Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Read online

Morgan shivered as Colbourne laid a hand between his thighs, stroking him, caressing the erection he couldn’t suppress. A groan escaped Morgan as the pleasure increased tenfold.

  In a flash, he found himself pinned against the futon. He jerked at the feel of Colbourne’s hand fumbling with the buttons of his breeches. Heat flooded him, running straight from the hot contact to the ecstatic draw of blood from his neck. Hot, shaking with need, he pressed himself against that warm palm, his mind a blaze of passion. Colbourne moaned into Morgan’s neck, sucking harder.

  “Touch me…touch me please, Morgan.”

  The words slipped into his mind, jarring him from his lust. He shoved hard at the man above him, desperately building a wall in front of the invading thought.

  “Get out of my mind!” Frantic, Morgan lunged upward, thrusting Colbourne away from him and wincing at the sudden, tearing sting at his neck. He stumbled forward, pressing his hands to the wounds, attempting to stanch the flow of blood.

  He didn’t finish feeding, a portion of his mind whispered. He didn’t finish, and now I’m going to bleed to death.

  “Makoto!” Colbourne’s panicked voice beat on Morgan’s ears with the force of a drum. “Makoto! Tasukete!”

  Footsteps drummed across the floor as Colbourne’s retainer responded. The room started fading at the edges, and Morgan blinked at the bedding wound about his feet. Arms like steel trapped him, holding him up but keeping him hostage.

  “You damn idiot!” Despite the angry hiss of the words, Colbourne’s voice shook. “Hold still.”

  Morgan struggled against the iron grip holding him fast, while his hands were wrenched away from his neck. Colbourne’s unyielding grip held his head as the vampire leaned in to bite a second time. The pain shattered the last wall of Morgan’s consciousness, blackness overtaking him at the penetrating sting of his master’s fangs.

  * * * *

  Jeremy stared at Morgan’s sleeping face, the tremors of angry fear finally subsiding. He’d never before lost control during a feeding. Never. He’d been taking blood from normal humans for more than three centuries, and not once had he ever insinuated his thoughts into an unwilling Host’s mind.

  Host. Hostia. The cruel irony of the title struck Jeremy more forcibly than it had ever done before. Hostia, the victim. Centuries before, it had been a word to deny the humanity of those used as nothing more than a food supply. Now, it stood as a title of respect, of importance. Hosts themselves had made it so.

  When Morgan had fought Jeremy, rending his flesh beneath Jeremy’s fangs, the true meaning of Hostia had resonated in the terror shining in Morgan’s eyes. It had cut Jeremy to the quick, flaying him with the knowledge of his transgression.

  But Morgan had allowed him liberties he’d denied for a dozen years. Jeremy had been pushed over the edge of reason, and he’d reached out, succumbing to a longing he’d thought he’d safely buried.

  He stroked the bandages wound about Morgan’s neck. The man’s power of will never ceased to amaze him. The nosferii mind connection had originally been a means of prey control. For anyone to break free and physically pull away, as Morgan had, took strength of mind not commonly found.

  A shadow shifted behind him as Makoto entered the room, a laden dinner tray in his hands. Fresh cuts of red meat predominated, lightly seared but rich with the coppery smell of blood.

  “Time to eat, danshaku,” the samurai said, setting the tray on the small table by the chair. “You did not feed enough. Please replenish your strength with this.”

  Jeremy ignored the dark look, though he did reach for the glass of brandy. “It was sufficient. I do not need to dine early.”

  “I respectfully disagree.” Makoto plated a modest portion of beef and fruit. “Will you call for another Host?” Despite the words, Makoto’s voice carried no disapprobation. “It may be weeks before Holland-san is able to meet his Contracted terms.”

  “I will be ready when he is, Makoto,” Jeremy answered, loath to consider anyone else. “I can wait.”

  “That would be most unwise, danshaku.”

  “Perhaps, but I will wait, nonetheless.”

  “As you wish, danshaku.” Makoto bowed and left the room, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

  “I have no need of another Host, do I, Morgan?” Jeremy posed the question aloud, more for his own reassurance rather than expecting his Host to wake and answer. “After all, you are my Hostia Aeternus, my Eternal Host.”

