Succubus Chained (Paranormal Prison) 

I bet you’re asking yourself, why am I here? What happened that landed me in this cell? Trust me, you aren’t the only one.

Who am I?

You’d do better to ask what I am.

You know it’s going to be a bad day when you wake up in the wrong man’s bed, your favorite leather outfit is completely shredded, your best Manolo Blahniks are broken, and your eighty-dollar manicure is ruined.

But would you believe me if I said that’s just the tip of the shit storm?

My name is Fiona MacRieve, and I’m a succubus…or I was. I seduced a vampire and we had a fantastic time, until he drained me almost to death. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t forced his blood down my throat thinking it would heal me.

Yeah, it didn’t.

Cause that’s not how I heal.

So not only did I wake up to losing my best outfit, I woke up dead.

Now I’m a vampire.

Some shit you just can’t make up.

Oh…and my favorite part? I’m under arrest.

*Please note this is a paranormal prison reverse harem and will feature aggressively snarky characters, a bit of twisted humor and a lot of passion. So come join an amazing group of authors in Nightmare Penitentiary, a place you’ll never want to escape from. The author suggests you should always read the forward in her books. This is the first in a trilogy.

 

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Read Chapter One

“Of all the things you choose in life, you don’t get to choose what your nightmares are. You don’t pick them; they pick you” – John Irving

I didn’t want to be a damn vampire. The screams echoed off the stone. The sound distant, yet anguished. It must be that time. In the two weeks since I’d been dumped into this place, I’d tracked the routine by when those screams began.

It marked the death and birth of a new day. The chill in the room barely touched me. I wouldn’t have minded better accommodations. Despite my expensive tastes, the damp, stone cell with its single hard bed, a sink that allowed water for washing, and a toilet in the corner they’d actually let me clean before I touched it—look, a girl has to have some standards—was empty.

I was also the only one in this wing, so the wrought iron door, reinforced with its magical protections and salted to boot, didn’t even provide me a view of the emptiness beyond. It was all shadows. The sconces in the corners lit up in the “morning” and extinguished at “night.”

I’d destroyed them twice.

The little bastards always popped back up.

Still, it was something to do when the mental retail therapy grew stale. Currently, I debated between a pair of Louboutins that were last season and the Stuart Weitzman that were just perfectly classic and provocative. Both had stellar heels and would definitely work for my ass. The red-bottomed Louboutins had gotten a little too common. Everyone wanted to be seen in them.

The screams climbed in volume. It would be nice if he could arrive without the serenade. The noise was hardly conducive to mood.

Still, if I went for the Weitzman, what would I pair them with? I was still mentally scrolling through the dress racks when I considered ditching the heels for thigh high boots and a mini-skirt. I had fabulously long legs, and I knew how to work them. Thigh highs screamed ‘come and get me.’

Heat and hunger vied for my attention as I shifted on the bed. The problem was that my fabulously toned legs were looking a little too slender. The thigh highs would hide the loss of tone.

Thigh highs it was.

The door grated open, and I didn’t bother rising as he suddenly filled the space. The shadows deepened, darkening the already pitch space. Seeing in the dark had never been my talent, yet I could make him out as easily as if the sconces were lit. Tall, rangy, and gorgeous, despite the mean streak in him.

“Fiona,” he greeted me as he closed the door and made his way across the cell. Not like he had far to travel.

“Dorran,” I mocked his deep, husky tone as I crossed one leg over the other. I wore the equivalent of a polyester jump suit in the most horrid shade of gray. The color was so drab, it blended with the walls around me.

Chuckling, he held out a hand as he stood in front of me. “You haven’t been eating.”

I rolled my eyes and ignored his hand. “I don’t survive on blood.”

“You used to not need it,” he reminded me, as if I could forget. Even the mention of it had my teeth sharpening. The canines weren’t quite as pronounced as most vampires. I hadn’t been born one or even turned like they sometimes chose with the human cattle they kept close to them. I certainly shouldn’t be one now.

Stupid. Fucking. Dimitri.

When I got out of here—and I would—I planned to gut Dimitri and hang him by his entrails. When he healed, I’d do it again.

