Rose Bound: The Rose and King series Book 1

by J. J. Marshall

  “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” Oliver growled.

  Palmer cracked a smile, exposing yellowing teeth that were in remarkable shape for a man on his way to being a corpse, before letting out another haunting cackle. “And you have the nerve to cheat me. I say I’m being fair here, boys. It’s only business. Your fight starts in an hour. I’ll give you enough time to bed a woman or each other, if you’re keen, and then the fight commences. I look forward to watching you bleed, gentlemen. Please don’t disappoint me, hmm,” Palmer said, turning his back to them as he and his undead goon retreated back into the shadows. Gavin turned and made his way back toward their booth. His mind whirled as he ran his fingers through his tousled locks. He slid into the booth without another word.

  The waitress crept back with their food, although Gavin’s appetite had vanished by now. She kept her gaze downcast as she set the plates down in front of the prince and his wolf without muttering a single word. The meal was not as appealing as it had been when they had ordered and Gavin left his untouched, ignoring the smell that reached his nose.

  Things were bad.

  So incredibly bad.

  Looking to his friend, Gavin silently pleaded for a solution from whatever goddess would answer a nocturnal beast like him.

  “Gav, I-I’m sorry, mate,” Oliver told him, lowering his head. They could barely make eye contact with one another. Escaping this horrid place would likely be impossible. Especially with Palmer on alert. Gavin knew who the victor would be, beast against beast. His blood heated his otherwise cold limbs. It was not fear he was feeling.

  No.

  But anguish at the prospect of battling his friend. The Prince of Blood had lain dormant for a very long time. Gavin had locked him away into the deepest facets of his mind, in hopes of redeeming himself from years of bloodshed. The human wars had brought out the truest of night beasts, but the vampires had won, vanquishing the human rebellions until they bowed down or died at the hands of immortal beings. Gavin and his king were born from the carnage of death. Humans were nothing more than slaves and meat sacks in the eyes of the vampires, but Gavin knew they were much more than that. They deserved to live amongst the realm as more.

  “Gav!” Oliver’s voice drew him from his dark thoughts.

  “Yeah?”

  “I know what you’re thinking. And it won’t happen, you hear me? You’ve come too fucking far for that horseshit.”

  Gavin couldn’t help but laugh at Oliver’s unending faith in him. “You’re so optimistic in such dire times.”

  Oliver shrugged his massive shoulders and turned his attention away. “You keep him leashed, ya hear?” His glance shifted toward the waitress who was leaning over a nearby table, washing it clean. Her skirts hoisted, just barely covering her backside as she leaned in further, giving the boys a gracious glance at her bottom. “If this is our last hour, I’d like to get wasted and bed a woman. Perhaps bend that waitress over and—”

  “She’s not into you man. Don’t waste your time chasing someone who doesn’t want to be chased.”

  Oliver whirled his attention back onto Gavin, narrowing his eyes into a glare that Gavin was unaccustomed to seeing. His friend’s demeanor shifted into something voracious. “I’m getting wasted and fucking. Do what you want with yours. I’ll see you in the pit,” Oliver snarled before pushing from the table and stalking off, leaving Gavin alone.

  3

  Rose

  Rosalie Elena Coston, one of the wealthiest vampire heiresses in the realm, was tired of her lush life hidden behind the scenes. Lavish parties and suitors at the beck and call of her father, Lord Zachary Coston, no longer pleased her, as if it ever did. Now in the belly of the underworld, she sought out information on the disappearance of her older sister, Dahlia, and the sordid life that brought her family their coin.

  Paying off a werewolf was just one of the things she’d done to earn favor with the snake, Sven Palmer. The fighter, Oliver Dawson, was his mark of the evening and for whatever reason, she felt the need to help the beast, if only to serve her own best interests. She had hoped that his losing the fight would relieve the spotlight placed on the wolf’s head. She was wrong.

  A hushed conversation she’d overheard had fueled her fire to stop this madness. Palmer was planning to pit Oliver against his friend in order to put on some grand show. There was something he needed to announce. That something he felt needed extra flair. Blood was that pizazz, and tonight there would be plenty of it. Rose let out a sigh. She would do what she could to foil Palmer’s plans.

  Finding Dawson was easy. He was lounging outside the brothel door awaiting a woman who caught his fancy. Treading into this part of the establishment always made her queasy. The men stared at her with hunger in their eyes and lust in their pants. It made her skin crawl. She could feel them pulling the clothes away from her body with a glance, but Rose had to ignore it. She had to get Dawson to throw the fight… again. The less remarkable he looked at the moment, the better this night may pan out for him.

