Page 1 of A Velvet Kiss After Dark

Prologue

Craigievar Castle, Scotland

1432 CE

Skin rips. An exposed artery sprays as a vampire sinks his fangs Kánnérd's neck with the voracity of a starved, wild animal. Grunts of pleasure sound. It was the sounds that provided the most torment. Wet slurps and guzzles, grunts of pleasure. The pain, he could disassociate from, but the sounds still made his flesh crawl to move away from the intruder’s touch.

No sunshine, no daylight, gross, unpalatable food. And, worse, he had to watch his brother stagger under his own abuse. That's what made the whole situation that much worse. Not what he was enduring, but what he watched his brother endure. And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing to change it.

Yet, a part of Kánnérd knew, even as he stood at the mercy of yet another maniac, that one day he would kill every single vamp who'd ever touched him. He'd kill those who'd subjugated him, throttled him, harmed him, and bled him. Their deaths would not be swift. And, for those onlookers, the partiers clothed in their expensive jewels and cashmere? They'd die, too. For not doing anything at all.

Kánnérd's death list was exquisitely, delightfully long. A mere thought of his list could bring a tight, satisfying smile to his face. His heart, he knew, if cut out of his chest this very minute and exposed to him would prove black from his rage, from his hatred.

He knew one day he'd be free from this hell. One day he would escape, and every single vamp who'd ever touched him would suffer so terribly—the glee at the mere thought quickened his heartbeat and the vampire atop him mewled with pleasure and drained even more life force energy from his body.

They wouldn't let him die. Of this, he was sure.

Though, as his vision blackened and he slipped out of consciousness only to leap back to reality moments later, he stuttered a breath out of his rattling lungs, blood and spit spilling over his lips, and he thought: maybe they will let me die today.

Every muscle in his body squeezed tight and flexed angrily at the thought, his chains rattling and his tormentor flowing with his body’s movements. He couldn't die, he thought deliriously. If he died, then that meant they won.

He would never let them win.

How did he know he'd escape one day? Because his Instincts told him. Those sweet, haunting words that he trusted more than anything in the whole world whispered to him to remain strong, that soon he would have his chance. Soon, all this would end. That voice was one he heeded. It'd never failed him.

So, worry, he did not. Fog continued to creep over his vision, dimming the edges of his sight. Even the grand candelabras and torches lining the hall seemed to have been capped to a dull yellow glimmer.

Kánnérd's body was locked so tightly, muscles in his shoulders and legs began to cramp, agonizing him further.

"Finish up, Uilleam. There's others who wish for a taste of the Twins," someone says, the voice sounding far away.

Flesh tears at his neck, and Kánnérd gnashes his teeth through the pain, as the vampire deepens the bite for an even bigger pull. Unfortunately the skin at his neck was already raw and damaged from the many feedings he'd already been supposed to from Elustrian's many guests.

Tonight was one of his master Elustrian's unique celebrations. What he celebrated, Kánnérd didn't know or care. However, vampires from all over the world came to Elustrian's Scottish manse to partake in taboo splendors only few could afford during these dark times: such as the ripe blood of a full-blooded werewolf in his prime. When it was ten years ago, they'd come for the same taste—only to have that of a child werewolf. A shiver races over him as images of the past screech upward to his brain—but he brutally shoves it down and far, far away. He would not think on it. Not now or ever.

Kánnérd knew that he and his brother were the greatest item on the menu. The "Succulent Were Twins" as they were called.

Tonight they'd been cleaned and clothed in fresh garments. Kánnérd had vomited twice, knowing what was to come when Elustrian held a gathering of this size. When the guests had arrived and the twins were sauntered out before the blood-fiend vamps like sacrificial lambs, it'd taken only seconds for his mind to disassociate; for him to go someplace far away as he was fed upon.

His mental space was all he had. He went far, far away, even as they roughly ate chunks of his flesh, which would only mend while he slept—so they could re-eat him again tomorrow and the next night. These celebrations of Elustrians were often week-long affairs, and everyone who attended would taste the infamous "Succulent Were Twins"before leaving.

They would gurgled his powerful werewolf blood like it was an addicting drug. His own suffering, he could mitigate by going up in his headspace and using his imagination. Sometimes he was even having fun while they stroked his naked skin. It was when he heard his brother's screams of horror that brought him back to reality.

One day you will all die. So very slowly . . .

The were twins had the most delicious taste. The power of their animistic blood gave the vamps an extra kick that they didn't receive otherwise. At least, that's what Kánnérd had overheard them saying. The younger, the fresher the werewolf, the more exotic the taste—and the more powerful the werewolf the more potent the high.

Finally, Uilleam, the powerful uncle of his Master pulled back from Kánnérd's neck. He had a familiar, drunken smile on his face. His gaze roamed Kánnérd's body with sensual intent. Kánnérd's hands curl to make fists, trembling in the metal cuffs that bind him. Blood swells where his fingernails bite into his palms. But eventually the vamp moves away and Kánnérd is left collapsed in the middle of the ballroom floor, bleeding out and gasping from the array of wounds on his body, his mind fading in and out of consciousness.

Time slows as the party eased into drunken lewdness. Orgies, pain, drugs, and so much blood. The scent of it suffocates his pronounced senses until he could feel the stench of it saturating him, covering his skin like particles of clinging dust.

Screams rang out from other victims. He was used to it, but that never made it sit well.

"You are a fine specimen, my boy. Fine indeed." Uilleam stroked Kánnérd's flank like a piece of choice meat one last time before moving away.

Every muscle in his body tensed at the intrusive touch. He quickly relocated his brain to someplace else and was taken to a memory of a conversation he had with his brother recently.

At night in their mutually-shared cells, he and his twin talked of everything. They shared fanciful stories of what they would do once they were escaped.

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