Page 70 of Mated Exile

Bastian's face is completely empty of expression. His hair falls loose and unbound over his bare shoulders, sliding across his skin as he slowly turns his head. There's a blankness to his eyes, and his hands are loose at his side as he takes a robotic step forward.

While his face is free of any expression or feeling, I can't say the same about the rest of him.

Apparently he sleeps nude, and is now, based on my startled guess, sleepwalkingnude. He's completely naked from the waist down, his lush light brown skin catching the cool light of my phone.

Giving me a perfect view of his completely erect penis.

The sight of him freezes me for long enough that his steps carry him towards where I stand. He doesn't seem to be aware of what he's doing. His eyes don't focus, and his hands don't move, almost as if he's not in control of his own movements.

I'm about to get out of his way when he gets close enough that the lamp and my phone illuminate him better, and I gasp, horror freezing me to the spot.

I've seen his chest before, covered in a criss-cross of battle wounds. Scratches and lacerations long-healed mar the skin, some twisting up in raised pink patterns, others soft white and old. The scars don't stop at his waist or hips.

They stretch down to his bare thighs, his calves, even his ankles. Where they land in the most intimate of places, right on the inside of his legs near his aroused flesh, they take on a very purposeful pattern.

Completely straight and perfectly parallel.

Some of the things Bastian hinted at slip through my mind, and anger flares inside me. Because the marks on the inside of his thighs are a combination of scratches—andfangmarks. The vampires who captured him didn't just make him fight for them, or bleed for their hunger. They also took advantage of his vulnerability, his open state, and used his body to get what they wanted.

No wonder he turned into a wolf and stayed that way.

At least in that form they would've left him alone.

Taking in a sharp breath, I try to move away as he brushes near me, not wanting to startle him awake. They say that sleepwalkers rarely take kindly to being woken in the middle of a spell.

Instead of stepping back, though, I hit the door behind me. My foot slips—and I fall forward, just as Bastian steps in my direction, his feet heavy.

As I grab onto his arm, warmth splashing across my chest, my body brushing against certain parts of him a littletoomuch, his face suddenly becomes animated. His eyes widen in expression, and his chest rises rapidly.

Looking down into my face, he bares his teeth in a snarl.

And attacks me.

Thirty

Delilah

Bastian lunges for my throat, his canines lengthening as his lips peel back. Two fangs connect with my skin, and pain lances across my neck as they puncture it.

I jerk out of his grip for only a moment. Strong hands grab onto me, yanking me off my feet. His nails lengthen against my side, turning into claws.

I yelp. "Bastian!" Saying his name has little effect. As he takes me to the ground, I barely find time to roll out of the way of his inhuman snarl. His teeth snap over air, those beautiful eyes glowing red. "Bastian, it's me!"

I'm scrabbling away from him before I remember that I don't have to fight this battle as a human. I don't even have to fight it at all.

Remembering that moment in the arena, I breathe out and ripple my awareness into the air around me. It strikes Bastian and sinks into his skin, giving me a taste of his thoughts and emotions. I wince at their intensity, violent anger splashing across the back of my throat as I taste what he's feeling.

He comes for me again, and this time I raise my hands, not to fend him off, but to grab his shoulders. Squeezing my fingers deep into his muscles, Ipushuntil I feel him give way.

A moment later he snaps back into himself, his eyes clearing, fangs rolling back beneath his lips, hands relaxing.

First he stares down at me in confusion. "Delilah?"

Then he sags forward, the fight gone out of him—and a veryarousedpart of his body rubs against my lower abdomen.

A strangled sound of pleasure leaves his throat. Hands holding him up, he snaps his hips forward again, just a little—then freezes, eyes flying up to my face. His hair slides over his shoulders, his erection pinned between us. It only seems to dawn on him what he's doing just as he does it again, almost instinctually, hips moving in a half-stuttered thrust.

It takes everything in me not to press up against his naked body or wrap my legs around his waist. My self-control doesn't stop warmth from pooling between my thighs. When Bastian gains enough awareness to draw back, leaving air between us, it's all I can do not to grab onto him and pull him back.

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