  Jeremy looked at the brandy in his glass, staring at the deep burgundy liquid. Sweet, yes, the thick fluid was sweet and restorative, but it was not Morgan’s blood, which had called to him from the moment they met.

  “No, no need at all.”

  Chapter Two

  Jeremy cursed at the knock on the oaken door of his study. Morgan had attempted to corner him several times today. Pure cowardice had driven Jeremy to take refuge here, a place his loyal Host rarely intruded on, since it held the Buddhist shrine housing his mother’s mortuary tablet. He glanced at the portrait standing behind the black stone, wishing for a bit of Keiko Yamakawa’s legendary strength.

  Evading Morgan had taken a toll on Jeremy. The Contracted day for his feeding had come and gone. Today marked two full weeks since Morgan had wrenched himself from Jeremy’s grasp, nearly bleeding to death before Jeremy could administer the requisite clotting agent. The sight of Morgan’s injuries had seared itself into Jeremy’s mind, rendering him unwilling to risk another such incident.

  It almost made him wish to return to Japan, despite the difficulties involved. Obtaining the necessary dispensation from the Tokugawa Shogunate had been hard enough when he left. Lord Matsumae had done what he could, but it had taken his mother’s personal attendance on Emperor Kōkaku and an appropriate gift to Tokugawa Ikeharu to get it done. Going back would be far worse, despite his home’s exemption from the Sakoku Edict. Even so, he was tempted. If only to avoid what he now faced.

  The knock came again, harder than before, followed immediately by the entrance of Morgan Holland. “Excuse me, Lord Colbourne. While I am always loath to disturb you in your sanctum, you cannot avoid me forever.” Exasperation filled Morgan’s voice, underscored by heavy concern.

  Jeremy risked a glance at his Host, unwilling to see but drawn nonetheless. The wounds on Morgan’s neck had healed; his skin flushed a healthy hue. Unlike usual feedings, the last one had left two ragged scars, visible reminders of Jeremy’s lack of control. Even now, the remnants of Morgan’s refusal echoed in his mind, invading his dreams.

  “I am not convinced you are well enough to support a feeding, Holland,” he hedged, though his Host showed no lingering signs of ill effects. “Your wounds have barely healed.”

  Morgan sighed. “I understand your reluctance after the debacle last time, but you cannot risk your health or your sanity by some idiotic attempt at endurance. I am prepared to meet my Contracted terms without qualms.”

  “So you say. Nonetheless, your refusal made quite an impression. I’d prefer not to endure that again so soon.”

  Morgan’s cheeks heated with angry embarrassment. “Then break Contract, my lord, and find someone more willing to accommodate all of your needs. Or go back to Japan.”

  The slap of the words felt like a further refusal. Jeremy straightened in his chair, denying the spike of pain, determined to retain his rationality. Fear was anathema to the Barons of Colbourne and to the Yamakawa family. Being afraid to feed on his Contracted Host shamed both houses. He stood, feeling the weakness of flesh from self-deprivation.

  “After twelve years? I’d rather not, thank you. You’re all I need. Or want.” Jeremy considered the irony of his irrational thoughts mere moments before. “It is far harder to return than to leave,” he added. “While my home in Matsumae is exempt from the Sakoku Edict, only my status as a noble Chi no Kami allowed me to leave in the first place. I have no wish to reverse the process any time soon.”

  Morgan considered for a moment and then gave him the ghost of
a smile. “Then please stop delaying the inevitable. Despite what happened before, I refuse to watch you kill yourself, however noble your ancestors may have found the practice. It would render all my efforts worthless.”

  “Such things are not reserved for my ancestors,” Jeremy growled. “If I chose seppuku, who would be my second? You’d still have to watch me die.”

  “At least it would not be this slow death you’re attempting now.”

  Trust Morgan to know him well enough to hit so close to the truth of the matter. Jeremy allowed silence to reign for a moment and then gave a grudging chuckle. “No quarter, I see. You win, Holland. Give me two hours, and I’ll meet you in the sanguis cubiculum.”

  Two hours would give Jeremy sufficient time to contact William Carter. After this long, the sexual urges would be difficult to suppress, but he could not afford another mistake like the last time.

  Morgan nodded to him. “Two hours, then, Lord Colbourne. I will be ready.”

