you to kill your mother, you will. And you know it. For the burn he gives you, you’ll do whatever he asks. Whatever.
    The horrifying thought ate its way through her head, down into her chest to the pit of her stomach, and she whimpered.
    Because it was true. As horrible and hideous as it was, anything the vampire asked of her, she would do. Anything.
    After the pleasure and pain he’d given her this morning, she was close to no longer caring.
     
     
    The beach is deserted.
    Except for the woman standing at the far end, near the houses rising from the eastern point. Still, quiet houses bereft of life and light. The sun sits high on the horizon, a burning ball of angry orange fire that casts the beach with a cold, vomit-yellow glow.
    He runs along the sand, the tiny grains slicing into his feet, his stare fixed on the body on the high-tide line near the flags.
    He needs to reach him before the woman does.
    Heat surges through his muscles and he increases his speed. He’s taken too long already. If he doesn’t reach the body soon he’ll never revive—
    He kneels beside the body, staring hard at the lifeless man, searching for a pulse. Nothing. Peabody is—
    The woman steps up to him, her striking blue eyes watching him as he punches Peabody’s motionless chest.
    “He’s dead, Patrick. You’re too—”
    Late. The day grows late. He runs along the empty beach, watched by empty houses. A body rolls listlessly in the slush waves on the sand before him. Tumbling over and over, snatched by the waves, dragged back into the surf and then spewed up onto the wet sand once more. He starts to sprint. Shit. How could he have missed—
    The sand bites into his knees as he drops down beside Mr. Peabody. The man’s eyes bulge from his white, bloated face, as if he’s seen—
    Death leans over his shoulder.
    “Patrick.”
    Her voice is soft. Seductive.
    “Leave him be. I am here for—”
    “You.”
    The voice, a guttural growl, makes Patrick stumble. He looks around the empty beach, searching for the speaker, his heart thumping hard. He knows that voice. Like he knows his own name. It belongs to—
    Pestilence.
    The shadows reach for him, the cold sun sinking behind the flat line of the ocean, painting him in sick red blood. He swallows, turning back to the patrol tower. He had paper work to do before heading home. He has to write the report for Peabody’s—
    Resurrection .
    The sand slices into his knees, like a million diseased fire ants devouring his flesh. He looks down at the man lying on the ambulance stretcher, his fat, black tongue poking from bloated lips, his eyes closed, his skin still wet from the sea.
    “He is gone, Patrick. Let him be gone.”
    Death whispers in his ear and his cock throbs, desire burning through him in a wave more powerful than any he’s ever surfed.
    “Time to