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Warning - This story contains scenes of a violent and/or sexual nature. Consider it NC-17. If you're younger than 17, please go away now.

Summary: Nick/Urs. Explicit sex.

Nick paused just inside the door to the Raven. The height of the steps gave him a better view of the place, a vantage point from which he could easily spot the lighter, bluish glow of the bodies of his fellow vampires hidden amongst the crimson-hot, red blushes of mortal souls. The sight of so much mortal heat juxtaposed with so much calculated chill should have alarmed him.

It didn't. Not at the moment. If he were being honest with himself, he didn't really care, didn't really want to think about it. Why LaCroix had been willing to take the bar off Janette's hands when she'd left was still something of a mystery to him. Not that many ventures his vampire master had engaged upon in the past had ever made sense to him at the start. In time he'd learned not to question. If it involved him, he'd figure it out soon enough. And, hopefully, not too late.

"A bit early for you, isn't it, Detective?" asked LaCroix, suddenly appearing at his elbow.

A space appeared at the bar almost before LaCroix could gesture, two bright young vampire things melting away and into the crowd before Nick had a chance to distinguish their genders. Not that it matter--long hair, jeans, and leathers. They all looked alike any more.

"All things change, Nicholas," said LaCroix softly. He moved behind the bar, placed a glass on the counter, then picked up a bottle and placed it beside the glass. "So, tell me . . . have you wearied of your mortal toy already?"

With a grim smile, Nick held up one finger. "That's off limits," he reminded LaCroix sharply.

"Ah, yes. I did promise, didn't I? How foolish of me. I suppose it's the romantic in my nature." LaCroix smiled and opened the bottle of blood. From where Nick was standing, it smelled like cow. "I gave my word and you know I'll keep it. Your relationship with your doctor has nothing to fear . . . from me."

LaCroix pushed the glass across to him. Nick lifted it to his lips, sniffed just to make certain it was cow, then took a sip from the glass. "My 'relationship' with Natalie is my business."

"Um. Which might lead one to wonder why you are here instead of--?" With a light wave of his hand, LaCroix gestured toward the club. "You must bring your lady by some time--I've been told this is a place of romance."

Nick placed his glass back on the counter and turned his back to the bar. "Not romance," he corrected, watching the crowd. "Lust. Animal instinct. Predator and prey--"

"As I said, romance." LaCroix smiled as Nick cast him a sharp look. "There's romance in everything. And what could be more romantic than base, animal need." He picked up the bottle and refilled Nick's glass. "Is that what draws you here, I wonder--need? Is there something that your sexual romps with your mortal friend can't provide? Is something missing, Nicholas? Is that why you're here?"

He picked up the glass and turned his back to the bar, then quickly downed the cow blood. He shouldn't have come here. LaCroix knew him too well--there were times he was certain LaCroix could read his mind, or his soul . . . if he still had one.

"Natalie and I are fine, no thanks to you," Nick added, giving LaCroix a scathing glance over his shoulder. "There's nothing missing. She's everything I need."

"Then I'm--what's the correct phrase? Oh, yes . . . then I'm happy for you both. She's a remarkable woman."

"Yes. She is." Nick placed his glass back on the counter and turned to watch the crowd again. The music was loud with a bass beat that found an echoing chord within him. Just short of a human heartbeat, it called to his predatory senses. He could smell the perfume on the women, even at this distance, the mixture of chemicals and animal musk and sweat, as they danced beneath the muted, colored lights. Predator and prey, sexual animals stalking mates, if only for a night of pleasure. Need, as LaCroix had said. Instinct.

Why was he here?

Because he was in need. Because LaCroix was right--there was something missing. The blood, yes. He'd stopped feeding regularly in another attempt to wean himself from it. The less blood he drank regularly, the easier it was not to bite Natalie when they had sex. He was getting used to the constant presence of the hunger. It slowed him, dulled his senses, but it made him less dangerous to her. He couldn't afford to be dangerous to her. He promised himself that he'd never hurt her again.

But there were other things, too. He had to watch his strength, take care not to crush or bruise her flesh, or break any bones. In fun one morning he'd tackled her, knocked the wind out of her, and then had her in his arms and half way down the back stairs to the Caddie and the hospital before she'd convinced him that she was all right. Not to mention that there were certain mortal limitations to which he wasn't at all subject.

He respected her right to turn him away. If Natalie wasn't interested, the matter was dropped. Of course, that did nothing to help him fulfill his needs . . . .

The women danced, more flesh than clothing, skin glistening with sweat.

His mouth was dry.

Nick picked up his glass and took a healthy swig from it before he realized that the blood was human. He turned instantly to his left to confront his master, but LaCroix was gone.

"That's my drink," said a voice from his right.

Urs smiled sweetly and took the glass from his hand as he swallowed. She handed him another glass from the bar, met his eyes, then lifted the glass to her nose and sniffed at it. Wrinkling her nose, she handed him the glass of cow blood. "I thought they were kidding."

"About?" The taste of human blood lingered in his mouth and it took an effort on his part not to lick his lips.

"You drinking that swill. Cow?" She shuddered, a none-too-delicate movement.

"You get used to it."

That was the lie. He told it to himself as he lifted the glass and let the obscenity of the animal blood obliterate the lingering magnificence of the human blood from his mouth. He told it to himself every time he drank the foul replacement. Just as he told himself that it was a step toward freedom, toward mortality, only slightly less holy than not drinking blood at all.

What did one more lie matter, after all?

"Vachon?" he asked, trying to maintain a semblance of small-talk.

"Hmn?" Urs leaned closer, her shoulder touching his.

He could smell the barest touch of perfume over a delightful female musk. He gestured with his head, out toward the crowd. "Is Vachon here?"

She shrugged, her expression noncommittal. "Maybe. Probably not tonight. He doesn't like the band. Says they pump up the volume to cover the fact that they only know two chords."

Nick grinned at the assessment and listened as he sipped at his drink. "He's right."

"They'll get better. Or they'll give it up." Urs gave a slight shake of head, as if dismissing the matter. "They always do."

"You don't like the band. And you're not here for the drinks."

"No. I'm not." Urs met his eyes with a cold, even stare. "But I'm here. I'll go home with someone or take someone home with me. He'll kick me out or I'll kick him out. Then I'll sleep. And then I'll be back here." She shrugged again, but her eyes seemed somewhat distant as she added softly, "And someday, maybe the band will be better."

"That's a good way to get hurt."

"The best," she answered quickly, then raised her glass to a passing vampire, as if saluting him.

The recipient of her attention was tall and thin, but muscular. His T-shirt was torn--artistically, Nick guessed--and the feral grin that crossed his features when he caught Urs' gesture did nothing to endear him to Nick's heart. Before he could approach, Nick rose to his feet and stood before Urs, blocking out the newcomer. He held out his hand and asked, "Would you like to dance?"

She seemed a little stunned by the question, then placed her hand in his and let him lead her past the annoyed vampire grunge-stud.

The dance floor was crowded and Nick fought back the assault of mortal heartbeats that assailed him, drowning in the proximity of so much warm, available flesh. But Urs was beside him, near him, around him, an island of cool respite. When she danced, her smile disappeared and her movement became sensuous. There was art in the way she moved, her arm slipping over his shoulder, her hips grinding against his own, her back arching. Her hair was gold in the play of lights and he caught it in his hands, bringing her to his lips for a brief kiss . . . but then she darted away again.

The band began another song right after the last, not pausing for breath. Urs turned to leave the dance floor, but Nick caught her hand. She touched a finger to his lip to stop him and said, "Sorry. Gotta go find my date for the evening."

"What about me?"

He hadn't thought about the idea until the words left his lips; Urs actually seemed startled by them. Then she smiled raised a hand to his hair, running her fingers through it and mussing it as if he were a child. "I need a bad boy. Nick . . . you're just too good for me."

"How bad do you want me to be?"

She smiled again, her eyes half-closed in disbelief, then she started to say something. Nick pulled her into his embrace and began to kiss her fiercely. His free hand snaked up beneath her vest and white halter top between them. At first, he massaged her breasts gently, but then two of his fingers found her nipple and he pinched, hard.

