Crimson Warrior (Onyx Assassins 3)

“Goddamn,” Ransom growled as I tightened around him.

“Ransom,” I moaned, moving faster, harder. My fangs ached in time with my body, the urge to sink into his flesh and drink stronger than it ever had been before. He must’ve read it in my eyes, or maybe he felt it in the bond, because he smirked and rolled his head to the left.

* * *

I pounced at his consent, sinking my fangs into his strong neck, sliding into him as easy as a knife through butter.

“Fuck!” He hissed, gripping my hips and taking the reins as I lost myself in drinking him. He moved my body, slowly, tortuously, as I drank and drank.

God, he tasted like spice and snow and laughter. His blood was warm and so damn strong, every ounce the warrior he was, the assassin he was. I sucked at his flesh, and he pounded into me harder. Faster.

So I did it again and again, only drawing my lips from his neck to seal those wounds with a quick flash of my tongue as I arched my head back, my chest at his mouth level as he continued to have his way with me.

“Please, Ransom,” I begged, and he didn’t need to be asked twice. His fangs found the spot just above my collarbone, and I exploded around him, my moan tearing through me in a keening whimper as I shook and tightened and fell over that sweet edge only Ransom knew how to push me over.

Slick and hard and hot, he plunged upward as he sucked at that spot, sending one orgasm barreling right into the other until he found his release inside me. Until the water stilled around us and he’d sealed his bite wounds and looked up at me with my blood staining his lips.

He crushed his mouth against mine, our flavors mixing as our tongues met, creating the most intoxicating taste I’d ever sampled before. Ransom tunneled his fingers into my wet hair, his forehead pressed against mine, my blood dripping down the side of his mouth, his fangs still out—and the sight, the devastatingly beautiful sight of him was enough to steal my breath.

“I love you,” he whispered. “My mate.”

I trembled around him, against him, my heart swelling, that bond strengthening between us.

“I love you,” I said, breathless. “Mate,” I echoed his sentiment. “Now, wend us back to bed.”

A low growl was all I heard before we fell into that suspended space that swirled in his scent.

15

Ransom

“They look…” Benedict peered down at Zachariah as Olivia’s mother watched his vital signs on the monitor. Zachariah was a big fucker, consuming the entire hospital bed that had been wheeled in over his tomb.

Shit, nope that was Dagon. Zachariah was to my left. I needed flashcards or something.

“Normal?” Hawke guessed, his eyes narrowing as he watched Saint’s chest rise and fall on the crisp white sheets of his gurney.

“I wasn’t going to go that far.” Benedict glanced from Saint to Samuel.

They might have looked normal if we were still in the time of the Vikings.

“They look like anachronisms,” I muttered, cracking my neck. I’d spent all of last night in bed with Olivia, and yet it had still felt nearly impossible to let her out of my sight this evening. There was a constant tug from the center of my chest, demanding I close the distance between us.

Mate.

She was mine.

I was hers.

After all this time, fate had finally come through for us.

“Look at you, using the big boy words.” Benedict clapped me on the shoulder.

I grunted. “Well, they are. They don’t look like they belong in our century. They’re…like Lachlan on steroids.”

That earned me two grunts from my brothers.

The Hunters were enormous, even by warrior standards. They were almost as long as their hospital beds, and their shoulders touched the edges of the mattress. Hell, Zachariah’s were wider than the fucking bed.

“They should be awake in the next few hours,” the duchess said after checking the last vital sign. “Considering they were poisoned less than a week ago, I’d say that’s a miracle.”

“Lyric’s blood is a miracle.” Benedict glanced between the warriors. “Do you think we should give them name tags?”

“Excellent idea,” I agreed.

“You’re assuming they even speak English.” Hawke flipped one of his knives end over end absentmindedly.

“They speak English,” the duchess laughed and tucked the last clipboard into the bed. “Zachariah speaks six languages. Talon can converse with animals.”

We all lifted our heads to stare at her.

“What?” She shrugged. “My mother was here when they put themselves into stasis. I’d be more worried about their acceptance of your interference than their ability to adapt to modern society, but just in case…” A click of the remote later, and six flat-screen televisions powered on, each displaying a different news broadcast in a different language.

“Nothing like waking up from a four-hundred-year nap to find out the world fucking sucks,” Hawke muttered as one of the broadcasts covered a war zone.