Free Wicked Ever After (A Blud Novel Book 7) by Delilah S. Dawson

now his face was pink and bubbly, as if it might drip off his sharp bones. His eyes were red all around with burst vessels, pink-tinged tears rolling down his cheeks. But even more frightening was the hasp of one collar button unslipped at my throat, followed by Quincy’s snicker.
    “Never tasted Master’s finest vintage,” he said, giggling.
    “Blood’s blood. Always better hot. Always better when you can reach the last drop,” Catarrh added.
    As if they truly could read each other’s minds, Quincy moved to hold me down while Catarrh’s far cleverer fingers stuffed a dirty hankie in my mouth and went after the rest of my buttons. I grew frantic, terrified, spitting vowels around the hankie and scrabbling with my hands at whatever I could reach. Quincy shook my hand loose and slapped me hard, my head banging off the table. My fist pounded the wall behind my head, at first with Crim’s secret knock and then, after another slap, with inarticulate drumbeats that destroyed my gloves and pulverized my knuckles. By the time my collar and jacket had been unbuttoned down to my corset, I was running out of air and skin. And hope.
    “Now, then,” Quincy said, and Catarrh nodded in agreement. “Much better. Let’s?”
    “Let’s.”
    My vision went over spotted as the two faces descended, one monstrous with calm eyes and the other calm with monstrous eyes, twin mouths open to show long fangs. I squeezed my own eyes shut and clawed for their faces, but they each pinned an arm to the table. I shrank back, shook my head, flailed, trembled, but still their breath rolled over me like hot pennies.
    When their teeth drove into my neck, one mouth on each side, I screamed around the wad of cloth, a muffled cry of anger and fear that shredded my throat. It hurt. So bad. Like having fire in my veins, pulling, sucking, drawing out every bit of who I was, what I was, and replacing it with burning acid and emptiness. I thrashed and fought, going weaker and weaker and feeling so very, very foolish. I had forgotten the number one rule of Sang: without Criminy around to protect me, I was either food or chattel.
    Right before everything went over in a haze of red, I gave a sad, quiet chuckle. A few hours ago, I had begged my husband to do this very thing. Now, against my will, I had my wish.
    The only difference was that Catarrh and Quincy weren’t going to give back what they had taken.

8
    I was floating in a warm pool, drinking the most delicious margarita. The sun shone hot on my face, and I was stretched out and weightless, my body bronzing and suffused with comfort. Eyes closed, I curled my toes and sighed.
    “Drink more. Come on, damn you!”
    Warm porcelain pressed to my lips, and I agreeably sucked down more of the tangy, sweet liquor. It ran down my throat to pool in my belly with the heat of pepper-infused tequila. So good. I needed more. With greedy fingers, I sought the cup, pressing it closer, drinking deeper.
    “More! Come on, Letitia. Come on, love.”
    “Crim?” I murmured around the sun-warm cup, and a hand rubbed my back.
    “Yes, love. It’s me. Come on, now. Keep on.”
    I breathed in deep, recognizing his particular scent of honeyed Cabernet wine, growing vines, and sweet spices. I blinked and saw white and red, the world bleary and smeared and dreamy. Trying to focus and fight up from the warm pool, I squinted at his set lips and stubbled throat, splashed with blood. One of my hands curled possessively around it, the other trailing dead on the wood floor of the dining car.
    I closed my eyes.
    No.
    The dream. The pool. The margarita. The margarita was red. The pool was red. The sun was red. I was floating in blood, and it was glorious, and I wanted to drink it all dry, suck it up until I was full as a tick. I gulped, empty and dying of thirst, and I tried to imagine the sun shining, but all I knew was the heat of Criminy’s skin. Why was I so cold?
    He held me like a baby, cradled in his arms, rubbing my back