Carmel and Abraham have been locked in a deadly game for more centuries than they care to remember. Finally, Abraham has the vampire just where he wants her... and much to Carmel's surprise, she discovers she's dying for him.
"...enticing and memorable. I would recommend this story to anyone who enjoys erotic fiction with some supernatural tension."
-- 4 Angels from Stephanie, Fallen Angel Reviews
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2012 Rayven Renshaw
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Carmel twisted against her restraints. These weren't ordinary irons encircling her wrists, pinning her arms to the beam above her head. She couldn't snap the cuffs. She couldn't break the beam either, or the supporting column at her back. Both were old, but solid, an integral part of the architecture.
She had no idea where her captor had taken her. The furniture came from another time -- wooden chairs with elaborate carvings, solid constructs that would last for generations. The fire in the grate gave everything a soft, golden glow, made the mullioned windows sparkle. If she'd had time and she wasn't distracted, she might have spent minutes admiring the design of the room.
Unfortunately, she had more pressing concerns to occupy her mind.
"I'd tell you to stop struggling. It's a waste of your energy. But then you have plenty of that, and I have to admit, it... stirs me to see you struggle."
Her captor's words made her want to quit fighting -- he enjoyed watching her efforts far too much -- but she needed to get free. Her life couldn't end... not like this.
"You really are wasting your time. There's silver in the steel."
The moment he said it, she recognised the vibration running through her skin. Silver was a peculiar thing among vampires. Guaranteed to work on werewolves, it often had no effect on some vamps. Naturally, she had to be one that it was somewhat effective on.
The slayer had learned many of her limitations over the years. Silver wouldn't harm her, just weaken her. There was apparently enough of the metal in the cuffs to make the possibility of breaking out of them unlikely.
She stopped tugging and huffed out a breath, blowing aside a lock of hair.
"Is this bothering you?" the slayer asked, gathering up a wad of her long auburn tresses in one hand.
"No." She made her voice sound harsh, defiant. She'd broken out into a sweat. The salty drops tinged with blood gave her skin a rosy glow, one she might have enjoyed had she chosen these exertions.
"I think you lie."
She chose not to answer. Her hair was bothering her, but she wasn't going to tell him that. She feared he might cut it. Protesting too much could have the same result.
"Let's tie this back out of the way, shall we?" His gentleness as he gathered her hair into a bunch and pushed it back over her shoulder made her frown. It also made her quake. He'd already stripped her to her underwear. Carmel hadn't realised it until then, but the cloak of her hair had acted as a shield, something to wear. Now she felt vulnerable.
As he tied a ribbon around her hair, the slayer whispered into her ear from behind her left shoulder. "Carmel. British. Biblical. I like it. Sounds like carnal. I think you're very carnal, Carmel."
"Go fuck yourself, Abraham."
He'd circled round to her front again in time for her to see him raise one eyebrow. He looked as if he was considering the physical possibility of her instruction.
Abraham. An English name. Also Hebrew, Dutch and biblical. She knew he didn't like it, being that it wasn't his name, but the one given to him. Could he even remember his real name, or had his memory of his other life faded, as had hers? Did they have that in common? Did they have other things they shared?
One meaning of Abraham was "father of many." Those who had named him had used it as a badge, to make him one of the many, of the multitude of slayers, changed, altered, imbued with vampire blood, and trained to hunt down her kind through the centuries. Dhampir was another name often used for his kind -- vampire, and yet not vampire. She had often pitied him for not being one thing or the other, belonging to neither the human race nor respected by the supernatural one. Looking at him now, she felt anything but pity.
The dark roots of his blond hair matched the hue of his eyes, soft brown. His body was muscled from conditioning and the dual nature men of the church had forced upon him. Carmel knew enough of his history to know his birth had been orchestrated. He would not age like human men, though whether he would live the immortal life of a vampire, barring someone murdering him, remained to be seen.
Abraham had lived for longer than she had been turned, that Carmel did know. He had hunted her for half of that existence, yet now that he had finally captured her, she could not bring herself to hate him.
He had her. Captured. Trapped. Enslaved. He could do anything he wanted to her.