After a while, Melchior sobered a little bit from the effects of the lust-inducing medicine.
But he still held Sylene tightly in his arms, refusing to let go.
He kept nuzzling him — sniffing and licking at his neck, his shoulder, even his chest — like a cat given catnip. The scent clung to him, warm and sweet, impossible to resist.
He felt the damp heat at Sylene's intimate place. It was ready, almost inviting. Sylene looked aroused, yet uncertain what else to do except cling to Melchior. He remained pliant and obedient, trusting him completely.
That medicine—if given to a normal vampire—would have driven them to drain their victim dry. It would have jeopardized the peace treaty instantly. It seemed the anti-vampire faction, like Milton's party, still operated in the shadows.
Luckily, Melchior was not a pure vampire.
He was something rarer. Stronger. A being almost impossible to be born. A nightmare even to vampires who stood at the top of the food chain.
