She was fragile and sweet, a widow going on five years now. Elise would never pair with another; in his heart of hearts, he knew that. And part of him was glad for her refusal to love again--the right of every Breedmate who lost her beloved--because while it meant he would live in the misery of wanting her, he would not have to accept the even more crushing blow of seeing her bonded to another male.
But without a male of the Breed to nourish her with the time-altering gift of his blood, Elise, born human like every other Breedmate, would one day grow old and die. This was the thing that saddened him the most. He might never truly have her, but it was a certainty that one day, probably no more than a scant sixty or seventy years from now--a blink of time, to those of his kind--he would lose her completely.
Perhaps it was that idea that made him want so badly to spare her every hurt that he could.
He loved her now, as always.
It shamed him, how much she affected him. Just thinking of her, his skin felt tight and too warm. She made him burn inside, and she could never know the truth of that. She would despise him for it, he was sure.
But that didn't stop the clawing itch to be near her.
To be na**d with her, even just once.
Chase stopped his pacing and dropped down onto the large sofa in his den. He sat back, thighs spread, head back on his shoulders, staring up at the tall white ceiling some ten feet above him.
She was there, in that bedroom over this very space.
If he breathed deeply enough, he could catch the faint rose and heather scent of her. Chase sucked in a long draft of air. Hunger coiled in him, stretching his fangs from his gums. He licked his lips, almost able to imagine the taste of her.
Sweet torture, that.
He imagined her padding barefoot across the carpeted floor of her room, unlacing the ties of her flimsy nightgown. Letting the silk fall near the bed as she climbed onto cool sheets and lay there, uncovered, uninhibited, her ni**les like rosebuds against the paleness of her skin.
Chase's throat was desert dry. His pulse kicked into a hard drum, blood flowing hot through his veins. His c**k was stiff within the confinement of his black jeans. He reached for the ache of his sex, palming his erection over the thick fabric and straining buttoned fly. Stroking himself the way Elise never would.
He rubbed more urgently, but it only made the need worse.
He would never stop wanting...
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, disgusted with himself for his weakness.
He yanked his hand away and got up with a hiss of anger, denying himself even so much as the fantasy of bedding his perfect, unattainable Elise.
Heat licked along the length of Dante's bare legs. It climbed higher, over his h*ps and torso, snaking up his spine and around his shoulders. Relentless, consuming, the heat pressed deeper, like an unstoppable wave crashing over him in slow-motion torment. It burned ever stronger, growing ever hotter, all but engulfing him.
He couldn't move, no longer in control of his limbs or even his own thoughts.
All he knew was the fire.
And the fact that it was killing him.
Flames were twisting all around him now, smoke churning black, searing his eyes and scorching his throat with every futile, gasping breath he tried to take.
No use.
He was trapped.
He felt his skin blistering. Heard the sickening crackle of his clothing--his hair too--catching fire while he registered it all in stark, debilitating horror.
There was no way out.
Death was coming.
He felt the dark hand descend on him, pushing him down, toward a vortex of seething, endless nothing --
"No!"
Dante came awake with a jolt, every muscle tensed to fight. He tried to move, but something held him down. A slight weight draped across his thighs. Another lying limply across his chest. Both females stirred on the bed, one of them making a purring noise as she nestled against him and stroked his clammy skin.
"What'sa matter, baby?"
"Get off me," he muttered, his voice raw and thready in his parched throat.
Dante extricated himself from the tangle of na**d limbs and put his bare feet on the floor of the unfamiliar apartment. He could hardly catch his breath yet, his heart still hammering hard. He felt fingers running up the small of his back. Irritated by the unwanted touch, he got up off the sagging mattress and began searching for his clothes in the dark.
"Don't go," one of them complained. "Mia and I aren't finished with you yet."
He didn't answer. All he wanted right now was to be moving. He'd been still for too long. Long enough for death to come looking for him.
"You okay?" asked the other girl. "You have a bad dream or something?"
Bad dream, he thought wryly. Far from it.
He'd been seeing the same vision--living it in vivid detail--for as long as he could remember.
It was a glimpse of the future.
His own death.
He knew every agonizing second of his final few moments of life; all that remained unanswered was the why, the where, and the when of it. He even knew who to credit for the curse of his vision.
The human woman who bore him in Italy some 229 years ago had seen not only her own death but that of her beloved mate, the Darkhaven vampire who had been Dante's scholarly, aristocratic father. Just as she'd envisioned it, that gentle female met a tragic demise, drowning in an ocean riptide after she' d swum out to pull a child from the same disaster. Dante's father, she had predicted, would be slain by a jealous political rival. Some eighty years after her death, outside a crowded meeting hall in the Rome Darkhaven, Dante had lost his father just as his mother had described.
His mother's unique Breedmate gift had passed down to her sole offspring, as was often the case among the Breed, and now Dante was the one damned with death visions.