He swallowed Urs' gasp of surprise and pain in the kiss, refusing to release her until he knew that he had won. His free hand traveled down her back and it was when he felt the tension in her lower back ease that he finally pulled away.

"Was that what you wanted?" he whispered.

Urs looked at him suspiciously, as if trying to determine exactly what he thought he was doing. She removed his hand from her halter top, pulling the clothing down into place, then intertwined her fingers with his almost shyly. There was a long moment of hesitation, of measuring the commitment in his eyes.

Nick didn't flinch, didn't blink, didn't look away. Urs smiled faintly, leaned close to him, and answered, "Let's go," as she drew him behind her.

He fell into step, following her through the crowd. There was an instant when he knew he was being watched--caught the grunge-stud eyeing him in a none-too-friendly manner. His immediate impulse was to bare his fangs and snarl, but he couldn't allow himself that luxury, not with so many mortals around. Instead, he merely smiled, tugging on Urs' hand and pulling her within his embrace as they walked. To the victor went the spoils and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he'd won, the curvaceous blonde beneath his arm the only visible trophy that he needed or wanted.

And he did want her. The touch of flesh against flesh--even when cloth intervened between them as she led him to the back of the club--made his skin tingle. The scent of her was powerful; musk and lust and ancient female smells that brought to mind Janette and not-Janette. Nick let himself drown in the scent of her, surrendered himself to sensation alone, let his mind drift as they bypassed the doorway that led to LaCroix's private office, taking the other hall. There were restrooms, then a corridor and stairs that led below; to the basement, the storerooms, the cellars where vampires slept during the bright, burning daylight.

No words passed between them, but none were needed. Nick followed where she led and Urs knew where she was going, even in the darkness. No light accompanied them down the deserted staircase or to the lower quarters. When Urs passed through a door, he entered the room behind her, then was faintly surprised when she turned to face him. Her hand pressed lightly on his shoulder, indicating that he should let his weight close the door.

Nick leaned against it, aware of the wood at his back even through the leather of his jacket. Standing before him, Urs leaned closer, her lips touching his, her body brushing against him, tantalizingly close then drawing away.

The room was dark, but it smelled clean. He could make out a bed and some posters on the walls, a few pieces of furniture.

But there was something far more interesting on which to concentrate. Remembering Urs' criteria for his presence, he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her close to him, his mouth capturing hers and holding her there. Her resistance was brief and futile--a token for form's sake only. If she'd been serious, he would have released her. At least, that's what he told himself.

Urs returned his ardor in kind, her tongue playing along the inside of his mouth. She was cold porcelain with round, full cheeks, a china doll with golden curls and old, sensitive eyes. Her hands slipped onto his shoulders, pushing back his jacket, slowly removing it from him while they kissed. He barely noticed that it fell to the floor, his lips finding the measure of her jawline, nibbling at the skin from ear to ear, tracing patterns. Urs was pale, perfect flesh and bright soft curls.

It was as he licked her jaw that he felt her shift position. Still leaning against him, her hands traveling down the length of his arms, she unbuttoned his shirt buttons with her mouth. He could feel each spot of moisture through his shirt and the T-shirt beneath that as she moved from button to button, leaving each intact and the holes neatly threaded. If there was an urgency in her actions, she never betrayed it, working smoothly and evenly down his chest. Lifting the tails of his shift from his trousers, she continued to unfasten each connection. There was a brief and momentary pressure at his belt buckle, then subsequent slow spots of pressure further down the front of his trousers until his shirt hung open.

She hesitated then, kneeling in front of him, face tilted upward expectantly, as if waiting for her cue. Nick wrapped his hands in the mass of her hair, glorying in the thickness of it, then stroked her neck and shoulders with his fingertips, pressing her cheek against his crotch.

That must have been the sign she'd been awaiting, some mastery from him. Almost immediately, she reached out her hand and slipped the catch of his belt from the buckle. Pulling the length of it from the loops slowly, Urs allowed it to drop to the floor. She undid the trouser button and the zipper was opened with a soft, metallic hiss, his jeans dropping away from him, carried to the floor by the weight of his wallet and his keys in the pockets.

There was a draft from somewhere, a whisper of cool air across his legs. His penis was straining against the opening in his shorts, then he felt her hand upon him, freeing him from confinement. Nick took a long, slow breath as her fingers danced along the length of him--his shaft was hardening with the slightest touch from her. He reached down to grab each of her wrists, then brought them together and held them high above her head.

Urs bright blue eyes sparkled as she hesitated, glancing up at him--but she seemed pleased by his initiative. If anything, doubly pleased when his other hand buried itself in her blonde curls, pushing her face toward his crotch again.

Her mouth was cool and wet, her tongue soft as she lapped at him. One long stroke from the base of his shaft to the tip nearly undid him--his body jerked back against the wooden door with an angry thud. But there was no pause in her attentions. He stared across the room, unable to look down, content with imagining the sight of what he felt--she coated his member with kisses, her full lips tickling and teasing, her teeth nibbling at the sensitive flesh that was rising higher and harder with each passing second. A sigh escaped him, ending in a groan as she nipped and sucked the width of him, but not the length. Closing his eyes, he imagined that bow-shaped mouth around him, the wet-depths, the suction . . . .

With a growl, he pulled on her hair, tugging her away from him, letting her see the gold in his eyes as he stared down at her, his other hand still holding his wrists tightly against his sternum. Her eyes widened and he saw that she knew what he wanted, what he was demanding. Again, there was no hesitation from her.

His shaft bounced as she licked the tip of it lightly, then it disappeared between her lips. Nick threw his head back against the door again, brilliant stars cluttering his vision as he felt the first real suction. His hips pressed forward suddenly, his hand holding her head in place as he shoved most of his length into her mouth in one quick thrust.

Whether Urs had expected the movement, she adapted quickly, her head tilting back so that she could take all of him into her mouth and throat. He hesitated only an instant before slowly pulling back from her, feeling the suction of her lips closed around his shaft, the rough sensation of her teeth barely touching his flesh as he withdrew, until only the tip of his penis remained within her lips.

Twice more he thrust quickly and withdrew slowly, then a fourth time . . . and then something within him snapped. It was as if all of the delicious tension had given way and had left him on his own, to spin wildly out of control. Pulling at her wrists, Nick switched their positions, so that Urs' back was to the door and he was standing free. He began to thrust deep into her mouth and throat, his hand between the back of her head and the door as he slammed into her time and time again. It wasn't the vampire within him, but something more animalistic and more basic that drove him. He didn't care about the blood, only release of the pressure that had built within him, was still building, as he slipped in and out of that soft, wet cavity.

And then, finally, Nick felt something within him begin to give, the tightness of his balls as they drew closer to his body. Dropping his hold on Urs' hands and hair, he placed his palms against the door and thrust once more, slamming her head back against the wood, burying himself in her mouth and throat.

The release was electric and immediate, a charge that traveled up from his groin and through his chest. His heart pounded once and then again, two beats in close proximity as he felt his seed pump through his shaft. He was helpless in the hold of ecstasy, his hips bucking, slamming her head back against the door as he came. Time stopped for a long moment and his own shouts echoed in his ears--wordless, mindless, and yet somehow still shockingly profane.

Clarity returned later . . . it was over. He rested his forehead against the door, his hands still supporting his weight. Most of his shaft was still held by Urs and she was sucking on it lightly. Once he'd returned to his senses, he placed a hand on her cheek, stroking it with his thumb and she opened her mouth so that he could withdraw. Then Nick sank to the floor beside her and took her in his arms as he leaned his back against the door, cradling Urs against his chest.

A wave of contentment washed over him and every nerve in his bodily felt eerily stilled, as if the experience had worn out his ability to feel. He was numb and there was a peace that attended that feeling. Rhythmically, he brushed Urs' hair with his fingers and closed his eyes, lounging in the afterglow.

Distantly, he recognized the whisper of words against his T-shift, her voice soft. "What?" he asked sleepily.