A few centuries of that, and I might be willing to let bygones be bygones, or simply rip his head totally off.

That would be nice.

The lust for blood sent another wave of heat and hunger to balloon through me. It didn’t help to have him looming over me, flushed with a lust of his own, and it wasn’t just lust for me, though that was definitely present. Dorran had been feeding, and it practically coiled around him, a dark energy that licked at my skin, even if he wasn’t touching me.

Demons, after all, understood other demons.

With a growl, he clasped my hand and yanked me to my feet. The moment his mouth crashed down on mine, I gave in to the need to feed. Blood may be among my cravings now, but it wasn’t what I needed to survive.

With hot heavy hands, he shoved up my top, even as I pulled at his vestments. His tongue tangled with mine, and he tasted of coffee, cake, and passion. Someone had been dining well this evening. When he pulled back to yank my shirt up and over, I got his jacket off.

The clothes hit the floor with a thump. Other prisoners might try to purloin something from his pockets or steal from him. I wanted what was under the clothes. The power eddying over his skin stroked mine, and the shadows began to sink into me before he looped an arm around my bare waist and dragged me back.

Mouth on mine, he began to feast. The despair and aggravation in my blood churned as he sought to suck it out of me. Fisting his hair, I hiked my thighs to his hips. He had one hand on my ass, lifting me, and I began to writhe against the hard length of cock pressed right against my pussy.

Fuck, his lust magnified. Even as he dragged the despair out of me, I began to feast on the hunger in him. It was a magnificent loop.

After four days of denying him, I was starved for it. He drove me back against the wall, and I fisted him into position. The rough stone scraped at my back. Without waiting or warning, he slammed into me. Eyes rolling back, I tipped my head away. The pistoning of his hips jolted me right between pleasure and pain, a seesawing effect that only heightened his wanton desire.

When he bit against my throat, I bucked back at him. Fucker loved to mark me, even if he didn’t require blood. The thrust of darkness teased against my anus. It was his turn to fist my hair, and he dragged my gaze to him.

A scream broke free as he began to prod the tight rosette, his lust magnified, and a choked laugh broke out of me.

“It’s that or you feed on blood,” he ordered me, and his whole body vibrated against mine. Not once did he stop drilling into me. My breasts scrapped against the sweaty heat of his chest, the hairs there prickling my nipples. His power thickened as he began to breach the puckered opening, and another shudder raced through me.

He wanted me so bad, and it flooded my starved senses.

“Fiona,” he snarled my name, and I clenched my teeth in a grimace as his thrusts grew more ferocious. Every glorious slam he ground against my clit. The hot slide of his cock through me only ratcheted the temperature in my body higher. My blood thundered as his lust filled me.

“You want me,” I snarled at him, digging my nails into his bare shoulders. “Then take it.”

The flare of surprise followed by a swelling in both in his cock and his need threatened to tip me over. The shadows went hazy as he pummeled me, and my parched soul soaked up every drop. The first thrust of shadows filling my anus sent pain splintering through the pleasure, and he lapped it up even as he stilled his thrusting. Impaled on both his body and his power, I met his gaze. Heat roiled around me, in me, and him.

A testing probe, he eased the shadow thrust back and slammed his cock into me.

Fuck.

I forgot how to speak as he began to drive all thoughts from my head.

“That’s it.” He ground out the words somehow as he ramped his pace up. Every thrust of him stretched me. What pain his abrupt penetration caused faded as his lust spilled over onto everything. He could have carved me up right now, and I’d have orgasmed from the knife.

The scent of copper flickered across my drunken mind, and then he had my face pressed against his throat, and the first sticky drops hit my tongue. Instinct had me sinking my teeth in.

The hot flow of blood hit my mouth, rich in spice and power. The first gulp was like ice-cold water in the boiling desert. It made me desperate for more. As soon as I latched on, he began to rock his hips again. Thrust, counterthrust, he kept my body full as I gluttoned on his lust and blood.

