When my wrist is firmly wrapped, Webb takes each finger in his and presses. My hands are cold and white and the blood does not rush back to my fingertips as it should. He is kneeling before me, and he places an arm on each side of my thighs, pinning me down with the force of his presence. I feel his desire: aggressive and dominating. My breath comes quick. I need blood. Oxygen. Slowly he takes my chin in his hand and kisses me softly on the mouth. His teeth are sharp. I try to turn away, but his fingers tighten, holding me. He bites the inside of his mouth with his own teeth, so hard blood wells up. Suddenly I'm leaning into him, hungry and desperate, trying to stop myself from kissing him but I can't. I can't stop. He tastes of raw, bright sunlight and I'm wrapped in a bolt of lightning, jolting back to life.
Finally he pulls back with his eyes closed, unbalanced. His chest is heaving and his hands clench the couch so tightly he's torn through the fabric. Mortification sweeps through me. My hand flies to my mouth. In disgust, I wipe the blood away, recoiling from him in horror, kicking out with a boot to his chest, but he refuses to release me.
His hands grip my thighs like iron, pinning me down. "I will prove my loyalty to you," he whispers. "With you by my side, I will be a better man. We will save thousands. You will see that I can be good. I'll take care of Dana's body. Then I will nourish you and give you the sun. When you feel it, you will never want to return to the darkness. I will give you the light, and once you taste it, you will remain with me forever."
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Anne Brontë Nightwalker
FantasyIn 1849, Anne Brontë died a devout and innocent virgin. Three days later, she rose from the dead. Now from the jagged wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains, to a glittering lair deep beneath the Biltmore Estate, a lonely Nightwalker fights her ete...
