Black Blood (Series of Blood Book 4) by Emma Hamm (scary books to read .TXT) 📕

followed the path of her artery. A ghost of a touch leaving ink black stains on her opalesque skin. Only the tips of his fingers touched her, but she was burning.

She gasped, swallowing more of his darkness. The taste of a god-like monster was as addicting as any drug had ever been. He smudged his guilt upon her skin and purged himself in her forgiveness. He let it wash over him and absolve this newest mistake he added to his collection.

Lydia opened her eyes as she realized his hands were shaking. She pulled back to looked up into his gaze.

He shook his head at her. “I am a loathsome creature. Cruel and unrelenting. I will tear you apart, starting with your heart and ending with your sorrow.”

“You give yourself too much credit, Pitch, if you think I would ever allow you to do that to me.”

She could feel the slick oiled darkness across her mouth. It was smudged in a painter’s stroke across his cheek from his mouth. This was the first time she had ever seen him look something other than perfectly put together.

There was no small sense of pride in the knowledge she had done that to him. She had been the first, and likely the last, to ever shock him so much that he lost his self-control.

“You are a dangerous woman.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a black kiss against her palm.

“And you should remember that.”

“I would be a fool if I did not.”

He gathered her to his chest gently. She was surprised he could lift her so easily as he stood and began to walk up the stairs. It was probably silly that she was still surprised by his strength. She already knew the immense amount of power underneath his skin. But the body he had chosen was thin and wiry.

The moths he held captive by time began to move. Their wings flapped once more, grey and white flashing by her vision. The swarming moths resembled snow as they settled back on the walls.

“Pitch,” she said quietly as he turned down the second floor hallway. “This isn’t the way to my room.”

“No it is not.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “I-”

“It has been a very long time since I have slept in my own bed. I do not intend to get up every few hours to calm your nightmares.”

“It’s not as though I can control them.”

“No,” he agreed while he shouldered open the door to his room. “But I can.”

He didn’t put her down until they reached his bed. She had seen the shadows of this room only once, and had not barged in since. The dark colors were still overpowering but less frightening than before. Now, the room felt heavy with serenity and quiet.

She heard the flipping sound of quilts being yanked. Her feet touched his silken sheets first. The cold slide of expensive fabric against her skin was both decadent and wicked.

“Are you-?”

He interrupted her again as he pulled the blanket up to her neck. It was heavier than she expected. “Go to sleep, Lydia. Dream. And for once do not dance upon the web of time.”

She felt the edge of the bed dip but would later not remember when he joined her. She sank into a deep dreamless sleep for the first time in centuries. Perhaps it was the darkness which guided her into the safety of the dreaming world.

But it was likely the safety of his arm curled over her side, his thighs bracketing hers, and his breath stirring the hair at the nape of her neck.

He didn’t count the passing of time in hours or days. He counted time in each beat of her heart, every soft sigh, and every slight movement that brought her closer to him. They might have laid on that bed for hundreds of years and he still would not have moved.

She was dangerous. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had distracted him in such a way.

Pitch liked to think that he was a picky man. He liked nice things, and understood the only way to keep such things was to work hard. He served himself on a platter to those who had money and power until he was the only one with such things. He beckoned and everyone answered his call.

Except her. He looked down at the fan of her eyelashes upon her pale cheek. She had dug her heels in from the first moment he tried ordering her around. Of course he’d gotten his way, but her hesitation had made a lasting impression.

He played with a lock of her hair, coiled around her antlers. She was too pretty to be considered animalistic, even with the clear deer parts attached to her human body. A monster she was not. A goddess? Perhaps. Although he was inclined to compare her to an angel.

Certainly she could have been. He read the stories humans created. Angels were different in his world. They were fierce creatures who enjoyed battle and bloodshed as much as their demonic counterparts. That was why so many Blue Bloods had disagreed with the human categories.

Blue eyes. Black eyes. It was all the same to creatures who had long ago sectioned themselves into light or dark, good or evil.

She was neither, this strange captive who wiggled her way under his skin. If she bled, he thought it likely to be white. If she could even bleed. Her transformation was nearly complete.

Sil had never been able to be wounded until the moment his siblings found her ultimate weakness and torn her limb from limb.

“Pitch?” her soft murmur startled him from the ancient memories.

She reached for him, her slim hand stretching into the darkness. He wasn’t usually the kind of man to smile, but he felt the soft expression stretch across his face as he grasped her fingers.

“Did you forget where you were?” he asked, his lips hovering above her ear.

Her entire body tensed against his. “Pitch?”

“Still me.”

The startling difference between her tense