"How?" She shifted in his arms and he opened his eyes to find her drawn back from him, sitting on the floor, eyes wide. "There wasn't any blood. I didn't taste any--"

With a slight smile, Nick shook his head slightly and closed his eyes again. "There was some."

"No. Not enough. Not nearly enough."

Her knuckles played gently along the side of his face. Nick opened his eyes, grasped her hand in his and drew it to his lips, kissing it. "It doesn't matter."

"It does. Something's wrong. Something's wrong with you."

He worried at her hand with his tongue until her fingers unclenched, then planted a wet kiss in the center of her palm. "There's nothing wrong with you." Reaching forward, he drew her to his lips, began to kiss her, but released her when Urs pulled away.

She stared at him, arms folded across her chest, her fingers traveling up and down the flesh of her arms as if trying to still her fear. After a moment, she stumbled to her feet and walked across the room, her back toward him. "No. Something's wrong. That shouldn't have happened. We both know that shouldn't have happened. You need blood--we need blood before we can climax."

There was a fearful note in her tone that annoyed him--it had to be annoyance, because it certainly couldn't have been worry, now could it? Nick slipped out his shoes, stepped out of his trousers, then walked to Urs. Standing behind her, he placed his arms around her, the hold gentle but not to be broken, even by her tentative push at his grip. "I don't feed as often as the rest of you," he said in a soft and soothing manner, trying to calm her fears with his tone as well as his touch. Nick kissed her hair and the side of her face, small, comforting gestures. "And I drink cow. Maybe that's what makes the difference."

"Cow," echoed Urs, but she sounded unconvinced.

"Cow." Nick mimicked the word, borrowing a disdainful manner that Janette had used, then licked beneath the side of Urs' jaw lightly. He felt some of the tension ease from her, her body pressing against him . . . and his shaft, which was already beginning to show signs of stirring again. "Don't tell me you've never tasted cow before tonight?"

"Once or twice." She snuggled back against him and turned her head as he continued to nibble down the length of her neck--he could feel the shivers run through her. "Usually when we were on the run. Never by choice."

His left hand slipped up beneath her tank top to her breast. Nick rested the weight of her flesh against the back of his hand, his fingers massaging her skin lightly. He listened for the sudden catch of breath, the light moan that indicated that he'd found just the right spot.

Janette had taught him well. Urs arched her back again and sighed, her cheek resting on his shoulder. "That's nice."

He pinched the skin just beneath her nipple, grinning when she let out a squeal. "I thought you didn't like 'nice.'"

Her body stiffened, growing utterly and eerily still. "I don't get 'nice,'" she whispered.

It was as if some part of her soul had departed, the spirit had left her and she'd become nothing more than a fleshy, empty mannequin. He began to caress the skin of her breast again more slowly and tenderly than he had before. "You deserve 'nice," he told her, letting the words rumble out against the skin of her cheek and throat, through his kisses.

"Maybe." There was pause and another long sigh. "They don't give me 'nice.' They either want to hurt me or save me. It's easier to deal with the ones who want to hurt me. It happens and it's done."

Her body pressed against his own, he could sense the relaxation in her muscles as he massaged her breast, a slow seduction. "And the ones who want to save you?"

A low, unhappy chuckle escaped her. "It takes too long. Sooner or later, they find out that they can't. The first way's better--the hurt's over faster and we both get what we want." She caught his hand and slipped it out from beneath her top. She brought his palm to her lips and drew a line down his index finger to his wrist with her tongue, worrying the flesh at the wrist lightly with her teeth, but not breaking the skin.

His breath caught deep within him at the sensuality of the gesture, her tongue eliciting an electric warmth that spread through his body. His shaft twitched in reaction, trapped beneath her pelvis. When she looked up at him, her eyes were blue and depthless, gold-specks swimming within. "Now . . . what do you want?"

Nick leaned forward and planted a light kiss on the tip of her nose, attempting to banish her serious and somewhat suspicious expression. "To be nice. To you."

"You can try," she said breathily, reaching up to kiss his nose, as he had done to her. Then Urs pulled away. His hand in her own, she led him over to the bed in a corner of the room. "But it won't work. It never does."

He gave a brief glance at the bed--very chic and feminine, lace edgings, the coverlet imprinted with tiny roses. It seemed so unlike the sex-goddess who seemed equally at home in the leathers and attitude of a biker chic or in the skimpy, trimmed outfit of a dancer whose gyrations were meant to rouse a crowd of men to thirst. Urs seated herself on the bed, still holding his hand, and let her other hand range along the coverlet, a distant look in her eyes. "It was a gift," she said absently, although whether trying to convince him or to herself, he couldn't be certain. "Not a payment, just a gift. I don't get many of those."

Seating himself beside her on the coverlet, Nick lifted his hands to her face. He stared into her eyes and felt something stir within his soul. In many ways she was a kindred spirit, wounded as a mortal, yet unable to recover her sense of self through the immortality she'd been given. He could well understand why so many would want to 'save' her.

And why others wouldn't be able to deny the urge to hurt her. Because that was there, too, a twin to the first longing. Despite the world-weariness in her eyes, there was also a fragile innocence within her, a challenge to which his dark side was more than eager to respond. It wanted to break her, hurt her, mold her into something strong and sharp and vicious. How easy it would be for her to become the darkest and most dangerous among them, a killer without remorse, a fiend that existed only for the thrill of bloody and violent debauchery.

She must have known that it was within her, the way that she lowered her eyes told him that much. Urs turned away from him and removed her vest, then pulled her tube top over her head, tossing both pieces of clothing to the floor. There was no pride or shame in her partial nudity, just an acceptance of the inevitability, a resignation to what had gone before and what was yet to be.

Nick reached out a hand to her shoulder and drew her closer, lowering his mouth to her breasts. His hand slipped down her naked back, supporting her, and her hands clasped around his neck. He fought back the dark beast within him and kept his movements delicate and soft. She deserved worship, in spirit and flesh. He could try to give her that.

Her skin was soft, fragrant with the remnants of a bath soap and the blood. No matter how hard he tried to ignore that blood scent, it lingered, enticing and erotic. There was something about her that screamed sex, even when she remained still, silent and aloof. Her moans of pleasure only made it worse, like raking fingernails down a blackboard, disruptive and discordant and very, very arousing.

His free hand massaged the flesh of the other breast, careful not to touch the nipple--it would have its own attention when he'd finished with the first. Long, slow strokes with his tongue across the broad flesh at the underside of the breast, the barest flick across the tip of the nipple, brief suction, a light brush of his lips against the faintly colored skin of the aureole . . . .

She was panting by the time he'd finished the second breast. One of her legs straddled his lap, and the other was behind him. He could feel the moistness of her even through the cut-off jeans, his own shaft responding in kind, stiff and rampant through the fly in his shorts.

Without warning, she pulled him close and began to kiss him, tongue and teeth and fangs. There was an instant of hesitation on his part, of panic, then one of her fangs sliced into his tongue and he tasted blood.

Blood.

That was it. The blood.

Whatever hold he had on the darkness within him was loosed instantly by the salt taste of his own blood. He met her kiss with equal and then greater ferocity, tearing, slashing, tasting her mouth and her lips and her tongue, beating back her attack and then following after, driving her desperately into retreat.

But the beast within him wouldn't allow a retreat--not from this. Too long he'd held it in check, too long it had remained unfettered. His movements became harsh and brutal as a sense of urgent need swept through him. A moment of cloth pinching skin, then his shorts were torn away. Urs was thrown back onto the bed and he attacked her jeans. The button at the fly snapped free as he undid the fastening. The cloth wouldn't tear, resisting him, and he finally gave up. With a pull, he drew them down to her knees, then knelt on them, only dimly realizing that he'd trapped her legs.

Her eyes were gold, almost red in panic and surprise. She uttered a startled shriek as he pressed his knee between her legs, forcing her open to him. Nick found his destination by scent and by touch; she was ready, but he little cared. There was only the need within him, the beast that surged inside, freed from confinement. He entered her and thrust, one hand beneath her hips, pulling her up to him even as he pushed into her, going deep in a single movement.

