stupidity, her trust that the ancients would never leave their precious communities. That carelessness would be her downfall.
He saw that she'd discovered his identity, and he smiled. Darcy's heart floundered in her chest as though wounded. With deliberate intent, he stalked her across the room.
Strangling a gasp, Darcy whirled around. She had to get out, get away. Escape chanted in her ears, deafening her to her surroundings. Nothing else was important now, only getting away.
She saw the entrance past a thick throng of drunken revelers, knew she could make it if she tried. Darcy gathered her nerve and darted across the dance floor.
From her right, blackness caught the edges of her vision. A black gloved hand closed around her forearm, tugging, turning her around until she was caught against a silk-clad chest that reeked of masculine strength.
She couldn't scream, couldn't move. He controlled her, just as he'd always done. Something about his presence sucked the life force from her body, sucked away her free will. Near to him, she could only think of taking him inside herself, clinging to him as though her life depended on it, as though she couldn't breathe unless he willed it so. The familiar desperation rose to a fever pitch, terrifying her. Her body responded to him with breath-taking force. She felt if he kissed her, she would shatter.
She was immersed in his scent. It engulfed her, evoking faraway images of the wild tundra. He smelled of ice and rich earth, a rough, untamed scent that shook the foundation of her core with vivid memory.
Remembered sensation flashed, as real in her mind as if it happened even now. Memory of the dark returned, eyes that glowed blue in the night, a hot mouth branding her neck, hands stroking her breasts, and the hardness that burned like fire and ice at her groin.
It pressed against her belly now, that hot, huge erection that enthralled and debilitated her. She felt a tickling ooze of arousal dampen her folds—her body salivated to devour him.
Darcy whimpered, hating herself. Hating him. The will to scream and run eluded her. How much had she wanted to see him again, knowing it was wrong, knowing that she would be hurt?
Leather encased fingers dug into her flesh, punishing, commanding. She instinctively pulled back, but his hand slipped to her waist, allowing her no escape. He moved her on the dance floor, grinding against her with subtle, sensual menace in a dance of the ancients. Magic flowed through him, through her. It shimmered on her skin like a summer breeze, lulling her fears, arousing her instincts—instincts of creation.
Darcy shuddered, not daring to look at him, waiting only for the chance to escape. What punishment had he planned? Would there ever be another chance to flee?
He continued to dance with her, making no accusation, no attempt at conversation. His frustration was palpable, infusing the dance with an edge that kept her nerves taut. She felt his rigidity in every muscle, in the tense silence. It boded ill for her and with each passing minute, she felt the tension tighten to unbearable limits.
Unable to stand another moment, she blurted out, “Why have you come for me?"
He made a grunt of disbelief. “Can you claim to not know why?"
Darcy felt the deep timbre of his voice in her bones. His accent had always affected her that way, sparked chillbumps over her skin with each husky word—a magic all its own.
When she didn't answer, his hands tightened around her. Anger flashed through the nerves of her skin, reflected through his magic. “You dare claim you don't know?” His voice was strained, unlike him, full of cold anger.
He had every reason to be, and yet, she thought it was more her leaving than any deeper feeling that drew him to her this way.
He pulled her infinitesimally closer, forcing her to meet his eyes. They blazed. The mask couldn't hide his anger. How long had it been since she'd seen the eyes of her kind, to see the markings of power
He saw that she'd discovered his identity, and he smiled. Darcy's heart floundered in her chest as though wounded. With deliberate intent, he stalked her across the room.
Strangling a gasp, Darcy whirled around. She had to get out, get away. Escape chanted in her ears, deafening her to her surroundings. Nothing else was important now, only getting away.
She saw the entrance past a thick throng of drunken revelers, knew she could make it if she tried. Darcy gathered her nerve and darted across the dance floor.
From her right, blackness caught the edges of her vision. A black gloved hand closed around her forearm, tugging, turning her around until she was caught against a silk-clad chest that reeked of masculine strength.
She couldn't scream, couldn't move. He controlled her, just as he'd always done. Something about his presence sucked the life force from her body, sucked away her free will. Near to him, she could only think of taking him inside herself, clinging to him as though her life depended on it, as though she couldn't breathe unless he willed it so. The familiar desperation rose to a fever pitch, terrifying her. Her body responded to him with breath-taking force. She felt if he kissed her, she would shatter.
She was immersed in his scent. It engulfed her, evoking faraway images of the wild tundra. He smelled of ice and rich earth, a rough, untamed scent that shook the foundation of her core with vivid memory.
Remembered sensation flashed, as real in her mind as if it happened even now. Memory of the dark returned, eyes that glowed blue in the night, a hot mouth branding her neck, hands stroking her breasts, and the hardness that burned like fire and ice at her groin.
It pressed against her belly now, that hot, huge erection that enthralled and debilitated her. She felt a tickling ooze of arousal dampen her folds—her body salivated to devour him.
Darcy whimpered, hating herself. Hating him. The will to scream and run eluded her. How much had she wanted to see him again, knowing it was wrong, knowing that she would be hurt?
Leather encased fingers dug into her flesh, punishing, commanding. She instinctively pulled back, but his hand slipped to her waist, allowing her no escape. He moved her on the dance floor, grinding against her with subtle, sensual menace in a dance of the ancients. Magic flowed through him, through her. It shimmered on her skin like a summer breeze, lulling her fears, arousing her instincts—instincts of creation.
Darcy shuddered, not daring to look at him, waiting only for the chance to escape. What punishment had he planned? Would there ever be another chance to flee?
He continued to dance with her, making no accusation, no attempt at conversation. His frustration was palpable, infusing the dance with an edge that kept her nerves taut. She felt his rigidity in every muscle, in the tense silence. It boded ill for her and with each passing minute, she felt the tension tighten to unbearable limits.
Unable to stand another moment, she blurted out, “Why have you come for me?"
He made a grunt of disbelief. “Can you claim to not know why?"
Darcy felt the deep timbre of his voice in her bones. His accent had always affected her that way, sparked chillbumps over her skin with each husky word—a magic all its own.
When she didn't answer, his hands tightened around her. Anger flashed through the nerves of her skin, reflected through his magic. “You dare claim you don't know?” His voice was strained, unlike him, full of cold anger.
He had every reason to be, and yet, she thought it was more her leaving than any deeper feeling that drew him to her this way.
He pulled her infinitesimally closer, forcing her to meet his eyes. They blazed. The mask couldn't hide his anger. How long had it been since she'd seen the eyes of her kind, to see the markings of power
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