  * * * *

  At the appointed time, Morgan waited as instructed, nervous despite his earlier words to Colbourne. He touched the scars on his neck gingerly, wondering. For all his bravado and calm facade, the thought of facing Colbourne’s fangs disturbed him. That last bite had driven into his neck without preparation, the savage sting a hint of what mankind had faced in the early days of the nosferii. Yet beyond the pain, another sensation had lurked, one he was reluctant to recall.

  Perhaps it was only the remnants of the lust that rose in him every time Colbourne fed, but the agony of the unprepared bite had seemed to turn into a hazy pleasure at the end, before he’d passed out. Perhaps the recollection was only some perverse blending of his memories.

  Colbourne entered the sanguis cubiculum through the far door. Morgan caught a brief glimpse of another person before the closing door blocked his view.

  So he arranged for his companion to be available immediately after he is finished with me.

  In spite of the obvious benefits to the situation, the idea irritated Morgan for some reason. Though he refused to offer up his body for postfeed sex, he’d always steadfastly ignored Colbourne’s subsequent retreat to his rooms for several hours. To have that person here, in the antechambers of the sanguis cubiculum, the mere thought left a burning ache in Morgan’s gut. This was his domain, his sacred trust, no one else’s.

  “Are you ready, Holland?”

  The deeply sensuous voice rippled over Morgan’s skin, bringing him to a half-aroused state before the feeding started. He did his utmost to quash the reaction, trying vainly to focus on something other than Colbourne’s mouth.

  A hand reached for his chin, gently turning his face away to expose the length of his neck.

  “I’m sorry, Morgan,” Colbourne whispered.

  Morgan felt the faintest tremble in his master’s hand. He turned his head the opposite direction, offering the undamaged side. “Here, Master,” he urged, “feed from here.”

  Colbourne’s tongue touched him gently, tracing a line across his skin before stopping. “No, I think not,” he said, trailing his fingers past Morgan’s throat. “I’d rather feed from a different source today. Your neck is still healing.”

  Morgan shivered as his master’s hand roamed down his front, then stroked along the inside of his thigh.

  “Here, if you’ll permit me,” Colbourne whispered. “This is a strong blood source and will cause you less pain.”

  His thigh? Morgan swallowed a curse. If his master fed there, it would be impossible for Morgan to hide his reaction. Each feeding, the arousal came sooner, ached more fiercely. He’d managed to keep it hidden until the last time, but there would be no way of avoiding discovery now.

  He risked a look at Colbourne’s face, and his heart thudded at the intense expression he found there. Intense, and if he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn there was a plea in those dark eyes. He swallowed again and nodded, fearing his voice would not be steady enough to speak.

  “Thank you.” Colbourne knelt in front of Morgan, his hands hesitating on the fastenings.

  Morgan undid his breeches himself, sliding them to his knees along with his underclothes. Hot breath caressed his skin, and then Colbourne began licking his thigh, so close to his groin that his master’s silken black hair brushed his testicles. The tantalizing caresses continued until Morgan felt the familiar heady sensation singing through him, sensitizing his skin to perceive the pain of the vampire’s bite as pure pleasure.

  A shiver raced up his spine as he realized the feeding location Colbourne had chosen provided greater sensation than his neck. Was it simply the virgin nature of the skin there? Or the agonizing, sporadic caress of his balls? He could feel his arousal growing, the aching need intensifying with every pass of that teasing tongue.

  He looked down just as Colbourne lifted his head for the bite. The brilliant glitter of white fangs drove through his flesh, the agonizing ecstasy bringing him to painful hardness. As the fangs retracted, Morgan could not control the shiver running through him at the feel of his master’s lips and tongue slaking their thirst on his blood. His legs trembled at the exquisite fire racing through him, and he struggled against the desire to sink to the soft bedding and surrender everything to Colbourne.

  Fighting to remain rational and in control, he suppressed the unexpected urge to stroke himself. He knew the feedings always ended in desire—it was part and parcel of the act. It was how the nosferii ensured their victims did not fear the process. Yet he’d never before experienced such an abrupt and fierce need to satisfy himself. Worse, he could feel his own want, his unacknowledged hunger to possess Colbourne, and be possessed by him in turn.

