Venice Vampyr - The Beginning (17 page)

His mouth was suckling on her nipple, drawing it deep into his warmth. It created an equally strong ache between her legs, where she felt a warmth and wetness, something she’d never experienced before.

Viola dug her hands into his shoulders to keep from swaying, her balance impeded by his ministrations and her own body’s order to simply let go. Dante growled and lifted his head from her breast.

“No,” she protested, wanting more of what he was offering.

“Shh, my sweet.” He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. When he lowered them onto it, she felt the finality of her actions. A hint of panic struck her, and she stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Viola opened her eyes and looked at him. This was the man who was about to take her virginity and make her a woman before she died. She was scared, but she knew she needed this, needed to know what it meant to be a woman. Despite her fear, she forced herself to smile. “Nothing.”

Dante settled on top of her, spreading her thighs with his body. His hard shaft was poised at the apex of her thighs, where the throbbing ache she couldn’t describe was getting stronger.

“You get me so hot and so hard,” he pressed out, his jaw clenched as if he was exerting a strong force on something or someone. “I can’t wait any longer.”

Then she felt his thick cock at her entrance just before he pushed into her.

Chapter Five

Dante felt himself breach her barrier and froze when he heard Viola cry out.

“You’re a virgin?” He braced himself on his elbows, taking his weight off her. “You lied to me.” Fury coursed through him. The woman underneath him was no shy widow but a blushing virgin. No wonder she’d been so tentative when he’d first kissed her.

Viola averted his angry gaze. “Would you have done it if I’d told you I was a virgin?”

“Of course not.” He rolled off her with a huff. “I’m not in the business of deflowering innocents.”

“And neither are those men at the club, so I figured—”

“You figured you’d lie to me. I get it. If this is some trick of yours to get me to marry you then—”

Her eyes widened in shock, and she sat up while nervously pulling on the bed sheet to cover herself up. “How dare you insinuate I wanted to trap you? I have no interest in you. All I wanted was one night of passion.” She jumped out of bed and snatched her chemise from the floor.

He noticed how her hands shook as she pulled it over her body. “Viola, stop. What are you doing?”

She pulled on her drawers and reached for her dress. “I’m leaving.”

“And where are you going?”

“What does it matter? I got what I came for. You’ve done what I wanted you to do.” She sniffed, and he rather suspected she was on the verge of tears. Damn, how he hated crying women.

“I haven’t done anything yet. You think that was all there’s to it? You truly are an innocent.” And for some odd reason, he liked her innocence. So did his still rampant cock.

Viola pulled her dress up, and he was surprised at how fast she tied the laces on the front of her bodice. “I’m not an innocent anymore.”

Dante jumped out of bed, unconcerned with his nudity. “All I did was penetrate you. This wasn’t fucking.”

“Well, I don’t care to know about the rest.” She grabbed her cloak and the small satchel she’d brought with her and dashed for the door.

Dante stood frozen. What had just happened? He’d deflowered a virgin who’d hightailed it out of his bed before he had even properly fucked her. All she would know was the pain associated with his invasion of her entirely too tight channel. Damn, how she’d gripped him for so brief a time. Had he known, he would have prepared her better. What was he saying? Had he known, he would have never touched her.

Damn it to hell, this was not how he wanted to be remembered: as the man who’d hurt her.

Dante cursed and grabbed his clothes.

***

The moment the cold night air hit her heated body, Viola sensed a dull ache in her head. Like a clenched fist, the pressure in her head built: as if the growth inside her tried to push through her skull and crack it like a young chick cracked its egg to be born.

It had all been too much for her after all: the anticipation and nervousness when she’d first entered the club, the fear and devastation when the fight between Dante and Salvatore had broken out, and now the loss of her virginity. It had been painful, even though the sharp pain had only lasted for a moment. The moment he’d penetrated her with his manhood, which was clearly too large for a woman like her, all the delicious sensations his kisses and caresses had caused had fled her body. If this was what sex was, then she was no longer interested.

Well, at least she wouldn’t die a virgin. Now that she knew she had experienced everything she had set herself to do, she felt empty. But instead of a pleasant emptiness in her head she felt a throbbing ache. For hours, she would be in the throws of excruciating pain if she allowed this to continue.

But she didn’t have to allow it. All the items on her list were ticked off. There was no reason to stay. It was better to end it now.

Viola walked to the next corner, where a gas lamp provided more light and stopped. She loosened the bow to her small bag and opened it. Apart from a handkerchief, a few coins and her pills, the only other item in it was the pistol she’d taken from her father’s study. She’d watched him often enough when he’d cleaned and loaded it. She’d even shot it once before in Switzerland to make sure it was working. Then she’d reloaded it.

Her fingers suddenly felt icy when she pulled the weapon from her bag. She recognized her slow movements as a symptom of her cowardice. She was a coward for taking her own life, but she was also a coward for hesitating to put the pistol to her temple.

She forced herself to steady her trembling hand. It had to be done. She would not sit idly about, waiting for her death when there was nothing more that she wanted from life, when all that was going to happen from now on would be painful. No more joy would come her way.

