He is her captor…
She is his soul…
When Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven, rescues a young woman from the clutches of his vampiritic clone the sheer amount of soul energy blazing from her unconscious body stuns him…and awakens a primal, parasitic hunger he has fought for centuries to quell.
Determined to keep her safe from the ravenous Scourge horde, Blaise must hide her in his underground stronghold. Where the powerful urge to consume her gnaws at the last shreds of his control.
With a touch, Isabel Lanscourt can divine the darkest of secrets. Her ability is little help, though, when she awakens in a lush world where sensuality rules. Her shining spirit is a beacon to all the powerful immortals in Sanctuary, but only one can touch her. The enigmatic Lord Delraven, whose brusque coldness is belied by the heated need in his eyes.
In a dangerous zone between temptation and memory, desire ignites an explosion of luminescent beauty. And Isabel’s healing touch begins to fill his emptiness with an impossible gift: a soul. But Blaise holds a dangerous secret, one that could extinguish Isabel’s inner light. And cast his lonely world into eternal darkness.
Read an Excerpt
“It’s very heavy for a dress, isn’t it?” Isabel asked.
“For a dress, yes,” he murmured. “But this isn’t for a dress. It’s for a royal
marriage.” Her hands tingled in the gloves, as though his stroking fingers gave off a charge and it came to her through the conduit of the lush fabric.
“Silk is a good generator of electricity,” he said.
She glanced up, cautious this time, but unable to resist looking into his face. Had he read her thoughts? His small smile seemed to indicate he had. She glanced away uneasily.
“If the fabric isn’t for a dress, what is it for?”
“It is for the royal bed. This will be made into sheets, Isabel.”
The fabric fell through her fingers heedlessly at the sound of him saying her name in his hoarse, accented voice. It had struck a chord of memory in her. She searched wildly to retrieve the memory, but the ephemeral threads had disappeared. For a moment, her lungs seemed collapsed, unable to fill with air.
She abruptly turned away from him, overwhelmed by longing.
“What are you carrying?” he asked from behind her as she walked toward the hearth.
She glanced around, her brow furrowed in confusion. She blinked in shock when she saw he stood just feet away. He’d come to her with paranormal quickness. What was he talking about? She noticed he looked at her hand. She clutched at the rolled-up script. Remembering why she’d sought him out gave her a renewed sense of purpose, flimsy though her excuse for seeing him was.
“I’ve come to ask you to be in the play.”
“I am no actor.”
“None of the Literati are, except for Titurino, who tells me he used to tread
the boards in Rome long ago, to make money for his paints,” she said with a smile. She sobered when she noticed his fire-lit eyes. He was dressed as casually as she, in jeans and a simple gray T-shirt, but he looked elegant somehow…a noble savage.
“Thank you, for sponsoring the play for my benefit. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”
“I thought it would please you, and help to occupy your time. When you are ready, say the word and I will bring you an audience, as well. You may choose whoever you’d like to attend.”
“Lester Dee?” she asked smoothly, referring to the professor who had brought her to England
He kept his face impassive. “If that is your wish. We can come to terms on the matter.”
She smiled. “The Queen?”
“That one I can answer for more confidently. Consider it done.”
She shook her head slowly. “The funny thing is, I believe you. I would
believe anything of you, at this point.”
Beth Kery—Steam for the Sophisticated Reader
Silken Rapture, November 22, 2011