  The fever built in him with astounding rapidity, and Morgan dreaded the moment when his master noticed, and touched him. He wanted it, desperately wanted it, but he feared that yearning in himself.

  Yet the touch never came. Moreover, he could feel his master drawing back from the feeding, and he flinched as those fangs pierced him again to halt the bleeding.

  “Holland?” The voice calling his name was calm, unruffled.

  Morgan shuddered, attempting to come out of his feed-induced lust. Colbourne had used his surname, so clearly the feeding was done. He watched in bemusement as his master wiped the blood from his lips, then dabbed gently at the blood remaining on Morgan’s thigh. And blatantly ignored Morgan’s erection.

  Mortified, Morgan tugged his breeches into place, buttoning them with haste. He dared a glance and saw his master was just as aroused.

  Colbourne shifted, hiding his erection, keeping his face averted. Humiliated, Morgan turned abruptly, stumbling on the soft bedding as he stalked away. He did his best to ignore the snick of the corner door as it closed behind the partner waiting to satisfy his master’s sexual need.

  A teasing voice drifted across the room in Morgan’s wake.

  “Finally, Jeremy. Why don’t you just come to me first?”

  Irrational anger blazed through Morgan. He froze for a moment, his hand clenched on the door handle. Too familiar, to use his master’s Christian name. As though they were lovers. The anger became a stab of unexpected pain. Why didn’t Colbourne Contract with this man, then? Morgan thrust that agony away, burying it with the rest of his tangled emotions, and stalked out to deal with the embarrassing proof of his own lack of control.

  * * * *

  “So why won’t you Contract with me?”

  Jeremy rolled onto his back, suppressing a weary sigh at the petulance. As much as he needed the sexual release after feeding, he wasn’t certain it was worth listening to this complaint every time. William Carter’s determination to replace Holland wearied Jeremy even more than Holland’s refusal to surrender.

  “I already have a Host. A good one.” One I won’t trade, even for your skill in bed.

  “He can’t be that good, my lord. He gives you nothing beyond his blood.”

  “That is between us. Don’t pry, Will, or I’ll call someone else next time.”
/>   A soft tsk of irritation came from the other side of the futon, where Makoto dressed with his usual silent efficiency. Jeremy watched in abstracted affection as his long-time companion moved to gather Carter’s clothing. Makoto’s stoic face betrayed little, but Jeremy spotted the telltale signs of irritation.

  Time for a little chafing of Carter’s overweening pride. “Did you feed sufficiently, Makoto?”

  The samurai gave him a level look. “Hai, danshaku. Arigatō gozaimashita.”

  Carter sniffed, annoyance twisting his handsome features. “This is England, damn it. Can’t you just say ‘Baron’ or ‘my lord’ like a civilized person?”

  Makoto ignored the petty comment, folding Carter’s clothing and placing it on a chair for the laundry maid to collect later.

  Jeremy squelched a smile at Will’s frustration before addressing his pouting guest. “Your efforts on Makoto’s behalf are also most appreciated, Will.”

  “Hmph.” Carter stood, reaching for the robe at the foot of the futon. “You’re an idiot, Lord Colbourne. Maybe I’ll find someone who wants me as a Contracted Host, not just a sexual outlet.” He cast another arrogant glance at Makoto, who handed him a robe without comment. “Or the Host of convenience for a lazy minore who can’t find a Host of his own.”

  “Enough.” Jeremy’s aggravation escaped at last. “There’s no need for insults.”

  Will Carter turned away, heading for the door without apology. “I’ll turn you down someday, Jeremy Colbourne,” he taunted. “Just wait and see.”

  “You’ve said that the last three times.” I’ll believe it when it happens. He gave the young man a smile, knowing Carter would be back. “The bath is hot, so feel free to use it before you go.”

  On cue, Makoto flashed a grim smile. “This way, Master Carter,” he said, holding the door. “Fresh clothing is ready for you by the furo.” After a moment, he gave a shallow bow of thanks. “Thank you for feeding me.”

  Will’s hesitation suggested suspicion as to Makoto’s sincerity. If so, he was right to be unsure. To Jeremy’s discerning eye, the bow had been just short of disrespectful. Makoto tended to be touchy after his feeding, though he always seemed to enjoy the postfeed threesome.