Viola gave a rueful smile, remembering the few moments of sheer and utter bliss she’d felt when Dante had kissed her. Those were the minutes she wanted to remember in her hour of death, not the pain that had followed or the ugly words he’d hurled at her.

A tiny sob tore from her chest as she raised the weapon to her head and closed her eyes. She cocked the pistol, and the sound echoed in the alley, ricocheting off the stone walls to tell all the world that she was leaving. Her finger on the trigger trembled, but she took a steadying breath, then another one.

Tears pushed passed her closed lids and rolled down her cheeks. She squeezed her index finger and felt something impacting her body the moment the shot rang out.

Chapter Six

The shot echoed in the alley just as Dante slammed his body into Viola and simultaneously jerked the pistol from her hand. They crashed onto the cobblestone street, Dante landing on top of her. He instantly rolled off her, but she didn’t move.

His sensitive nostrils picked up the scent of her blood immediately. “No!” he screamed. He’d come too late. When he’d seen her standing there under the gas lamp, he’d hesitated to approach her. He hadn’t figured out what to say to her. Too late had he seen the pistol in her hand. Only when she’d lifted it to her temple had he reacted and started to run.

Dante looked at the wound on Viola’s head, pushing away the hunger for her blood at the same time. He should be ashamed of himself. Even now, with blood oozing from her head, he wanted nothing more than to taste her. He shook the thought off like a dog shook his pelt free of water.

Hesitantly, he smoothed his hand over the wound, wiping away the blood, afraid of what he’d find. But his fingers didn’t encounter a gaping wound. On the contrary, all he felt was an abrasion. It was bleeding mildly. He bent his head closer, training his eyes on the wound. The gas lamp provided some light; his superior night vision compensated for the rest.

There was no hole. The bullet had only grazed her, and most likely the violent way with which he’d knocked her to the ground had made her faint. Dante pressed his hand to her chest and felt for her heartbeat, even though he could hear it. But he needed to reassure himself. Instinctively, his hand moved, cupping one breast. He jerked it away from her.

Gods, he was so depraved, he’d even fondle an unconscious, injured woman. His stomach growled, the scent of her sweet blood assaulting his senses. There was no use, as long as she bled, even slightly, from her head wound, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else. He brought his lips to her wound and licked over it with one single swipe of his tongue, forcing himself to pull back from her immediately.

His saliva closed the wound and healed the skin, but he took no notice of it. He was too distracted by the taste of her on his tongue. Her blood was sweet and rich just like he’d expected, but there was another taste in it, and he couldn’t determine what it was. It seemed foreign, just the way her scent had struck him as foreign when he’d first inhaled it at the club. Dante shook his head. His mind was probably addled, his senses not clear given the shock he’d been dealt.

Viola had tried to kill herself because of what he’d done to her.

Had he been such a cad? Maybe he wasn’t any better than Salvatore. At least the wounds Salvatore left on women were visible and would heal over time, but the wounds he’d left on this innocent woman were internal. He hadn’t seen just how much he’d hurt her. But he had hurt her—so badly that she’d wanted to take solace in death.

The knowledge hit him in the gut. She’d tried to take her life minutes after she’d left his bed, minutes after he’d accused her of lying and trying to trap him. Minutes after he’d been inside her, had physically hurt her. She’d wanted to leave this world with the misconception that sex was a terrible thing, that it hurt women. And that he was a terrible lover.

That particular knowledge hit his ego.

No woman he’d been with had ever done this—at least he hoped not. He’d always tried to make sure the women he fucked enjoyed themselves. Frankly, it was more fun for him if they did. But Viola—he’d disappointed her so badly that she couldn’t even bear to go on living. What did that make him? More than just a bad lover—it made him an accomplice in her death. And that was one thing he didn’t want to be.

Yes, he’d killed—but those had been men who’d threatened his life or that of his fellow vampires. He’d never killed an innocent, and he wasn’t about to start now. He needed to convince the woman who still lay unconscious on the cobblestones that life was worth living. And that sex was worth having. Again and again and again.

Knowing what he had to do, he put the pistol in his coat pocket and gathered Viola in his arms. He barely felt her weight as he carried her the fifteen minutes it took to reach his home.

Lights were ablaze when he entered, and voices and laughter drifted to him through the open door of the parlor.

“Dante?” his brother Raphael called out to him.

“Not now.” Dante headed for the stairs, but his brother was already at the door and stepped into the foyer.

“Rumor has it you had a fight at the—” His brother interrupted him. “Did you have to bring dinner home? I thought we’d discussed—”

Dante swiveled and faced his brother. “She’s not dinner.” He was surprised at the defensive tone in his own voice.

“I smell blood.”

“She’s injured.”

Behind him, Isabella emerged. “What’s going on?” His sister-in-law looked as ravishing as ever. Dante noticed how Raphael instantly took her hand in his. Honeymooners, Dante grumbled internally.

“Nothing. I’m merely helping an injured woman.”

At that, even Isabella raised an eyebrow. It appeared that his new sister-in-law had already figured out he wasn’t the good Samaritan kind.

“Since when are you so charitable, Dante?” his brother mocked.

Dante took a deep breath. “May I remind you that this is my house too, and that it’s my business what I do?”

“Granted. However, I’d like to assure myself of the girl’s safety while she’s in our house.”