The cool of her flesh, the frantic pressure of her muscles around him seemed wrong . . . but only for an instant. Growling low in his throat, Nick brushed away Urs' hands easily, pinning one down on the bed as he rested his weight on the wrist, then slowly withdrew his shaft from her. Her panic drew her tightly around him and he gasped at the sensation of it, his shaft feeling harder and firmer than he had ever remembered. The agony was delicious, but the beast wanted release, wanted fire, wanted blood.

He pounded into her brutally, ruthlessly, carried by the hunger for blood that burned within him. Short, sharp, sudden thrusts lifted him into the fire. Victorious, he stared down at her, only dimly noting that her eyes were glazed, almost unfocused. She had long since stopped trying to resist him.

Nick stilled at that realization and a cold hand settled over his heart as he looked down at her, at the pain in her eyes, her grimace. But the beast overcame him again and there was no choice but to finish it. He gritted his teeth, grasped her hips and thrust into her again and again, hard and deep, all vampire speed and strength and lust for flesh and blood combined. Her exposed neck was like a siren song he couldn't ignore. As the fire within rose toward the apex, he threw himself down upon her and bit savagely into the flesh of her neck.

The taste of her blood set off a chain reaction within him, explosions of images and sensations that the beast consumed. He felt her teeth slide into his neck as well; a second shock followed the first, and the electricity running throughout his body left him to shudder and shiver helplessly as he emptied himself within her. It was all fire and burning, passion and sensation for the first few seconds, like always. Her blood was sweet and wild, the innocence of strawberries mingled with a darker, ancient flavor of bitter mandrake or belladonna. He tasted her and he tasted what was within her, other blood, other lives, other vampires.

The seconds or minutes between had no meaning. He drifted in that ecstasy, then pulled his fangs from her shoulder and rested his forehead against the cool skin of her flesh. Nick felt her arm across his back, her body shivering and shuddering beneath him.

Remorse, regret and guilt settled over him--three familiar cloaks that covered him with subsequent chills even as he withdrew from her and moved to lie on the bed beside her. On impulse, he leaned past her to grab the drape of the coverlet and pull it over her naked and abused body. He couldn't stand to see the marks of his violence upon her. They'd fade in moments, but he couldn't bear even a glimpse of them. What was he doing?

What had he done?

There were streaks of red on her cheeks, tracks of tears. Lights sobs still racked her body beneath the coverlet. Nick drew beside her, expecting her to pull away . . . but she didn't. Urs' eyes were closed, her face turned toward the door. She was empty, a doll once again, devoid of spirit, flesh to be used and discarded.

In the past, he would have left her. What had been done could not be undone and better to get past it and pretend that it had never happened. That was the way it had always been--his remorse and guilt would remain locked within his heart and he would suffer on his own with what he had done.

Something stayed him this time. He rested his hand upon her neck, his fingers tracing the fading marks of his fangs on her throat, wincing at the savagery of the tracks. He'd done this to her, as so many had before. Even with the best of intentions, he'd been unable to control the beast within him. He'd ravaged her flesh and her soul, discarded his promises without even a second's thought, and given the beast free rein.

The echoes of her memories settled within him, accompanied by the afterglow. He stared down at her golden curls and saw candlelight instead. There was someone else with her, cool flesh and ancient, old, the gift of the coverlet, words about fragile beauty, kind words, warm words, lovely words . . . .

LaCroix.

Nick's breath stilled at the realization. He ran his hand along the lace edge of the coverlet he'd drawn over her, knowing that she and LaCroix had been together . . . and more than once. Her memories of him were soft and sensuous, caring--LaCroix caring?--and attentive, loving. Those moments were treasured things, held deep within her. Yes, there were flashes of Vachon and others, Vachon more than any, but her blood held LaCroix's attentions in a place of honor and respect and worship.

"He understands me," she whispered, as if sensing his thoughts. "He knows what I am. What I need. But he won't kill me, he won't let me go." Then she turned, eyes bright, sadness still lingering. Her hand raised toward his face. "I should have stopped this. I shouldn't have let this happen--"

Nick grabbed her hand and brought her palm to his lips, murmuring, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt--"

The word stopped him, lingering in his brain, drawing forth the echo of other words, other promises.

Hurt.

'I'll never hurt you again.'

Natalie.

What had he done?

He was only distantly aware that Urs had shifted, sitting behind him. Her arms moved around his chest and she rested her head on his shoulder. "I didn't know," she said. "I didn't know what it was. Now I've let you ruin it." Her lips pressed against the flesh of his shoulder. "I thought you needed a break, you needed to unwind. I'm sorry . . . ."

Nick stared across the darkness of the room--but that was only a sham of shadows. He could see everything clearly with his enhanced vision. Urs' blood flowed through his veins, strengthening the vampire within him, invigorating him. He knew immediately how much was lacking when he refrained from drinking human blood, how much the vampire within him thrived on it, desired it.

Urs drank human blood. She had no moral constraints, no guilt about feeding from those who were kin to other mortals who might mean more to her than life itself. Because they didn't. Mortals were the other--she was a vampire who dwelt among vampires.

And he was not. In feeding from her, he'd taken another giant step backward. This time, however, the demon that had possessed him had been himself. He'd been frustrated, unsatisfied, not with what Natalie was able to give to him, but that he couldn't have it all. And so he'd thrown it all away. Now, he had nothing.

His control was teetering on the edge--he could feel it. Nick shuddered, knowing that even the chains which had aided their experiment in what Natalie had called his 'physical therapy' might not be enough to hold him now. Did he dare even take her into his arms again? To kiss her on the cheek? He was afraid of what he might do to her.

He was afraid of telling her what he'd done. She'd leave him. He wouldn't blame her. On every level possible he'd been thoughtlessly and completely unfaithful. Natalie had to leave him. And if by some miracle she didn't, he'd have to leave her, for her own protection.

"It's not your fault." Turning in her arms, Nick held her close against him, but this time the proximity of her flesh dampened his ardor. He kissed her forehead lightly, then rested his chin on the top of her head. "I hurt you. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I told you, it's what I get."

The resignation in her voice tore the wound in his heart a little deeper and he held her more tightly. There was no stirring within him, no lust. He'd exhausted the vampire for the moment and Urs meant nothing to him, not in the way that Natalie did. She was a only friend he'd wounded. He'd hurt her in trying to hurt himself.

"Collateral damage," he said, with a wan smile.

"What?" Urs tilted her head to glance up at him.

Nick held the smile a moment longer, said, "Nothing," and kissed her forehead again lightly.

"What will you do?" she asked.

Nick released her, shifted position, and then drew the blanket up around her, covering her. "What can I do? Leave."

Catching his hand, Urs held him beside her a moment longer. "But she loves you. And you love her, I saw it in your blood. If you leave, you'll only hurt her and yourself."

"If I stay, I'll kill her." Nick placed her hand lightly on her shoulder, pinning the coverlet around her.

"Leaving isn't the answer," she protested.

He smiled at her, then slipped off the bed and picked up his underwear--the briefs were torn and useless. "When did you become an oracle of the heart?"

"You learn things." When he glanced down at her, Urs nodded solemnly. "Like in the fairy-tale--you can fight all you want, but you're trapped until the handsome prince comes to kiss you. What they don't tell you is that when he kisses you, he doesn't rescue you . . . he just makes your hell eternal."

The ruined clothing fell from his hand and he stared at her, a cold feeling spreading through his chest, knowing that he'd made that mistake himself in the past. "You must hate Vachon, for what he's done to you."

"Hate him?" Her eyes were wide and puzzled. "How could I hate him? His heart was in the right place--he wanted to help me. He didn't know how and he made a mistake, but he tried." Urs smiled faintly. "LaCroix wouldn't have made the same mistake--he would have understood. He would have let me die."

Nick bowed his head for a moment, knowing that she was right--LaCroix would have let her die, as mortals did. He couldn't quite understand that relationship between them now, hadn't been aware of it until he'd tasted Urs' memories along with her blood. LaCroix seemed to protect her, cherish her. He knew enough not to try to save her. It was a side of his master that didn't make sense.

