Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Tessa Dawn
of darkness, the stars —they were meticulously aligned in a clear, deliberate pattern reflecting an unmistakable outline: the celestial constellation Hercules , kneeling with his foot on the head of Draco.
Drawn from someplace so primordial its origins were inscrutable, a feral snarl escaped Ian’s throat. He immediately stood up straight, clenched his fists, and slowly backed away from the railing. Like a lion retreating from a maggot-infested meal, he turned up his nose and scented the air with disdain. The moon was beyond reprehensible; it was an abomination.
It was an omen, a sign, a scourge.
And it evoked a feeling— a memory —that Ian had long ago buried.
“Huh,” he grunted, crossing his arms, leaning back against the balustrade, and forcing his emotions to heel. “Son of a bitch.” He shook his head briskly to disrupt the thoughts, and then he snarled. “So Julien is still alive.”
Certain that no one was home, Trevor Rainier clenched his gloved hand into a fist and slammed it straight through the back patio door of Rebecca’s third-floor apartment. He reached around the broken glass, unlatched the lock, and quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. And then he quietly slipped inside, emerging in the kitchen.
It had been five long years.
Five years of suffering, five years of rage, and five years of barren existence without Rebecca, while he had tracked, scoured, and hunted in a furious effort to find the bitch that belonged to him. And, honestly? He might not have ever found her if it hadn’t been for that one stupid charity event: a multi-campaign fund-raiser held along the 16 th Street Mall, where VOSU had hosted a booth.
A booth primarily manned by Rebecca Johnston.
Oh sure, she had worn a low baseball cap and a pair of ridiculously large sunglasses, but Trevor would’ve recognized those golden-brown, shoulder-length S-curls anywhere, that slender five-feet, six-inch frame…that long, elegant neck…especially when a local TV station picked up the story, and Trevor just happened to be watching from a Colorado hotel.
Rebecca had always preferred the western United States: The east was too cold; the south was too humid, and the Midwest was too unfamiliar for her comfort. Trevor had tracked her from Nevada to California, from California to Arizona, and finally, from Arizona to New Mexico, where he had eventually lost her trail. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that she had moved on, or to connect the western dots. Rebecca was headed to Colorado next, and Trevor was right behind her, whether she knew it or not.
Despite her holier than thou attitude and her arrogant, misguided belief that she could outwit anyone, Rebecca had always been pathetically predictable. She had blownher misunderstanding with Trevor completely out of proportion, turned it into a full-fledged crisis—like he was some crazy, rabid animal and she was some distressed, helpless maiden—like the two of them weren’t actually in love. Like she suddenly needed to fight for some greater cause: to save all women everywhere from the likes of Trevor Rainier.
He picked up a familiar coffee mug from the kitchen counter, one thathad an adorable picture of Snoopy dancing on the side, one that Rebecca’s mother had given her on her twenty-second birthday, and flung it across the room, shattering the stoneware into a dozen arbitrary pieces. And then he sauntered across the clean tile floor to the calendar and corkboard she always kept on the refrigerator, and he laughed.
Pathetically predictable.
As always.
He ran his forefinger over the calendar until he came to the correct date—Sunday, January 23 rd —and then he smiled at the elegant, perfect print: D2D/DMV. Door-to-door… fund-raising ? And DMV. So, what or where was DMV? Department of Motor Vehicles? And why the hell would she be fund-raising there? He laughed uproariously as an image of a bunch of middle-aged hags flashed
Drawn from someplace so primordial its origins were inscrutable, a feral snarl escaped Ian’s throat. He immediately stood up straight, clenched his fists, and slowly backed away from the railing. Like a lion retreating from a maggot-infested meal, he turned up his nose and scented the air with disdain. The moon was beyond reprehensible; it was an abomination.
It was an omen, a sign, a scourge.
And it evoked a feeling— a memory —that Ian had long ago buried.
“Huh,” he grunted, crossing his arms, leaning back against the balustrade, and forcing his emotions to heel. “Son of a bitch.” He shook his head briskly to disrupt the thoughts, and then he snarled. “So Julien is still alive.”
Certain that no one was home, Trevor Rainier clenched his gloved hand into a fist and slammed it straight through the back patio door of Rebecca’s third-floor apartment. He reached around the broken glass, unlatched the lock, and quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. And then he quietly slipped inside, emerging in the kitchen.
It had been five long years.
Five years of suffering, five years of rage, and five years of barren existence without Rebecca, while he had tracked, scoured, and hunted in a furious effort to find the bitch that belonged to him. And, honestly? He might not have ever found her if it hadn’t been for that one stupid charity event: a multi-campaign fund-raiser held along the 16 th Street Mall, where VOSU had hosted a booth.
A booth primarily manned by Rebecca Johnston.
Oh sure, she had worn a low baseball cap and a pair of ridiculously large sunglasses, but Trevor would’ve recognized those golden-brown, shoulder-length S-curls anywhere, that slender five-feet, six-inch frame…that long, elegant neck…especially when a local TV station picked up the story, and Trevor just happened to be watching from a Colorado hotel.
Rebecca had always preferred the western United States: The east was too cold; the south was too humid, and the Midwest was too unfamiliar for her comfort. Trevor had tracked her from Nevada to California, from California to Arizona, and finally, from Arizona to New Mexico, where he had eventually lost her trail. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that she had moved on, or to connect the western dots. Rebecca was headed to Colorado next, and Trevor was right behind her, whether she knew it or not.
Despite her holier than thou attitude and her arrogant, misguided belief that she could outwit anyone, Rebecca had always been pathetically predictable. She had blownher misunderstanding with Trevor completely out of proportion, turned it into a full-fledged crisis—like he was some crazy, rabid animal and she was some distressed, helpless maiden—like the two of them weren’t actually in love. Like she suddenly needed to fight for some greater cause: to save all women everywhere from the likes of Trevor Rainier.
He picked up a familiar coffee mug from the kitchen counter, one thathad an adorable picture of Snoopy dancing on the side, one that Rebecca’s mother had given her on her twenty-second birthday, and flung it across the room, shattering the stoneware into a dozen arbitrary pieces. And then he sauntered across the clean tile floor to the calendar and corkboard she always kept on the refrigerator, and he laughed.
Pathetically predictable.
As always.
He ran his forefinger over the calendar until he came to the correct date—Sunday, January 23 rd —and then he smiled at the elegant, perfect print: D2D/DMV. Door-to-door… fund-raising ? And DMV. So, what or where was DMV? Department of Motor Vehicles? And why the hell would she be fund-raising there? He laughed uproariously as an image of a bunch of middle-aged hags flashed
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