reason—
The towel dropped, leaving her with only her chain and him with a view of her perfect ass.
He swalowed. “Have you no modesty?” Never in his life had he encountered a female so quick to be naked. Of course, he’d never in his life encountered a female who should so utterly be naked at any chance.
“Not at my age,” she said as she began exploring his recently unpacked clothing. How strange to hear her say that when she looked so young. He found his head tilting to keep his gaze on her as she moved and bent. The chain swayed at her waist, and her long, damp hair cascaded down over her breasts. He stifled a groan at a particularly fruitful glance. A true redhead. He closed his eyes. And he couldn’t have her.
“How old are you?” he grated, opening his eyes.
“Physiologicaly, I’m twenty-five. Chronologicaly, I’m…not.”
“So you are an immortal?”
An amused smile played about her lips. “I am.” She puled on one of his shirts though it fel far off one shoulder and wel down her legs.
“Why did you stop aging at twenty-five?”
“When I was strongest. Not for the same reason you were frozen at…”—she trailed off, eyeing him—“thirty-four?”
“Thirty-five. And why do you think I stopped aging then?”
She ignored him to continue digging. After a few moments, she plucked out an old bejeweled cross from his bag. She pinched the relic, holding it away from her, keeping her gaze from it. “You’re Catholic?”
“Yes. It was a gift from my father.” To help keep him alive in wartime. Wroth shook his head at the irony of just how wel it had worked. “I thought I was the one who should be repeled by it.”
“Only a turned human would say that. Besides I’m in no way repeled. With jewels like that? If I look at it, I’l want it.”
“So you wouldn’t want it because you’re Catholic, I take it?”
“My family was very orthodox pagan. Can I have?” She held it forward, stil not looking at it. “Can I, can I, Wroth?”
“Put it back,” he said, fighting the unfamiliar urge to grin. With a pouty expression, she returned it, mumbling something about tightfisted vampires, then dipped her feet into his boots. When she turned to him with her hands on her hips, his lips almost curled at the sight of her, a mad pagan immortal swalowed by his boots.
“What did your mother feed you?” she teased. “Renaissance anabolics?”
His urge to smile faded. “My mother died young.”
“So did mine.” He thought he heard her murmur, “The first time.”
“And I was born after the Renaissance.”
She drew her feet from his boots and sauntered past him. “But not by much.”
“That’s true. And why do you think I stopped aging at thirty-five?” he asked again.
She frowned as if she didn’t know where his question had come from, then said, “Because naughty Kristoff found you dying on a battlefield, decided you’d make a fine recruit, then made you drink his blood. Bit a wrist open, perhaps? Then with his vampiric hoo-doo blood in your veins, he let you die. Unless he was in a hurry, then he would’ve kiled you. One to three nights later and voilà, you rise from the dead—most likely with a frown on your face as you think ‘Holy shite, it worked!’”
He ignored the last and asked, “How do you know the blood ritual?” He’d thought that only vampires knew the true way to turn a human. In movies and books, the
change always came as a consequence of a vampire’s bite, when in fact a human had more chance of turning if he bit a vampire.
“Like I said, I know everything.”
Yes, but he was learning, if sporadicaly. She was an immortal, who’d been frozen physiologicaly at twenty-five. If she was pagan she was at least a few hundred years old. She knew of the blood ritual and that Kristoff “recruited” his soldiers straight from the battlefield.
When she scooped up her clothes, opened his door, then snapped her fingers for a
The towel dropped, leaving her with only her chain and him with a view of her perfect ass.
He swalowed. “Have you no modesty?” Never in his life had he encountered a female so quick to be naked. Of course, he’d never in his life encountered a female who should so utterly be naked at any chance.
“Not at my age,” she said as she began exploring his recently unpacked clothing. How strange to hear her say that when she looked so young. He found his head tilting to keep his gaze on her as she moved and bent. The chain swayed at her waist, and her long, damp hair cascaded down over her breasts. He stifled a groan at a particularly fruitful glance. A true redhead. He closed his eyes. And he couldn’t have her.
“How old are you?” he grated, opening his eyes.
“Physiologicaly, I’m twenty-five. Chronologicaly, I’m…not.”
“So you are an immortal?”
An amused smile played about her lips. “I am.” She puled on one of his shirts though it fel far off one shoulder and wel down her legs.
“Why did you stop aging at twenty-five?”
“When I was strongest. Not for the same reason you were frozen at…”—she trailed off, eyeing him—“thirty-four?”
“Thirty-five. And why do you think I stopped aging then?”
She ignored him to continue digging. After a few moments, she plucked out an old bejeweled cross from his bag. She pinched the relic, holding it away from her, keeping her gaze from it. “You’re Catholic?”
“Yes. It was a gift from my father.” To help keep him alive in wartime. Wroth shook his head at the irony of just how wel it had worked. “I thought I was the one who should be repeled by it.”
“Only a turned human would say that. Besides I’m in no way repeled. With jewels like that? If I look at it, I’l want it.”
“So you wouldn’t want it because you’re Catholic, I take it?”
“My family was very orthodox pagan. Can I have?” She held it forward, stil not looking at it. “Can I, can I, Wroth?”
“Put it back,” he said, fighting the unfamiliar urge to grin. With a pouty expression, she returned it, mumbling something about tightfisted vampires, then dipped her feet into his boots. When she turned to him with her hands on her hips, his lips almost curled at the sight of her, a mad pagan immortal swalowed by his boots.
“What did your mother feed you?” she teased. “Renaissance anabolics?”
His urge to smile faded. “My mother died young.”
“So did mine.” He thought he heard her murmur, “The first time.”
“And I was born after the Renaissance.”
She drew her feet from his boots and sauntered past him. “But not by much.”
“That’s true. And why do you think I stopped aging at thirty-five?” he asked again.
She frowned as if she didn’t know where his question had come from, then said, “Because naughty Kristoff found you dying on a battlefield, decided you’d make a fine recruit, then made you drink his blood. Bit a wrist open, perhaps? Then with his vampiric hoo-doo blood in your veins, he let you die. Unless he was in a hurry, then he would’ve kiled you. One to three nights later and voilà, you rise from the dead—most likely with a frown on your face as you think ‘Holy shite, it worked!’”
He ignored the last and asked, “How do you know the blood ritual?” He’d thought that only vampires knew the true way to turn a human. In movies and books, the
change always came as a consequence of a vampire’s bite, when in fact a human had more chance of turning if he bit a vampire.
“Like I said, I know everything.”
Yes, but he was learning, if sporadicaly. She was an immortal, who’d been frozen physiologicaly at twenty-five. If she was pagan she was at least a few hundred years old. She knew of the blood ritual and that Kristoff “recruited” his soldiers straight from the battlefield.
When she scooped up her clothes, opened his door, then snapped her fingers for a
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