What would LaCroix think when he saw Urs' memories of Nick's attack on her, his selfish, violent assault, his abandonment to his nature?

"I've gotta go," he muttered, heading for his clothes, which were lying by the door. He slipped into them quickly, but every movement was a blistering reminder of his previous actions; the rough denim of his jeans against the flesh of his buttocks of how he'd torn away his clothing, the sequential fastening of the buttons of his shirt echoing the slow and seductive unfastening that Urs had managed.

Finally dressed, Nick hesitated, his fingers around the doorknob, then turned to look back at Urs. She was sitting on the bed still wrapped in the coverlet, roses upon a bed of white. His heart ached at the beauty of her, of what he'd done to her. It horrified him that LaCroix would be the one to give her some measure of the peace her wounded spirit so deserved.

What could he say? There were no words that could express his sorrow at what he'd done, his anger for having hurt her as he had.

Her eyes met his and she nodded once, seeming to understand. But that still wasn't enough. He stalked across the floor and sat down on the bed beside her. Unfastening a cuff button, he drew back his sleeve from his forearm, then looked around for something. Picking up a metal nail-file from the table, he pressed it against the skin on the underside of his arm, then tore an incision into the skin.

Urs cried out in alarm when she saw what he was doing, but he dropped the nail-file to the floor, then reached up a hand to touch her cheek. She met his eyes again, giving the barest shake of her head--no, she didn't want it.

"It's a gift," he explained, his voice low. "I want you to understand. I want you to know."

She hesitated only a moment, her eyes still holding his, then Urs lowered her lips to his arm, sucking at the ragged wound. Nick winced at the sudden pressure and the drawing of blood, but then the pain was gone. He felt her licking at the flesh around the wound, trying to seal it, to help him heal. Then, she lifted her eyes to him and moved closer, her lips meeting his in a chaste, if bloody kiss. As he cradled the wounded arm to his chest, she leaned against his shoulder momentarily, whispering, "It's all right--I forgive you."

He slid the shirt back down his arm again and refastened the button. She'd tasted his guilt, his remorse at having hurt her, his acceptance of the blame and his frustration at not knowing how to mend what he'd done. It was as much of a parting as his could manage, words still failing when compared to the blood, to the emotions and feelings it contained. Turning his head and catching her chin with his hand, he kissed her again, this time thoroughly and completely, an apology and appreciation for the goodness of her heart, the grandness of her spirit, and the beauty of her flesh.

Nick couldn't look at her after that. He rose from the bed and walked to the door, then closed it behind himself, knowing that this moment, too, would be in her memories. Let LaCroix make of it what he would.

He wandered upstairs, back to the club, rubbing his arm beneath his shirt. The flesh had already healed but the pain lingered for a moment or two longer. He could never completely make amends for what he'd done to Urs, but at least the blood would be the basis for an understanding between them. He might salvage her friendship and, perhaps, there was still a portion of her soul that might believe that he meant what he had said about her deserving better than what she'd expected or been given in the past.

If only his problem with Natalie could be solved so easily! What was he going to do? What could he tell her, if anything? She respected his wishes just as he attempted to respect hers, so that if she seemed interested and he put her off, she wouldn't question him . . . perhaps for a week or two. But he had a feeling that it wouldn't be enough. Complete abstinence from blood might help, but it would also weaken him. When the hunger grew frustrated enough, instinct would take over and who knew what could happen?

After the silence of the rooms beneath the building, the noise of the club was nearly deafening. Nick paused in the doorway to the back rooms and gave a nervous glance at the door to LaCroix's office. He had no wish to encounter his master at the moment. He didn't see LaCroix and trying to sense his whereabouts would bring him to his master's attention--something he wanted to avoid. His best and only recourse was to head for the door and hope that he wouldn't be intercepted.

His luck held until he was almost past the bar. LaCroix was suddenly beside him, looping his elbow through Nick's arm and holding him in place. "Can I interest you in a drink?" Then LaCroix pushed him gently toward the bar, adding, "Or have you already had your fill, on the house?"

He straightened, made a futile attempt to pull away, but LaCroix held firm. Nick stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge his master's presence. If his master was ignored, if he got bored, he'd wander away. It had happened before.

But it wasn't about to happen now. Releasing his arm, LaCroix walked around him. "Urs is lovely, isn't she? Fragile, delicate . . . broken. In a way, she reminds me of you."

"Does she?" Too late, he remembered that he wasn't going to speak, that he wasn't going to reply to LaCroix's taunts or barbs.

"Yes."

Nick looked away when LaCroix smiled, seeing the victory in his master's expression. He'd been pushed and allowed it to show. LaCroix stopped circling him and stood before him.

"She needs a firmer hand than she's had. Vachon doesn't know what you do with her."

"And you do?"

"We . . . understand one another. I find her charming. And she finds me . . . ."

"Repulsive?" offered Nick, when LaCroix paused to search for a word.

There was no reaction. "Supportive," replied LaCroix, without missing a beat. He dropped his gaze for a moment, then tilted his head and met Nick's eyes. "You'll have to deal with Vachon about this."

He swallowed, suddenly realizing that LaCroix was right--Vachon wouldn't be happy about what he'd done to Urs.

"He plays the role of the absent parent to perfection, but he's rather protective about her. He doesn't like to see her hurt," warned LaCroix.

"I'll take care of it." Nick stared straight ahead, past LaCroix's shoulder.

"In your fashion, I know that you think you will. But if there are any repercussions, if it moves beyond your capacity to deal with the situation properly--"

"I'll take care of it," he repeated sharply, forcing himself to meet LaCroix's gaze.

"No," said LaCroix, "you won't. You never do. You'll refuse to act quickly and decisively, let things get beyond your ability to contain them, and then you'll come to me." The smile was faint, anything but reassuring. "You know where to find me."

It was a dismissal. Biting back his sigh of relief, Nick started to walk past LaCroix, his eyes focused on the stairway to the door. Just a hundred feet, if that--

But then LaCroix placed a hand on his shoulder, freezing him in his tracks again. "Have you ever wondered, Nicholas," he asked quietly, "why I made that agreement with your lovely doctor?"

Nick froze, a chill running down his spine. He turned his head slowly and met LaCroix's gaze, not daring to move or to answer.

"It was because I knew that you'd act true to form, just as you always have." The smile disappeared. "You can never be happy. You'll never allow yourself to be happy, no matter whom it might hurt. The guilt you carry will destroy you and everyone around you--you've created a self-fulfilling prophecy. I let you play this through to the end on your own because I knew this would happen. This time, Nicholas, you've no one to blame but yourself. Remember that, when you tell her. Because you will. You have no other choice." The smiled returned, flickering briefly for a moment. "Such a loyal, trusting soul, your Dr. Lambert. She is too good for you, you know."

He almost fell when LaCroix released him, the words echoing in his brain. He wanted to scream at LaCroix, to shake him, to fight him, to draw blood and trash the place.

But it wouldn't change the truth--LaCroix was right. He'd been weak and stupid, betraying not only Natalie, but himself. LaCroix had kept his word, he'd done nothing to hurt Natalie. He'd left that to Nick.

And what a brilliant job they'd both done.

He walked out of the Raven like an automaton, heading for the car, starting the engine, driving back to the loft--all on automatic pilot. The scent of Urs remained with him, near, but tantalizingly just beyond his reach. He rolled down the window to distract himself from the spent lust that lingered, but the fresh air did little to alleviate the miasma of memory. Still, he decided upon a shower as soon as he returned to the loft, taking some comfort in the fact that he'd at least chosen an evening when he was off from work to wreck the rest of his life.

Nick had left only the barest of lights burning when he'd left and those were still on at his return to the loft. The elevator door thumped closed behind him and he lingered on the lower floor just long enough to raise the shutters that saved him from the burning light of day, before heading upstairs. The evening was still young, but he had no plans beyond his shower, a glass of cow blood, and several hours of brooding in solitude, with the shades open to the night and the lights extinguished so that he could let the starlight share in his solitary dungeon.

