The Warrior Vampire by Kate Baxter Read Free Book Online

Now that he’d become tethered, his troth was at the very least problematic. If he so much as let another female touch him with intent, Ronan’s blood would boil in his veins. Sex wasn’t just off the table; indulging would literally kill him.
    Ronan pulled on the chain once again, a forceful jerk borne of anger and his mounting frustration. A roar of pain built in his chest, but he held it in as the silver sizzled against his skin. The bed frame creaked under the strain. He pulled harder. Blood trickled down his arms and blisters marred his skin. The frame gave way, another inch.
    Letting his arms fall back, he gave the chain some slack. Ronan drew a deep breath into his lungs and clamped his jaw down as he propelled his body up and forward. Damned near blind with pain, weak and shaking from the silver’s effect on him, he fell back onto the pillow panting. He’d loosened the frame another inch, though.
    On and on it went for a good half hour. Ronan steeled himself for one last tug. Blood stained his arms and his lip where he’d bitten down again and again. The scent of his own blood gnawed at him, further igniting his thirst to the point of frenzy. Something dark and foreboding rose up inside of him, sending icy tendrils through his bloodstream that spread out through his limbs. It awakened something primal within him. Wild. And with a shout Ronan propelled himself forward one last time. The frame groaned before it gave way completely with a hollow pop . The chain swung free of the broken metal bar and Ronan set to work freeing his legs in the same way, this time rocking backward as he jerked his knees up toward his chin.
    His body grew damp with sweat and his breath sawed in and out of his lungs with his effort. The chill that overcame him caused Ronan to shiver, but he soldiered on until the bars at the footboard gave way and his ankles were just as bloody and ravaged as his wrists. He was free, though. More or less. He’d never been so gods-damned thankful for mobility.
    Though his mate had been clever to use her magic on him, she’d been irresponsible in leaving the key to his cuffs behind. The weight of the chains was immense as Ronan reached up to rub at his bare arms. He couldn’t seem to banish the chill that settled over him like an early-winter frost.
    Need … blood.
    Rage and mindless thirst overrode even his need to escape his prison. He wanted to rip, tear, savage the nearest available body. Kill. He wanted to hunt like a beast in the forest and take down his prey. Glut himself on his victim’s blood and do it all over again. He’d never in all of his existence—even after his turning—been so gods-damned desperate for blood. The memory of the female’s scent, clean and sweet, invaded his senses, and Ronan’s fangs throbbed painfully in his gums. He stumbled to the dresser as his vision clouded and fell against it as his knees gave out beneath him. His hand searched blindly over the surface of the dresser, knocking over jars and a heavy mortar and pestle as he groped for the key.
    There!
    He scooped it up into his grasp, breath heaving in his chest. His vision continued to haze, darkening at the edges as his head swam with confusion. Where in the hell was he? How had he gotten here? It was so fucking dark he could no longer see. The smell of mildew and dirt invaded his nostrils. And with the damp air, the sharp tang of magic burned his lungs. What in the hell was happening to him? Gods, he was so, so hungry . His stomach burned with hunger.
    Like a rag doll, Ronan toppled to the floor. The carpet did little to cushion his fall as his head smacked smartly on the floor. His limbs ached with cold and his teeth chattered as a violent tremor shook his body. The darkness pressed upon him taking him deeper, further away from reality. As he gave in to the force that steadily pulled him down, down, down, fiery dark eyes and creamy tan skin flashed in his