The Lost Siren: Rise of the Drakens Book 1 by Raven Storm (find a book to read .txt) 📗

a shit; all I cared about was stopping the pain. I tangled my fingers in his hair and jerked his head to the blood on my chest. He sucked in a panicked breath, then his lips found the wound. His hands moved to steady us both; one holding the back of my neck, the other gripping my waist. The most glorious, numb feeling spread throughout my body, the worst of the pain fading into nothingness as his tongue danced across my skin. I felt his fangs graze the area around my wound, and a bolt of arousal shot through my core. I pushed it away in panic, and tried to focus on something else; something rational…

“Why did they all come? What happened?”

I held onto him as the cuts on my chest healed, itching as scar tissue developed and stretched. Benedict rested his head in the hollow of my neck, nearly vibrating with tension. Did my blood taste that awful?

“You let out a distress call. Every draken in this castle heard it and tried to answer. It...it caused panic because none of us have heard a distress call since the last—since…” He trailed off, not finishing his thought.

My mind raced, not understanding. “A distress call? But what—"

The pad of his thumb ran softly over my lips, silencing whatever else I had to say. He sniffed my neck, and I tried and failed to not enjoy the sensation of him so close to me. It was the blood loss, I told myself.

“I need to heal you before you die. Your arm and ribs are broken, and you likely have internal bleeding. I can’t heal that with my tongue.”

“You could try.”

He barked a laugh, and it tugged a smile from me.

“Now I know you’re dying.” He shifted against me and pulled me into his lap. I moaned as my body protested each movement, barely noticing when Benedict lifted the inside of his wrist to his mouth and bit down. Inky, dark blood dripped from his wrist, and he held it up to my mouth. I pulled away from him.

“You have to drink it; it’s the only way you won’t die.”

That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? I’d be free of him, free of the pain, and free of this awful, worthless life…Kieran’s eyes swam before me, and I could already feel his disappointment if I were to die.

If you die, then it can’t get better, can it?

But it was Benedict’s blood I had to drink, not Kieran’s. I clamped my lips shut, shaking my head stubbornly. Benedict growled in frustration, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Are you that much of a coward?”

That was rich, coming from him. Still, I couldn’t die without trying to set the record straight.

“You—are—mean.”

He rolled his eyes, unconcerned with his own blood being wasted on the floor.

“Mean people don’t try to save annoying little humans. You are the one who has done nothing but yell and scowl at me since I brought you here.”

“‘S not—"

With a frustrated growl he put his wrist to own mouth, seemingly drinking his own blood. What was he doing? Without warning he kissed me, my mouth dropping open in shock. His blood seeped in my mouth, coating my tongue and swelling into the hollows of my cheeks. I swallowed reflexively as he pinched my nose shut, and his arms tightened around me as I tried to jerk away. His thumb stroked a light pattern as he hissed soothingly, trying to coax me to swallow more. I moaned as more of the pain faded away, and something in his demeanor changed as he let go of me. He kissed me for real then, his teeth biting and nipping as I groaned against him, but this time it had nothing to do with pain. His blood sang in my veins, healing and soothing, and having no business tasting as good as it did: it was blood, after all.It tingled on my tongue, spiced yet sweet, cooling the fires of pain in my body.

My arm felt fine, so I lifted it and ran it down his chest as our lips tangled, feeling the unique texture of the scales covering his skin, yet careful of the wounds from his battle with the Skolex. He clutched me tighter to him, kissing me so intensely that I thought he would simply devour me. If Kieran’s kisses were honest and Ronan’s were frantic, Benedict’s were possessive. His growl reverberated in my head, shooting down into that warm spot below my belly and curling my toes with need. My hand was in his hair, and I grasped the silky strands between my fingers harshly, pulling him closer even as the nails of my other hand dug into his back. The others might not like the pain, but I knew Benedict would; he understood that part, didn’t he? He pressed himself into me as my nails dug harder. I could feel the warm buzz of his blood fading away, and the pain returning. I broke the kiss and grabbed his wrist, yanking it to my face. Benedict’s eyes swelled with arousal as I willingly sucked the blood from his wrist, the feeling of intense need and power coursing through my veins. His breathing hitched and his pupils dilated as he took in the sight of me, his blood dripping from my chin. Something in him broke, and I was thrown back onto the floor as he grinded his hips into me, his mouth frantic yet brutal. I bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and greedily drank that down, too. My entire world was him; every sensation, every stroke and caress, every drop of blood I could squeeze from his veins was another piece of him inside of me.

Benedict moved to my neck, his lips and fangs carving a road down my collarbone and above my breasts, leaving marks but no blood. The rough planes of his tongue drifted lazily over the scars on my chest, discarding the ripped patch of fabric