His stripped his shirt and T-shirt off even as he climbed the stairs, draping them on a chair in his bedroom when he collected a pair of black silk pajamas from the closet. Nick pulled a terrycloth bathrobe from a hanger, pausing for a moment as he smiled at the silk lounging robe Natalie was always cautioning him never to wear after a shower. He'd taken such things for granted, becoming used to a disposable society far earlier than the population of the modern century. He'd learned early in his existence that there was little with which he surrounded himself that couldn't be easily replaced, given money and effort enough. Everything was disposable.

And everyone?

His fist tightened around the terrycloth of the bathrobe as he headed for the shower--Natalie's scent rose from it. She'd worn it once or twice since he'd last had it washed, having made a habit of dropping by after work.

It pained him to think of her, but he had little choice--brushing her from his mind became impossible once he entered the bathroom. There was a cup and toothbrush on the sink that she'd left after he'd scolded her about the silliness of carrying one in her purse. Her hair shampoo sat on the holder in the shower beside his own brand and her deodorant was sitting in the medicine cabinet of the downstairs bathroom. She had, without realizing it, become a very integral part of his life.

Which he'd destroyed.

Hanging the robe and pajamas over the hook on the back of the bathroom door, Nick exhaled in a sigh. He unfastened the button and zipper of his jeans, let them slide to the floor, then stepped out of them and into the shower. He turned on the water at full blast and full heat, forcing himself not to flinch as he was blasted by a heavy spray of icy water. Closing his eyes, he leaned into the chill, accepting and relishing the discomfort of it until it gradually began to warm. Nick ducked his head, letting the water run through his hair and down his back, turning as the temperature grew hot and then hotter still, nearly scalding.

But he relished that, too, perhaps even more than the cold. It would have burned mortal flesh; he could feel the pain of it even through his temperature-resistant senses, but he could bear it. He wasn't mortal. He didn't deserve to be mortal. So he could afford to endure the discomforts a mortal could not. It gave him perspective, focus, distraction--

What was he going to do? What could he say?

Nick reached for the soap and rubbed it between his palms absently, considering the problem. It's possible he could say nothing. He might be magnifying the problem. He could still spend time with Natalie, be attentive to her . . . he only had to avoid any sexual situations. She wouldn't press him if he declined and he could beg off on some pretext or another for a while. He'd begin to test his own limits slowly, waiting until he felt safe with her again. She would never have to know that he'd broken faith with her.

Unless . . . she was told by someone else? Urs wouldn't say anything, but LaCroix might. Nothing overt, he was certain, but something to unsettle her. It seemed petty, beneath LaCroix's standards, but it was possible. He'd have to guard against that.

He found his fears diminishing as the spray and the soap washed the scent of his earlier escapade from his flesh. He rubbed the lather across his chest and shoulders, then down the front of his groin, the water sluicing the soap away as fast as it could be applied. Even if LaCroix contacted Natalie, she wouldn't believe his word against Nick's. He wouldn't have to tell her anything, he was almost certain of it. In fact, if it ever happened again--not that he intended that it should or would--he'd know what to expect afterward, how long it would take him to regain his self-control. LaCroix was over-stating the case to make a point. Yes, he'd been unfaithful, but it had happened and he was sorry. Why hurt Natalie further by telling her about the episode? Better to let it rest, to bury the thing and go on from here.

By the time he'd exited the shower, had patted himself dry and slipped into his pajamas and his robe, Nick was in a far better mood. The dark cloud that he'd carried in his heart had all but lifted from him and he found himself grinning as he took a towel on his exit from the bathroom, rubbing it through his hair to shake out the remnants of water. His relationship with Natalie could weather this one accident on his part. No one had been hurt, really--Urs would heal and had forgiven him. And as long as Natalie didn't find out--

He was walking down the staircase, still rubbing the towel through his hair, when he heard the elevator door open. Natalie stepped into view and, catching sight of him, gave a wan smile. She looked tired and more than a little shopworn, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the shift she'd just gotten through.

"Just stopped off on my way home," she offered. "I had a lousy day and I need some down time before I go home and take it out on Sydney. I thought we might go out to a movie or something, if you don't have any other plans . . . ?"

The sight of her had all but stopped him in his tracks and he absently let his hands fall to his side, the damp towel still clutched in his fist. There was a moment of discovery that visited him upon seeing her, the way a man who has seen flowers and knows them from life or memory can still be astonished and delighted by holding a rose in his hand and smelling the sweetness of its perfume. Knowledge of a thing was pale compared to the immediacy of its presence.

The affection he felt for Natalie, the joy that rushed through him on seeing her--rumpled and weary though she might be--surprised him momentarily. He wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms, to feel the heat of her mortal body, the touch of her lips, the sound of her heart as it beat for him.

Action followed thought. The towel was left discarded on the stair railing as he moved faster than Natalie could follow, hugging her against him, holding her tightly. He closed his eyes and reveled in the warmth he felt from her, the fire she stirred within his soul.

She seemed astonished as he was at his sudden ardor, gasping, but returning the hug and drawing back with a light chuckle. "Or," she said, after a moment, "we could just stay in?"

"I'd like that." Nick kissed her nose, and then her forehead, pulling her against him again. His skin was chilled from the shower, the heat of the water couldn't hope to warm him as she seemed to. His plan to keep her at arm's length dissolved as he held her in his arms.

Then Natalie pushed him back again and shrugged out of his grip. She unbuttoned her suit jacket and hung it on a hook, complaining lightly, "I think you need to dry off. You look like a wet sheepdog."

He grinned and shook his head, disappointed that his drying hair didn't scattered water as he'd intended. "I can get dressed, if you really want to go out?"

"No--don't bother." Returning, she ducked beneath his arm, letting him escort her to the couch. "I think I need to just kick back a little."

"Rough day?" he asked sympathetically, plopping down beside her.

Natalie let out a low groan as she leaned back into the leather of the couch, then kicked off her shoes and rested her stocking-clad feet on the coffee table. "No bodies--just budgets. Although you'll be happy to know that Corrigan was killed with the same forty-five that killed Ray Eppes two months ago."

"Then I was right?"

"You were right," she admitted, then reached up a finger to touch his nose lightly. "But I'd appreciate it if you didn't look so smug."

"I'll try to turn down the smug level."

"Thanks."

"But I was right--"

"You--!" Natalie looked around for something to hit him with, but lacking any weaponry, punched his shoulder lightly with her fist--then winced when she caught the bone with her knuckle. "Ow."

"Serves you right, attacking an unarmed man."

"Unarmed? In a pig's eye!"

Nick moved closer to her and shifted her on the couch, so that her back was toward him. She moved beneath his touch and his hands went to the muscles of her neck and shoulders, massaging lightly. "Believe me, I'm completely defenseless."

"Good thing, too---oooo," she moaned, as he deftly pushed the knots out of a stubborn shoulder muscle, "because if you keep this up, I'm definitely going to attack you."

"Promises, promises." He moved closer to her, one knee up alongside her and the other leg hanging off the couch, his foot resting on the floor. Molding himself around her, he undid the uppermost buttons of her blouse, then eased it down over her top of her shoulders so he could work directly on her flesh, unhampered by the clothing. Her shivers and occasional wriggles of contentment, as well as the loosening of her muscles beneath his fingers, told him that he was definitely following the correct course of action. Leaning forward, he caught a whiff of her and inhaled--mortal smells of shampoo and sweat and the chemicals she'd been into a dozen times that day, augmenting the deeper, more enticing scent of her blood.

She turned her head as he rested his nose in her hair. "What?"

"You smell great."

"I stink. But I was just thinking the same thing about you."

His hands stilled in mock-protest. "That I stink?"

"No, that you smell great. All clean and new. And don't stop that, please, or I'll have to take drastic action--you're the best thing that's happened to me all night."

Nick removed his hands from her shoulders, as if refusing to be cowed by her threat. "How drastic is drastic?"

