Read Online Blood Vengeance (Blood Curse Series Book 7) by Tessa Dawn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tessa Dawn
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earnest. “I think I’m gonna puke on your butt.” He quickly set her down, steadying her on her feet by her shoulders. She leaned forward and rested her head against his chest. “Oh, God… why did I drink so much?”
“Tiffany,” he whispered, taking one hand off her shoulder to place it on her cheek. “Look at me. Maybe I can help.”
She drew her face away from his hand and held it at an awkward angle, tilted to the side, and then she narrowed her eyes into a squint and glared at him from her peripheral vision—yet she said nothing.
He moved both hands to the ridge of her elbows, providing moderate but surprisingly effective support, and then he frowned. “What the hell is that?” he asked, scrunching up his face in confusion.
“What?” she demanded.
“That look. Your face. What the hell are you doing?”
She grit her teeth, pursed her lips, and tried to glare at him like a vampire—it seemed like the appropriate thing to do at the time—and then she snorted. “I’m giving you a warning,” she said tersely. “You. Are. Not. Going. To. Get. Away. With. This.”
Ramsey whistled low beneath his breath, almost sounding like Nathaniel Silivasi, and then he slowly shook his head. “Wow… okay. I think we’re done for the night.” He placed one hand beneath her knees, the other around her waist, and lifted her to his chest. “C’mon, baby girl; it’s time to go night-night.” He started toward the hallway… and the bedrooms.
“Hey! I thought I toooold youuuu—”
“Yep, you told me, all right. C’mon, Miss Matthews.” He continued down the hall until he reached the second master bedroom, the one across from his own room, and then he used his telekinesis to open the door. “It’s time to hit the sack.”
Tiffany tried to protest, but it wasn’t worth the energy. All she wanted was for him to stop walking, stop moving, so the room would stop spinning.
He somehow managed to hold onto her with only one arm, while pulling back the covers with the other, and then he gently laid her down on the soft memory-foam mattress—well, as gently as Ramsey did anything. Put it this way: He didn’t throw her or drop her on her head.
Tiffany moaned and crawled further onto the mattress, trying to quiet her stomach. She so did not want to vomit. “Ohhh, Godddddd,” she repeated.
“Sh, Blondie,” he said, and then she heard him walk away. All of a sudden there was water running in the en suite bath, and a few minutes later, he was back with a cool washcloth. “Roll over,” he said, waiting as she rolled gingerly onto her back.
“There,” he grumbled. His bedside manner left a bit to be desired, but all in all, he was pretty gracious.
He placed the cool cloth on her forehead, and she sighed. “Thank you.”
He grunted something unintelligible, and she assumed he probably nodded, but her eyes were closed and she had no intentions of opening them again, not until, maybe, the next century. Perhaps he could convert her and get on with the whole nasty business of the Curse while she slept, blissfully unaware. The thought drifted off into the same fog as her mind, completely enveloping her consciousness and ushering her into an alternate, hazy plane. Several minutes passed by, and she could have sworn she heard something, someone, making another trip to the bathroom and running the faucet again. She no longer remembered exactly where she was or who, precisely, she was with. And for some reason, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was sleep: blessed, peaceful sleep .
The washcloth was placed on her forehead again, and she welcomed it. When she felt her legs elevate above the bed, her pants slide over her hips, and her blouse slip off her arms, she thought she should probably say something, maybe protest, but it was far too much effort to try. Instead, she wriggled out of the garments and luxuriated in the most glorious sensation in the world: crisp, clean sheets enfolding her body, being
“Tiffany,” he whispered, taking one hand off her shoulder to place it on her cheek. “Look at me. Maybe I can help.”
She drew her face away from his hand and held it at an awkward angle, tilted to the side, and then she narrowed her eyes into a squint and glared at him from her peripheral vision—yet she said nothing.
He moved both hands to the ridge of her elbows, providing moderate but surprisingly effective support, and then he frowned. “What the hell is that?” he asked, scrunching up his face in confusion.
“What?” she demanded.
“That look. Your face. What the hell are you doing?”
She grit her teeth, pursed her lips, and tried to glare at him like a vampire—it seemed like the appropriate thing to do at the time—and then she snorted. “I’m giving you a warning,” she said tersely. “You. Are. Not. Going. To. Get. Away. With. This.”
Ramsey whistled low beneath his breath, almost sounding like Nathaniel Silivasi, and then he slowly shook his head. “Wow… okay. I think we’re done for the night.” He placed one hand beneath her knees, the other around her waist, and lifted her to his chest. “C’mon, baby girl; it’s time to go night-night.” He started toward the hallway… and the bedrooms.
“Hey! I thought I toooold youuuu—”
“Yep, you told me, all right. C’mon, Miss Matthews.” He continued down the hall until he reached the second master bedroom, the one across from his own room, and then he used his telekinesis to open the door. “It’s time to hit the sack.”
Tiffany tried to protest, but it wasn’t worth the energy. All she wanted was for him to stop walking, stop moving, so the room would stop spinning.
He somehow managed to hold onto her with only one arm, while pulling back the covers with the other, and then he gently laid her down on the soft memory-foam mattress—well, as gently as Ramsey did anything. Put it this way: He didn’t throw her or drop her on her head.
Tiffany moaned and crawled further onto the mattress, trying to quiet her stomach. She so did not want to vomit. “Ohhh, Godddddd,” she repeated.
“Sh, Blondie,” he said, and then she heard him walk away. All of a sudden there was water running in the en suite bath, and a few minutes later, he was back with a cool washcloth. “Roll over,” he said, waiting as she rolled gingerly onto her back.
“There,” he grumbled. His bedside manner left a bit to be desired, but all in all, he was pretty gracious.
He placed the cool cloth on her forehead, and she sighed. “Thank you.”
He grunted something unintelligible, and she assumed he probably nodded, but her eyes were closed and she had no intentions of opening them again, not until, maybe, the next century. Perhaps he could convert her and get on with the whole nasty business of the Curse while she slept, blissfully unaware. The thought drifted off into the same fog as her mind, completely enveloping her consciousness and ushering her into an alternate, hazy plane. Several minutes passed by, and she could have sworn she heard something, someone, making another trip to the bathroom and running the faucet again. She no longer remembered exactly where she was or who, precisely, she was with. And for some reason, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was sleep: blessed, peaceful sleep .
The washcloth was placed on her forehead again, and she welcomed it. When she felt her legs elevate above the bed, her pants slide over her hips, and her blouse slip off her arms, she thought she should probably say something, maybe protest, but it was far too much effort to try. Instead, she wriggled out of the garments and luxuriated in the most glorious sensation in the world: crisp, clean sheets enfolding her body, being
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