Sharon Page - Blood Curse

“I would not.”

Ravenhunt grasped her chin, forcing her blazing gaze to meet his frustrated one. “There are men out there waiting for the chance to drag you into a laboratory, strap you down, and cut you open to examine you. You wouldn’t survive it, and your death would be slow, lingering, painful.”

Smoke rose from his fingers, from the contact of his skin with hers.

“Don’t touch me,” she cried, shoving his hand away.

Her chest rose on fast breaths. Her face was white. So many emotions were written on her face he could not read them all. But one stood out—pain. He saw deep pain in her eyes. He knew what raw pain looked like. He’d seen it in his own eyes after the first time he’d killed. He’d seen it in the eyes of men on the battlefield. He’d seen it in Frederica’s eyes, after she’d been told of his “death.”

“You never touch anyone, do you?” he asked softly.

“Of course not. I can’t.”

“No kisses?”

“N—no.” She hesitated. She winced. So there was a tale there. She had kissed, so what had happened? The mortal must have died.

“No embraces. No holding hands. No dances?”

She wrapped her arms around her chest. “I cannot touch anyone at all. Even gloves don’t help if the touch is prolonged, like a dance.”

“Do you like to dance?”

Wistfulness replaced pain. “Yes.”

Raven stroked his chin. “There is something I want to do. It will hurt eventually, but not for a while.”

Before Ophelia could move away, he came to her, pulled her into his embrace. His head bent to hers, and as she reeled back, realizing what he meant to do, his mouth touched hers. Softly. Then he pressed more. His mouth opened, coaxing hers to open, too.

His tongue touched hers.

He was kissing her. An intimate, passionate kiss.

Her lips sizzled. A burning sensation washed over them. Smoke rose between her and Ravenhunt.

She fought to push him away. Her lips did not hurt, yet there was no question her kiss was burning him. Hurting him.

But he was not going to let the kiss end.

Ravenhunt drew back from her sizzling lips. “Stop worrying and enjoy the kiss,” he urged. “I’m not going to die.”

“I wish you w—” Ophelia began, but his mouth covered hers again, capturing her words, as he drew her tight to his hard body and kissed her deeply.

She couldn’t say she wished he would die. It wasn’t true. But she wished he would just . . . leave. So that she could get away.

This kiss was . . .

Oh, she was terrified of kissing.

Her first kiss had ended in horror. She had watched the man she loved fall to his knees, clutching his throat. David’s face had turned purple, his tongue had protruded, and his eyes had bulged out.

The horrible attack had stopped and he had lived. But she had never let herself see him again.

Ravenhunt kept kissing her. She held her lips so hard and tight they began to ache. She was going to kill him, and even though this was his fault, she was sick with guilt.

His hand cupped her jaw and slowly stroked. His fingertips massaged her skin beside her ear, making it tingle. His gentle touch soothed her. She found her spine was no longer ramrod straight with fear. Her legs began to melt.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her lips softened against his. The pressure of his mouth on hers made shivers of pleasure race down her spine. His lips were so firm but velvety. She ached inside—a strange, empty, throbbing feeling.

She pressed close to him, hard against his body—

What was she doing? He was her captor.

This was awful. The wonderful kiss she finally had was from a man she despised. It was wrong.

Ophelia shoved hard against his chest.

This time Ravenhunt let her go.

Raven’s mouth was hot with pain—pain that shot from his sensitive lips through his entire body. Jade had told him Lady Ophelia’s power would kill him slowly. She hadn’t mentioned it would hurt like hell.

That kiss had felt like his lips had been sliced by razors.

He touched his stinging lips tenderly. The pain was easing.

It had been hell while he’d been kissing Ophelia, but at least it hadn’t hurt her. Just him.

He could bear it for his sister’s sake.

Lady Ophelia grasped up her hems and scurried away like a frightened animal. She had pulled her gown on, and it hung around her, for she hadn’t bothered with her undergarments.