Natalie turned, getting her legs beneath her so that she was kneeling on the couch. She leaned forward and placed her arms around his neck, murmuring, "How drastic do you want?" before letting her lips meet his.

She was warm and soft against him. His hands moved to her waist to draw her even closer as her lips opened. However weary she might have been when she'd entered the loft, there was nothing but passion in the way she kissed him--what choice did he have but to return the kiss in kind?

His body was also responding: to the heat of Natalie's body pressed against his, to the warmth of her flesh, to the scent of the blood that ran through her veins, to the play of her tongue within his mouth and her hands as they roamed down this ribs, one resting at the string tie at the forefront of his pajama bottoms. For a moment, he thought he might be able to do this. Awash in his passion for her and his amazement, still, that she could love him despite knowing who and what he was, Nick believed that could actually control the vampire within himself.

He nibbled at the corner of her mouth and licked the line of her jaw, down to her throat. Her skin was warm against his cool lips and he felt her body shiver against him, her fingers undoing the tie. The thought of her warm hands upon his shaft drew a moan from him and he pressed his lips against the naked skin of her neck and shoulders.

The beast within him roared up, red and angry and hungry for blood and his fangs dropped into position. Nick ran his tongue along the curve of her neck, the taste of her sweat giving him a preview of her blood. Not so far, just a bit, just a taste and he'd be fine. The hunger would go away and they'd be fine. He could still have her. He could still have--

With a roar, he pushed Natalie back from him, then threw himself from the couch and to the floor. He scrambled back from the couch, then fought his way to his feet and launched himself toward the refrigerator. Half-stumbling, nearly falling, Nick concentrated on the blood that was close at hand. The alternative was Natalie, warm and scented and fresh and . . . better to settle for cold bottled cow.

He opened the door, pulled out a bottle, bit out the cork, and began to drink. At some point he realized that Natalie was standing beside him, a hand's span away. He lowered the bottle from his lips long enough to growl, "Get back!" at her, before drinking again.

He didn't need the blood. It was the beast, the beast within him that wanted him to hurt Natalie, to kill her.

"Nick? Are you all right?"

He closed his eyes, the concern in her voice cutting through his heart like a rusty saw. He sucked the last few droplets of blood from the lip of the bottle, then let his arm fall back to his side and leaned his cheek against the the cool metal of the closed refrigerator door. "Yeah," he said, after a long pause, the word rough-edged with his interrupted passion. For now, the beast was appeased, but not sated. It lingered in the middle of his soul, roaming back and forth like a lonely sentinel, ready and waiting for another opportunity.

"I'm--I'm sorry."

He stared up at her, the bottle falling from his hand. "Sorry?" he asked in bewilderment, his heart tearing further at the sight of her.

Natalie brushed back her hair and then bit her lip, her distress evident. "I just dropped in on you. I didn't think about--you hadn't fed yet. This is my fault. I shouldn't have pushed you into this."

"You haven't pushed me into anything. This is not your fault."

"It is--"

"It isn't." Before he could think about what he was doing, he walked over to her and took her into his arms. For a long moment, he simply held her close against him.

But then he felt the beast stirring within him, the watchful hunger become alert and he pushed Natalie back gently. Folding his arms and holding them tightly to his chest, he turned away from her. "It isn't your fault. It's mine."

"I surprised you."

He felt the warmth of her palm against his back even through the terrycloth of the bathrobe. The sensation shot through him like electricity, spreading to his brain, his heart, his groin . . . .

Nick took a step forward, needing to put distance between them. "That's not the problem. It's the blood. I can't--I can't--"

The words weren't going to be easy. Thankfully Natalie had gotten the hint--he heard her move across the room, to the windows. Only then did he let his shoulders relax, almost sighing in relief.

"You've had human blood?"

It was a good guess--enough of a good guess to surprise him. He could use that as an excuse, lie to her, pass it off as a lapse in judgment.

No more lies. It was a lapse in judgment.

"Vampire blood."

The admission wasn't any more freeing--the weight of what he'd done was still heavy on his heart. He was going to hurt her now. That's the last think he wanted. If he lied, he wouldn't hurt her . . . now.

Only later, when she found out the truth. Because Natalie would find out the truth. No matter what he did, she'd get hurt.

It was for the best. This hurt she could survive. This hurt she could--

"Janette?" she asked.

He smiled at the thought and shook his head, able to answer this question with true innocence. "No. Not Janette. I haven't seen her since . . . ." Shrugging, he turned to face her. "It wasn't Janette."

A mistake--turning. Now he could see the hurt in her face, in her eyes, no matter how much she was pretending that it wasn't there. She bit her lip again and looked away, the muscles of her neck taut like wire. Then there was a moment of hesitation on her part, veiled surprise. "Not . . . LaCroix?"

Another chance. Nick straightened and let his arms fall to his sides, fists clenching. LaCroix was a good excuse--she knew the relationship between them. To say he'd been forced, to say--

A lie. No more lies.

He managed a faint smile as he shook his head sadly. "Not LaCroix. Believe me, not LaCroix."

"Someone . . . else, then? Someone I know?" Her question ended on a high pitch. Natalie inspected her fingernails.

He couldn't bear to look at her, but forced himself to walk to the table behind the couch. His watch was in that box on the table, the watch that she'd given him. "Does it matter?" he asked softly.

"No. No, I suppose it doesn't. Maybe it's better I don't know. What is it they say, 'Curiosity killed the cat?' I guess they'd got that right."

Finally, she met his eyes. The hurt was in full blossom. It was if she knew . . . everything. All that had happened. How could he have thought to hide this from her? How could he have believed that it wouldn't matter? He'd saved her life by pulling back. Had he now killed her love for him by telling her the truth?

Word eluded him, the best he could manage was a heartfelt, "I'm sorry."

"You're . . . sorry." Natalie clapped her palms together once and nodded, as if thinking over the words, walking past him. "You're sorry. Well, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I came here tonight. I'm sorry I ever trusted you--"

She'd turned to walk out, heading straight for the elevator, her bag and jacket forgotten. He grabbed her arm, stopping her. "Nat, don't--"

"Don't you dare touch me!" Natalie wrenched her arm away from him and backed up a step, hazel eyes angry--the tears were there but she was too proud to let them go. Her skin was flushed red with anger, her blood rising, boiling . . . calling out to him. "You were going to try to get away with it, weren't you? You were just going to pretend like it had never happened. When did this happen? Sunday night? Last Night?"

He licked his lips, the scent of her blood intoxicating, answering, "A few hours ago," without even thinking about what he was saying.

"A few hours--?"

Dumbstruck, Natalie stared at him with a look so appalled that it actually reached through his hunger and opened his heart to shame. Nick made his way back to the couch. Seating himself, he placed his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I don't know what else to say. I wasn't thinking. I was--Nat, I am so sorry. Even LaCroix said you were too good for me. He was right." He lifted his head long enough to glance back at her. "It's my fault. It's all my fault."

For some reason, he had the impression that she was studying him. Then Natalie walked toward the chair to one side of the couch. She sat down into it slowly, as if it might break beneath her, then absently fixed the collar of her shirt, rebuttoning it. "There's a chance," she said slowly, "that this isn't all your fault. We both know that any physical relationship between us has . . . limitations. For both of us. It must be different for you--for vampires." When he opened his mouth to answer, she held up a hand, stopping him. "You hold back--I can feel it. Sometimes it scares me. You could break me in half without thinking about it. And there's a possibility that I can't . . . that I can't give you what you need."

Her voice was steady, calm, clinical, but her eyes betrayed her--her eyes were swimming with hurt, with pain. He could drown in those eyes so easily. Reaching across to grab her hand, he said, "You're all I need."

"Obviously, I'm not." She shook his hand from her own with a single movement, a bitter smile twisting her lips. One tear escaped her eyes, but she brushed it away quickly. "This could--this could be important. To your cure. Tell me about what happened."

"Tell you--?" It was his turn to stare, not quite understanding. "Tell you what?"

"Everything." Natalie clasped her hands together and met his stare with a level gaze. The hurt was still there, but swallowed by something else, a clinical professionalism.

