Fuck.

Bloody hell.

He eased back until she was forced to release him. For several long seconds, they stared at one another, breathing heavy, skin flushed with desire. Syn had no idea what was going on in her head, but what was going on in his was brutal. He was a cock-up, a prat, a rogue, and a rat bastard. He deserved to be strung up by his fangs for touching another female.

"I'm famished," he said in lieu of an excuse or an apology. "In pain. I need your blood now before I lose what little control I have left."

Her skin was pink and the scent of her arousal in the air couldn't be missed by either one of them, and yet she nodded and stepped back. "Will it hurt? Will I be weak afterward?"

"There is a moment of pain, as you felt in the clinic. But it doesn't last." He went over to the wood bathtub and sat down, rested his back against the side. "You may feel tired afterward, or you may feel energized. I'm not sure how your body will react."

"I'm nervous."

"But you're willing?" He wasn't about to fight her for it. Shite, right now he was out of fight.

Without a word, she came to sit beside him. And after several deep breaths, she lifted her chin and offered him her wrist.

Synjon didn't say anything more. Frankly, he was so amped up, heavy with desire, and ravenous with hunger, whatever came out of his mouth at this point would probably be grunts and groans. So he gave in to his true and honest need and became a Pureblood vampire paven.

He brought her wrist to his lips, and within the space of a breath, his fangs plunged into her vein.

* * *

The rush of heat, pain and undeniable pleasure moving through Petra was mind-boggling. At first, when his fangs had entered her skin, pricked her vein, she'd wanted to pull away, rescind their bargain and get the hell out of the bathroom. But in seconds the fear, the strangeness of the act fell away and she was left with a feeling she could only describe as pre-orgasmic.

Panting slightly, she watched him, his dark head coiled over her wrist, his body moving to the rhythm of his suckle. With every pull, she felt him inside her. With every swallow, her mind conjured images of his mouth on hers again.

Sweat broke out on her forehead and she leaned against his shoulder. His hand instantly reached for her, grabbing her thigh and squeezing. Below her waist, heat surged and the small heartbeat hidden inside her clit swelled. She'd never felt anything like it, and a moan escaped her lips.

As his fingers clenched and unclenched like a feline's claws against her skin, she fought the swirling desire inside of her. But it was impossible to control. She was incredibly turned on. Every goddamn inch of her. Her mouth was dry, her nipples were hard, her sex was wet, and her mind was begging for him to slide his hand from her thigh up to where she ached.

"Oh, Synjon," she whispered almost desperately, her head starting to pound. "Please . . ."

Gods, what was she asking? What was wrong with her?

In front of her eyes, spots formed. She blinked rapidly, licked her lips and swallowed. She couldn't feel her limbs, her face . . .

"Please," she uttered. "Don't. Stop. Please. I can't . . . breathe."

Suddenly, the room faded of all color, and just as the male pulled from her vein, she lost consciousness.

Chapter Nine

"Shite. Oh, bullocks." He'd caught her just as she was heading for the floor.

Panic lunged within Syn as he stared down at her, limp and unconscious in his arms, her lashes so dark against her pale cheeks. What had he done? Had he taken too much blood? Too fast?

He placed her down on the bamboo floor as gently as he could manage, then bolted to his feet. His mind shook with fearful thoughts. He wasn't losing another veana. He reached for the faucet on the tub and cranked the water all the way to cold. This was going to feel like utter rubbish for the both of them, but it was the only way he knew to revive her quickly.

Returning to her side, he stripped off her clothing and lifted her into his arms. The energy, the heat, the strength inside of him from her rich, pure blood made it feel as though he were carrying little more than a butterfly.

Still dressed, he climbed into the tub and lay down. He didn't give a shite about his own clothing, didn't give a shite about anything but waking her, seeing her eyes and hearing her voice.

Gods, that voice. It had carried him through near death, brought him back to life.

The smooth wooden bath was hardly big enough to fit his body, but he managed, placing her on top of his chest, so she faced the ceiling.

The frigid water claimed him like a sponge, but he hardly felt it. He was too considered for Petra. She too was immersed in the water, but she didn't wake. Christ, she didn't even stir.

What had he done?

His breathing quick and panicked, he started splashing her with the cold water. Over her chest, her belly . . . her face. Come bloody on, damn you. Her skin beaded, turned even paler, yet she still didn't wake. He switched tactics. Easing out from under her, he placed her entire body in the water.

"Come on, Veana," he begged, gutted. "Fuck!"

Only her face hovered above the surface. Eyes wide, fear gripping every inch of him, he prayed. She looked so still. Her lips were turning blue.

"I can't lose you too," he moaned, his hands in the water as he rubbed at her arms, her neck, throat.

And then it happened. One moment she was as still as death and the next she was gripping his wrist and coming awake with a splutter. Her eyes slammed open and she gasped. Thrashing around, not sure where she was or why, she started to panic. Synjon yanked her up, into his arms and pulled her out of the frigid tub so fast he surprised himself.