Free Beloved Vampire by Joey W. Hill

now, see how fractured it was between fantasy and reality. But her fingers slid into his hair, and with his eyes closed, he saw not the wasted body of a stranger, but remembered Farida, even as he felt something else, something new, a different person. Taking the plunge, he let the third-mark serum go, the ethereal blue color of it staining her skin on the outside as he injected the rest.
    She arched up to him, her fingers clutching hard, a cry breaking from her throat. He cupped her skull, held her there, fought his own reaction. He should have expected it, for something primal tended to rise in a vampire when he claimed a human fully, but the strong surge of desire to possess startled him. Sliding his other arm behind her, he supported her waist, holding her to him as the serum raced through her bloodstream. He licked at her throat, closing the wound, letting it do what it was supposed to do. It wrenched him, the pain it caused, for she was crying, tears bathing the side of his face. While he continued to whisper to her in her mind, he kept his face pressed against her temple, for he couldn’t bear to watch this woman suffer. It brought one particular woman’s suffering back to him, as if it had happened yesterday.
    I am here. It will pass, and all will be well. Hold on, habiba , hold on. I will not let darkness take you. You are safe, now and always.
    Drawing a knife from his belt, still holding her, he nicked his artery and gently brought his wrist to her mouth, brushing her lips.
    Thank Allah her delirium let her respond on instinct, else he expected he would have had to force it down her throat.
    Her esophagus worked, and when the blood pattered onto her lips, she closed the gap and drank. Not in thirsty gulps, but furtive, weak swallows, as if her body were tiptoeing around like a guilty child behind a strict parent, doing something of which the mind would heartily disapprove.
    Trying to ease that tension, he spoke more soothing words to her. While he did, the brittle hair beneath his palm started to become softer, shinier, curling around his fingers. Loose, dry skin firmed, getting texture and moisture, creating a tantalizing smoothness where his thumb grazed her jaw.
    He watched, amazed, as his third mark moved through Jessica Tyson, recalling her from death, from Raithe’s poisonous mark.
    Flaccid breasts became rounder, still small but now high and firm, with delicate pink nipples. The belly transformed from a shallow pit beneath prominent ribs into a satin slope, drawing his eyes down to an appealing bare sex, telling him she must have had the hair there lasered away before she met Raithe, for it was an alteration his mark did not affect. The veins that had stood out in gnarled knots on her hands melted back, revealing slim, capable fingers and lovely wrists.
    Because she was still too gaunt, something else the third mark couldn’t remedy, he wasn’t seeing the full force of the beauty displayed in her picture. But the potential was there, waiting to be nourished to full bloom again. Her dove-wing eyes had ebony lashes that fanned the slash of her cheekbones. Her touchable pink mouth drew a vampire’s gaze to the graceful throat.
    As delicate as she looked, she’d killed a vampire, fought through sickness and lived the life of a fugitive to come and die here. He’d made the same mistake with Farida, assuming she was fragile. She’d even teased him about his protectiveness.
    Then, such tender games over forever, she’d ridden into the camp that day, her back straight and chin up, surely knowing what awaited her. But by Allah, she wasn’t going to be without him, no matter who tried to tear them apart. He’d met few with that kind of courage, men or women. Ruefully, he acknowledged it hadn’t made him less protective. If anything, it had reminded him, painfully, of the frailty of her mortal life.
    Something about the information he’d received on Raithe and Jessica Tyson had bothered him, and the puzzle