He felt uncomfortably like a germ on a microscope slide. "Everything?"

"Everything," she repeated. "What happened between you, how she touched you, what you did . . . everything. I need to know what happened and why it happened." She lowered her gaze to the carpet and asked, "How did it start?"

Nick hesitated for a moment, remembering how he'd taken Urs' hand in his to lead her from the vampire grunge-stud, their dance, her comment that he was too 'good.'

But that wasn't what Natalie wanted to hear, that wasn't what she was asking. It was the physicality that mattered to her at the moment, his salvation lying in the possibility that there was something in vampire sex that he couldn't share with Natalie. Slowly, he licked his head, then cleared his throat and said, "With fellatio. That's how it . . . started."

She nodded once, but he heard Natalie's heart beat twice in quick succession--she'd offered to perform fellatio on him twice now, but he hadn't trusted himself with her either time. The sensations were so consuming, he thought he might lose control of himself and kill her.

He hadn't bitten Urs, had he, though? Not then . . . .

"I didn't ask--she just . . . ." Words were abandoning him with fearful rapidity. He stared at Natalie, wanting to make her understand, but she wouldn't look at him, her gaze centered on the floor.

"What was it like? What did it feel like?"

The memory of Urs' cool mouth drifting along the length of his member began a warm glow within him. "Cool. Soft. Like . . . I don't know what." He cleared his throat, realizing that thinking about the event was tantamount to reliving it, with Urs' blood still running through his system. As his closed his eyes, he could remember the intensity of it, the power as he held her head and slammed himself into the depths of her mouth, her tongue and teeth tracing finely along his skin each time he withdrew. The wonderful wet suction . . . .

Opening his eyes, Nick realized that his pajamas were uncomfortably tight at the front. He shifted his position to give his rising shaft more room, then looked at Natalie. She was watching him.

"Did you take blood from her? Or did she take blood from you?"

"Not then. Neither of us took blood."

"And you climaxed? Ejaculated?"

Clinical, precise, and--oddly enough--very arousing. Nick took a slow breath, trying to ignore the sensations running through him. "Yes."

"Was there blood in the semen?"

"I don't think so. I mean . . . she said there wasn't. She thought there was something wrong." He cleared his throat again and shrugged. "I told her it was the cow blood." He hesitated again, wondering why he was going through this.

Because she might forgive him. Because she might understand and forgive him and not shut him out entirely. He'd destroyed what they'd had before--he knew that. But not everything. To lose her completely would be too--

"Then you had intercourse?"

Nick licked his lips again, thinking of how his best intentions had gone so horribly wrong. "Yes. But . . . something happened."

"What?"

There was an eagerness in Natalie's eyes that had nothing to do with prurient interest. It gave him hope.

"I tasted blood. My blood. We kissed--there were fangs, we drew blood. And then it took control of me--the bloodlust. I didn't want it like that. I didn't want it to be like that."

"Like what?" Natalie's voice was softer. "What happened?"

"It was rough." He turned his gaze to the fireplace, to the dragon along the mantle. The vagueness in Urs' eyes still haunted him, the way she'd shut herself off, had gone away when he'd gotten out of hand. "I hurt her. I didn't want to. I never wanted to . . . ."

"You would have hurt me?"

"I would have killed you." He let the truth hang there, in the air between them for a moment, glancing at her, then looking away again. "I took her blood. She took mine."

"Did you climax before or after you took her blood?"

"After."

"And now you can't control it? You can't control the vampire when we're together?"

That was it. This was the final time he could lie. The lie wouldn't just hurt her, it would kill her.

No more lies.

"I don't think I can," he answered quietly. "Not right now. In time, maybe. If I get back to cow, abstain for a while. The chains might . . . ."

He suddenly realized that Natalie had risen from the chair and was heading for her bag and jacket. He turned to follow her progress with his eyes, not certain what her intentions might be. Of course she was leaving, but . . . for good? "Nat?"

She looped the strap of her handbag over her arm, then stopped, her back toward him. "I wanted to make sure it wasn't a vampire thing, something I hadn't allowed for. From what you're telling me . . . I don't think it was chemical or physiological. I could run some tests but--well, to tell you the truth, I don't really feel like it."

He was on his feet and beside her in an instant. Nick tried to take her into his arms, but she pulled away, eyes wary.

"I've hurt you," he said carefully.

"You're damn right you hurt me." Her brow furrowed and she brushed her hair out of her face with an annoyed gesture, but her gaze never left his, angry and alert. "I thought we meant something. I thought I meant something to you."

"You do. You mean everything--"

"And that's why you slept with somebody else?" When he turned away from her, she followed, adding, "If it was just the blood, you could have taken it without sex. We both know that. The sex was the basis of this. You made a decision to sleep with someone else."

Nick turned, nearly catching her in his arms, but she stepped back again. "I didn't think--"

"No, you didn't."

Her eyes were sharp and angry, tears glistening at the corners again. He couldn't bear to look at them but forced himself not to look away. "I never meant to hurt you. I know what it would feel like if you did this to me--slept with someone else." Hesitating, he shrugged. "Maybe you should. Maybe you should find someone and--"

"You want me to go out and have an affair? So we can be even?" She stared at him in astonishment. "This isn't a game, Nick. This is us. This is life. Either we win or we lose, together. There's only one side, our side. This isn't high school. We're supposed to be adults. Maybe you should start acting like one. Maybe you should--" Natalie stopped in mid-sentence, then reached out a hand to touch his own, her expression sad. "I think I know why you did this. You were happy. I know you were happy. But you can't be happy, can you, Nick? You've got all that guilt bottled up inside you, all that pain. So when something good does happen to you, you find a way to screw it up so that you can be unhappy again."

"I have, haven't I?" He caught her hand with his and raised her fingers to his lips, kissing the tips gently. "I've screwed this up. I've hurt you."

"Yes, you have." She pulled her hand from his grasp, slowly, then cradled it to her chest. "Look, I've gotta go. Do me a favor and don't call, okay? Not for . . . not for a while. If you need something from the office, have Tracy get it for you."

He heard the words and understood them, but it was as if they were spoken at a distance. Somewhere inside he was too busy watching his world come tumbling down around him. "It can't end like this."

"It was your choice, not mine." Natalie walked to the elevator and opened the door.

There wasn't any sense in moving slowly--he was there almost before she was. Holding the door open for her, he said, "We've done the impossible. Nat, we can't let this go. Not now. It means too much, to both of us. After all we went through, all you went through . . . ."

"I can't deal with this right now, okay?" Her voice was taut and she stared up at him, eyes wide. "Just . . . don't call me, don't try to contact me."

"This can't be good-bye."

"It might be." She closed her eyes and stepped back into the elevator. "I'll let you know."

The door slammed shut and he moved back, his nerves dulled. Nick leaned on the brick wall beside the elevator for a moment and closed his eyes.

It was better this way. Natalie was alive--he hadn't killed her and he hadn't lied to her. She'd be free of him, free to live her own life without him placing her in danger. She'd be better off without him.

For an instant or two, he tried to believe that, tried to pretend that it was all for the best. Walking to the refrigerator, he pulled out another bottle of blood and returned to the couch. The shutters on the windows were opened to the evening sky. He drank the blood and stared out at the night, wondering what he could do, now that she was gone. He'd only returned to Toronto a short time before he'd run into her, before she'd helped him shape his life here. She'd been part of this life from the start.

He'd screwed it up. He'd been scared of being happy--she was right in that he didn't feel he deserved to be happy. So he'd found a dozen different excuses as to why this shouldn't work, added the appropriate stupid action and window dressing, and now he was back to where he'd tried to be--alone and unhappy. Already, he missed her. He needed her. He wanted her.

He loved her.

A few more flicks on his remote control from the table and he turned off all the lights in the loft. Sitting in the darkness in his robe and pajamas, his body letting him know in no uncertain terms that it was very unhappy about being partially around and then ignored, Nick slowly sipped at the bottle of cow blood and thought about what he could do to make Natalie a part of his life again.

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