Many times he’d seen his sister run away from him in such a pose—biting her lip to fight tears, her heart filled with black fury toward him. When he’d become head of the family at twenty, he had seemed to spend most of his time leveling his sister’s dreams, breaking her heart, and, as she would describe it, ruining her life.

How was he going to coax Lady Ophelia into his bed? She could not see him as anything other than her captor. Raven had hoped her simmering anger might ignite into passion. Perhaps it would, in time. But he needed a way to cut to the chase.

He had to give Ophelia orgasms. How was he supposed to do that with a woman who ran away from him?

Ophelia would be searching for escape. There was no way out of his house. It gave him time to think.

How badly was it going to hurt him to seduce her? Hell, he couldn’t begin to guess. And it didn’t matter—he had to do it.

Raven stood absolutely still for several minutes.

Then he knew what to do.

From the battlefield, he knew the fear of imminent death made a man turn to anyone for help and rescue. Even an enemy.

There must be a way out.

But with each room she ran into and searched, Ophelia was losing hope.

No wonder Ravenhunt had left her room unlocked and had let her run around his house. No wonder he had not pursued her when she ran from him.

This house was indeed a prison. Except for the two of them, it was utterly devoid of life. No cook resided in the kitchen, no maids tended to the rooms. Ophelia hadn’t encountered another human soul.

The house showed its neglect. Cobwebs were strung from ceiling to bedposts and furniture in every room but hers. She had found no other bedroom that appeared occupied by her captor.

Every door to the outside was locked. He must carry the keys with him.

If she’d had her sculpting tools, she might have been able to spring open a lock. But she had nothing. Even if she broke a window, each one was covered with bars spaced too tightly for her to squeeze through.

If she could get hold of the keys . . .

If she let him kiss her again, could she search him for the keys? She shivered as she imagined running her hands over his body, pretending to be filled with desire but actually trying to find her escape.

She didn’t want to touch him. But she had to.

Now she had to find him. Or let him find her. She must ensure he did not guess her plan.

Where could she let him find her? She was on the upper floor, a few doors down from her bedroom. Ophelia pushed a door open. This bedchamber, too, was festooned with dust and spider-webs. But the bed was made.

This had to be Ravenhunt’s room. But why in heaven’s name was it not cleaned? How could he stand sleeping in there?

“Ophelia.”

Ravenhunt’s voice made her jump.

He had found her, and now she must make this convincing. She had run away from him once—it would be artificial and suspicious if she suddenly threw herself into his arms.

She couldn’t rouse his suspicion.

Weakness. She hated to act like a ninny, but weakness would be believed. Mrs. Darkwell had bought in to it on the times she’d escaped from the woman’s house. If she was docile, meek, and frightened, no one thought she had any courage at all. No one thought she was using her wits.

She made her shoulders shake. “Are you going to force a kiss on me again? Are you going to attack me?”

“You liked the kiss,” he answered softly. He stayed put, studying her. Not moving, as if she were a deer he didn’t want to frighten.

“I—” How to play this? “I didn’t want to like it.” That was honest. But she knew it also was not a denial that she wanted him to kiss her again.

“Maybe I always wanted to know what a real kiss was like,” she continued, hurriedly. She had to sound genuine. “But I can’t.”

“Think of it as just that. A chance to see what a kiss is. Forget who I am. Imagine the man of your fantasies kissing you.”

His words made her want to mentally kick herself in the bottom. He had been the man of her fantasies for two weeks. “You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

Then he was there in front of her, and she supposed she was so nervous she hadn’t focused on him coming to her. He’d seemed to move in a heartbeat.

Let him touch you. Don’t panic. It’s not that you want this. It’s that you have to do it. His scents filled her head. Sandalwood, witch hazel, wool, and leather. She looked up at him, her lips parted invitingly. Hoping he didn’t need any more encouragement than just her standing docilely, waiting for him to master her again.

Anything else—any faked enthusiasm—would look strange.

He tipped up her chin, kept his finger there, as gentle as if she were fine porcelain.

His mouth lowered to hers. So slowly, her heart was pounding when their lips touched. It was like a burst of thunder after waiting and waiting for it.

She gasped into his mouth.