Page 105 of To Catch A Rogue
He was the Duke of Malloryn. He was not going to be thwarted by his own fucking hunger.
"Be rational." She showed him the star in her hand and licked her lips. "I know how much it aches. You're starving. You've been beaten. I know you pride yourself on your control, but your eyes are pure black. You will not make the dawn without attacking me. Take a little blood now, while you still have some of your faculties and might be able to stop."
She didn't understand.
One taste and he'd be lost.
"You are the Duke of Malloryn," Ava said firmly. "You can master this. You need to be healed and in control, because when the sun rises they will check to see if you've killed me or not. You need to be strong enough to fight them. Don't you want to defeat Balfour? Don't let your pride defeat you. Don't let him win because you're too damned stubborn to admit when you are struggling."
He couldn't hold himself much longer. The smell of blood was getting to him.
"Do it."
Ava picked up the small steel star and dragged its razor sharp edge across her wrist. "I know you, Your Grace. I trust you. I know you can defeat this."
He forced himself to ignore the impropriety of bloodletting another man's fiancée.
Kincaid would never forgive him, but at least there might be a chance Malloryn wouldn't kill her if he just took the edge off his thirst.
"Speak to me," he whispered, lifting her wrist to his lips. "Tell me everything the Rogues have been doing."
Help me stay human.
Ava's voice came out breathy. "Gemma saw Dido abduct you, and we knew where they'd be taking you. We took a vote. It was unanimous. Rogues don't leave other Rogues behind—"
Her words were a balm. But then his lips touched her wrist, blood wetting his tongue. He could barely hear her anymore as she prattled on.
Malloryn suckled hard, her blood spilling down his throat.
"Malloryn," she gasped. "Ease up."
Her blood was so sweet, after so many days starving. The scent of it.... Christ. It had been so long, and yet blood had never tasted like this. He wanted to rub his face in it. Wanted to grab a fistful of her hair and tear into her throat with his blunt, blunt teeth....
Sweet.
Sucre de sang, whispered a voice inside him, from the lessons he'd had when he went through his Blood Rites as a fifteen-year-old. All aristocratic blue bloods were taught how to master themselves, how to efficiently use a bloodletting knife and seal the wounds with their saliva.
And they were taught how to recognize the subtle hormonal shifts in a woman's blood, so they would not injure their thralls should their seed take root.
A child.
A child.
A child.
He saw Catherine's face again—the only woman he had ever loved—as she begged him to stay away from her and Balfour.
"Please,"she had pleaded, the night before Balfour shot her."You have to stop this. You have to give me up. He owns my thrall contract."
"Never."
"I'm in the family way!"she'd cried."He will kill me if he finds out it's yours."
Malloryn tore himself away from the wound, breathing hard. Balfour had killed her anyway, both her and the baby.
"You're with child," he blurted.
Ava's eyes opened wide as she clutched her wrist to her chest. "What?"
