Free Dark Destiny (Principatus) by Lexxie Couper

the same thing, isn’t it?”
    “Great. Insult my gender and nationality.” He drained the bottle, placing it on the table between them with a little more force than he’d planned. She was getting to him. A lot. “So tell me, while you’re camped out here checking out the skin show, the world goes without death? No one dies while you’re getting your thrills?”
    She laughed, that throaty chuckle again sending a jolt of wet heat straight into his balls. “God, no.” She favored him with an easy grin. “About one-hundred and fifty-three thousand, four-hundred and six people die every day, give or take a few. That’s roughly a little over one hundred a minute. I have a whole staff of underlings to take care of the simple stuff.”
    Unable to stop himself, Ven frowned. “So what do you do, Death? I distinctly remember you strutting about over my body as I died. What? Today a religious holiday?”
    “I do not strut, thank you very much, and please, call me Fred.” She finished off her margarita and gently placed the empty glass on the table, fixing Ven with a very pointed look. “I tend to the more complicated claimings. If someone is meant to die and something or someone is interfering with that, I step in. Example—the kiddy-rapist your brother saved at the beach was fated to die by the Order of Actuality. If I hadn’t intervened Patrick would have resurrected him and the Order would have weakened.” She leant back in her seat, stretching her arms along the edge of bench. Ven studied her, unable to miss the upward thrust of her breasts the casual position caused. They were a perfect size, her breasts. Not too big, not too small. Just the perfect handful. He swallowed, feeling an invisible pull on his gut he hadn’t experienced since becoming a vampire. Plain, simple, old-fashioned desire.
    “Trust me,” she suddenly said, making him jump. He snapped his gaze to her face, relieved to discover she was watching the fornicating dancers on the stage once again. “Where Peabody is now, is a much more deserving place for a pedophile.”
    She studied the performance in silence for a moment, allowing Ven to take in the exquisite beauty of her profile. Smooth, rounded forehead, turned-up nose, full, bee-stung lips, long, swan-like neck of the creamiest alabaster. His mouth filled with hot saliva and his cock grew thick in his jeans, pressing against the snug, restricting denim. He bit back a groan. Damn it, what the bloody hell was he thinking?
    What was he doing being turned on by the Grim bloody Reaper?
    He glared at her, wanting to get away from her as soon as possible, wanting to yank her against his body and fuck her senseless just as quickly.
    You are in trouble, Steven. Big trouble.
    The dark thought shot through his head just as Death turned her gaze away from the stage show to fix him with an unreadable stare.
    “Tell me, Steven Watkins, why do you need to protect your brother? Who do you need to protect him from?”
    The sudden reminder of his brother sent an icy shard of guilt into Ven’s gut. He scowled at Death, letting his demon rear closer to the surface. “You.”
    Death shook her head, her piercing blue gaze refusing to let his go. “I don’t want to claim Patrick.” She tilted her head, a tiny grin curling her mouth. “Well, not in that way. His ass is gorgeous. And his chest.” She made a low, whimpering groan in her throat. “Oh.”
    Ven pulled a face, an unexpected jolt of something ominous twisting through him. “God. Do you have to?”
    Death cocked an eyebrow, her unreadable eyes growing even more ambiguous. “Jealous?”
    Ven blinked, that same dark jolt twisting deeper into his gut, turning into a heavy churning sensation he now recognized. Death was correct—again. He was jealous of her response to Patrick. A feral growl worked its way up his throat and his demon stirred in angry disgust. He’d never been jealous of Patrick. Ever. Even when Pat had won the Bondi Beach Charity