Immortal Sins Read Online Free Page A
Author: Amanda Ashley
remote. Keeping her gaze fixed squarely on the screen, she turned on the TV.
It took all her concentration to keep from glancing up at the Vilnius. Was it her imagination, or could she feel the man gazing down at her, willing her to look up?
“Not real,” she murmured. “He’s not real.” Perspiration beaded on her brow. She looked at the fireplace, her gaze slowly moving up, up, until she was staring at the painting from hell.
And he was there, looking at her through the glass, his gaze intent upon her face. His eyes…what was there about his eyes that made her want to go to him, to take him in her arms and soothe the ache she saw in his gaze?
She leaned forward, felt her heart plummet to her toes when, with a smile, his lips formed her name.
Karinna.
It was too much. With a cry, she leaped from the sofa and ran out of the room.
Chapter 4
Rourke swore softly as the woman fled the room. Of course, he couldn’t blame her for being startled. After all, how often did a figure in a painting move, much less speak? He supposed he should be grateful she hadn’t fainted dead away. But, dammit, how was he going to establish contact with her without scaring her half to death? One way or another, he had to communicate with her. She owned him now. His fate, his future, the end to his relentless hunger all rested in her hands.
When she was in the room, he could hear the steady beat of her heart, smell the warm red river of life flowing through her veins.
Three hundred years since last he had fed, and with every passing year, the ache had grown stronger, until what had at first been mere discomfort turned to pain; the pain into never-ending agony. These days, the need clawed at him relentlessly, the pain unceasing. Excruciating. Sometimes, when it became more than he could bear, he fed off the horse. The animal’s blood took the edge off his thirst but did nothing to satisfy either his hunger or his endless craving.
He slammed his fist against the glass. Relief was so near. So near. He closed his eyes, remembering the last time he had fed, the rich salty taste, the warmth that had flooded his being as the elixir of life flowed down his throat. It had been but a momentary pleasure, though, as, unexpectedly, the sweetness of her life’s blood had turned sour and scorched his tongue. Only then had he realized the seductive young woman in his arms wasn’t an ordinary mortal.
He pounded his fist against the glass again, but yet again, to no avail. His preternatural powers had been neutralized by his imprisonment, leaving him with little strength, supernatural or otherwise.
Frustrated and angry, he paced the length of his prison until the worst of his anger dissipated. Someday, he vowed, someday he would reclaim not only his freedom but the sword that Vilnius had stolen from him. Rourke clenched his hands into tight fists. The sword had belonged to his father, Thomas, who had fought with Prince Edward in the Eighth Crusade in 1272. Since becoming a vampire, his father’s sword had been the only tangible thing Rourke had owned that held any meaning for him, the only memento he had left of the life he had once known. Thanks to the wizard’s twisted sense of humor, a picture of that sword hung over the mantel inside the castle, a constant reminder of all Rourke had lost.
With a sigh, he dropped to the ground, his gaze moving toward the box with the moving pictures. It was a wondrous creation called television. He marveled at the witchcraft that had conjured such a miracle. Much of what he knew of the modern world he had learned from watching the people trapped inside the mysterious machine. It had taken him quite some time to realize that some of what he saw took place in the present and some in the past, that some elements were fact and some were fiction, though he couldn’t always tell which was which. But whether fact or fiction, he found it entertaining most of the time.
He glanced at the doorway, wondering if the
It took all her concentration to keep from glancing up at the Vilnius. Was it her imagination, or could she feel the man gazing down at her, willing her to look up?
“Not real,” she murmured. “He’s not real.” Perspiration beaded on her brow. She looked at the fireplace, her gaze slowly moving up, up, until she was staring at the painting from hell.
And he was there, looking at her through the glass, his gaze intent upon her face. His eyes…what was there about his eyes that made her want to go to him, to take him in her arms and soothe the ache she saw in his gaze?
She leaned forward, felt her heart plummet to her toes when, with a smile, his lips formed her name.
Karinna.
It was too much. With a cry, she leaped from the sofa and ran out of the room.
Chapter 4
Rourke swore softly as the woman fled the room. Of course, he couldn’t blame her for being startled. After all, how often did a figure in a painting move, much less speak? He supposed he should be grateful she hadn’t fainted dead away. But, dammit, how was he going to establish contact with her without scaring her half to death? One way or another, he had to communicate with her. She owned him now. His fate, his future, the end to his relentless hunger all rested in her hands.
When she was in the room, he could hear the steady beat of her heart, smell the warm red river of life flowing through her veins.
Three hundred years since last he had fed, and with every passing year, the ache had grown stronger, until what had at first been mere discomfort turned to pain; the pain into never-ending agony. These days, the need clawed at him relentlessly, the pain unceasing. Excruciating. Sometimes, when it became more than he could bear, he fed off the horse. The animal’s blood took the edge off his thirst but did nothing to satisfy either his hunger or his endless craving.
He slammed his fist against the glass. Relief was so near. So near. He closed his eyes, remembering the last time he had fed, the rich salty taste, the warmth that had flooded his being as the elixir of life flowed down his throat. It had been but a momentary pleasure, though, as, unexpectedly, the sweetness of her life’s blood had turned sour and scorched his tongue. Only then had he realized the seductive young woman in his arms wasn’t an ordinary mortal.
He pounded his fist against the glass again, but yet again, to no avail. His preternatural powers had been neutralized by his imprisonment, leaving him with little strength, supernatural or otherwise.
Frustrated and angry, he paced the length of his prison until the worst of his anger dissipated. Someday, he vowed, someday he would reclaim not only his freedom but the sword that Vilnius had stolen from him. Rourke clenched his hands into tight fists. The sword had belonged to his father, Thomas, who had fought with Prince Edward in the Eighth Crusade in 1272. Since becoming a vampire, his father’s sword had been the only tangible thing Rourke had owned that held any meaning for him, the only memento he had left of the life he had once known. Thanks to the wizard’s twisted sense of humor, a picture of that sword hung over the mantel inside the castle, a constant reminder of all Rourke had lost.
With a sigh, he dropped to the ground, his gaze moving toward the box with the moving pictures. It was a wondrous creation called television. He marveled at the witchcraft that had conjured such a miracle. Much of what he knew of the modern world he had learned from watching the people trapped inside the mysterious machine. It had taken him quite some time to realize that some of what he saw took place in the present and some in the past, that some elements were fact and some were fiction, though he couldn’t always tell which was which. But whether fact or fiction, he found it entertaining most of the time.
He glanced at the doorway, wondering if the
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