When he began to nail that sweet spot with every hammer home, I screamed against his throat but I kept drinking. I needed it so bad. I needed everything he had, and he let out a roar as he came. We leaned there, him buried in me and panting as he emptied himself, and I kept lapping at his throat, wanting more of the power rich blood.

Gradually, the tension of his hand lighting my scalp up as he tugged on my hair pulled me free from feeding, and I met his gleaming gaze a split second before his smirking mouth closed over mine.

Too drunk to care, I cradled him and let him hold me against the wall until his cock finally slipped free. He didn’t knot, but it took him time after release to soften enough to leave me.

Then he turned me from the wall and dropped me on the bed. Naked. Spent. And floating on a haze of it.

“Do not wait so long next time,” he told me as he drew a finger down my cheek to my breast. “You are not dying on my watch, Fiona.”

The possession in his voice should worry me, but fuck, it would hardly be the first time a lover—even one as casual as he was—decided I was something to be collected. Part of the reason I was stuck here in the first place.

“Fuck you, Dorran,” I managed to slur. Why did he have to taste so good? I hated the need for blood, and it was that loathing that he began to soak up as he knelt down and latched his mouth over a nipple. Instead of pushing him away, I gripped his head and kept him there, until his shadows thrust into my pussy this time and tumbled me over the precipice into a deep, drunken stupor.

Nothing left of me to worry about.

It was the only reason I had to have imagined him smoothing the sweat-dampened hair from my face and the almost chaste kiss he left on my forehead.

“When I send you blood tomorrow,” he whispered at my ear. “You will drink.”

In my dream, I flipped him off, but he’d already pulled on his clothes after folding mine neatly and setting them at the foot of the bed. Then the warden was gone. I didn’t even hear the rattle and slam of the door.

The screams continued after that, but I drifted on a lazy river of sensation. I barely twitched when the sconces lit, marking a new day. Replete and flushed with energy and vigor, I was like a cat who wanted to stretch out in the sun.

Except there was no sun.

And I was still in prison for the crime of being impossible.

I was a succubus, but a vampire turned me after he drained me to the point of death.

Idiot.

When I woke, I was living yet not. I was a succubus, yet also a vampire.  My favorite outfit had been trashed, and my best shoes broken. My creator also panicked and fled, sticking me with the hotel room bill.

Do you have any idea what it costs to clean blood out of carpet?

Worse still, when I went to the city’s vampires for some assistance in finding the asshat who’d fucked up my life, I ended up here.

In prison.

Yep.

So if you wanted to know how I got here, that’s it.

For the last two weeks, these four stone walls have housed me and the warden—he told me to call him Dorran—has been my only visitor. He wants me to feed. But I don’t survive on blood alone.

I wish I didn’t need the blood at all.

Four times now, he’s had to force the issue.

Totally worth it by the way, because I won’t touch that bagged stuff, and if the only way to feed my lust was to get him to show up, then I still wouldn’t touch the bags.

I shifted against the bed, aware of every scratchy inch of the blanket and the uncomfortable, almost slab-like surface the too thin mattress covered. Nothing else here offered even a little bit of pleasure. Dorran, on the other hand, definitely filled a need.

Lazing through the day, I barely rose by evening to clean myself up at the sink and to get some water to drink. I could actually eat real food, not that they brought me any.

When the bags of blood arrived through the slot in the door, I was already back to leaning against my wall, dressed in the drab gray with my damp hair drying slowly. At least I could wash.

Instead of thigh-high boots, I decided I’d shop for jewelry tonight. Even if I was almost full to the brim, I wouldn’t be opposed to my sometime visitor.

It gave me something to do while I wasn’t allowed to rot away in here.

The funny thing was, if they didn’t want the world to know about me, why would they want to keep me alive?

Why not just stake me or burn me alive or something?

Hell, cut off my head. Chop chop, and we’re done.

Rolling my eyes, I jerked my attention back to virtual shopping.

My name is Fiona MacRieve. Always good to remember that part.

I was a succubus.

Or I used to be.

Now?

I didn’t know what I’d become.

But as long as they planned on keeping me alive, they better hope they could keep me in here, because my lust for vengeance grew by the hour, and I could feed on that, too.

Just saying.