  As if on cue, Dawson looked up, licking his lips as he caught her gaze, a wolfish smile playing on his lips. He pushed from his spot against the wall and thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants, pushing them down and revealing the sharp ditches of his abdomen. Rose’s eyes drifted to the V, drinking it in as the wolf approached.

  His eyes raked her body, undressing and sending chills through Rose. His gaze was unlike the others. It held her respect in a way most males lacked. Despite his ruggedly handsome looks, Rose had to keep it casual, if only for a night. Nothing could stop her plan. Not even a handsome wolf.

  “Hello, Trouble,” Dawson purred. “What’s a lass like you hanging around in a place like this?” he asked with a hint of disapproval Rose found endearing. He gestured around them with an open palm and Rose’s eyes followed the movement. Red lace draped the hall lined with mahogany doors. A settee sat down at the end under a large painting of a naked woman. Moans, both male and female, chorused from the rooms. A chandelier of crystal hung above, giving off low light to the lowlifes in this part. Rose closed her eyes, her breaths coming in shallow puffs. Her stomach twisted and flipped over on itself. She gritted her teeth and opened her eyes, feigning control.

  “A brothel?” she asked. Oliver’s smile disappeared and his eyes flicked to hers, taking on a serious tone.

  “Yes. One might think you’re up to no good,” he replied, moving closer to her. “Unless you are looking for a good time?”

  “Hardly,” Rose replied, her tone harsh. She stifled back her annoyance, though deep down she follied for a good distraction. “You need to lose this fight, too. Palmer wants blood.”

  “Palmer can go fuck himself. He expects me to kill my best mate. Skeevy son of a bitch.”

  Rose clenched her jaw, her irritation growing by the second. “Lose this fight too, or I swear I’ll come back for my coin. All of it,” she nearly hissed. “The fights need to end.”

  “If I lose the fight, then I’ll be dead and will have no use for your coin. Besides, the fights are none of your concern.”

  “Everything in the Underground is my concern. Lose this fight or I’ll make you pay.”

  “Don’t threaten me with a good time, lass. I like a little pain in the bedroom. Makes things a bit more exciting,” he replied, flashing Rose a toothy grin.

  “In your dreams, wolf boy,” Rose snapped.

  “Oh I assure you, in my dreams we take things to a whole new level,” Oliver purred, wagging his eyebrows.

  Rose rolled her eyes at the werewolf’s innuendo and fished into her shirt for a second coin pouch, extracting it. Oliver looked at her, confusion masking his face. She’d defeat Palmer at his own game. Opening the purse, Rose retrieved a vial she never thought she’d need to use, a vial that if anyone saw, would get her thrown into prison for a decade or more.

  “Moonchild,” she crooned. “Ever sample some of the finest Wolfsbane, Elirion has to offer?” Oliver flicked his eyes away in a wor
ried glance, surely looking to see if anyone was around to overhear the conversation.

  “Rose,” he began, though his voice quivered as he bit his bottom lip. “A lass like you has no business with a vial like that. The Sinclair’s would have your head on a pike if they saw you with it.”

  Rose looked up, smiling as she gazed into the wolf’s peculiar eyes. She knew exactly what and where her endeavors would lead her. Pulling the purple vial out of the shadows, she held it freely in the air, pinched between her forefingers. “They can’t touch me if they can’t catch me. Besides, I’ve put my own twist on this gem. Care for some?”

  “Let’s go someplace private,” Oliver whispered, issuing for Rose to lead the way.

  “Second door on the left,” Rose replied, stopping before a dark wooden door. Turning the dark knob, Rose pushed into the room with Oliver on her heels. She nodded to the door and Oliver kicked it shut. With the click of the lock, Rose knew she had him in the palm of her hand.

  “I-I have a fight soon,” Oliver murmured. Rose felt the edges of her lips curl upward, a grin forming across her beautiful face. She knew the wolf would give in; no wolf could resist Wolfsbane. It was a drug like no other to their kind. From the look on Oliver’s face, she knew he’d sampled it once or twice in his life. He wouldn’t be able to resist the pull.

  “I know,” she replied, spinning the corked vial between her fingers, batting her lashes flirtatiously. “But it may be your last and maybe I am looking for a bit of fun.” Rose sank to her knees as her fingers fumbled with the wolf’s trousers, working the buttons free. A strong hand knotted in her hair, pulling her head up.

  “Don’t play with me, lass,” Oliver whispered. His amber eyes begged for more.

  “Take your bane, Moonchild, and ride the wave of ecstasy.” Huffing a sigh, as if to say she was silently right, Oliver took the vial of purple liquid and flicked off the cork. Tilting his head back, he brought the vial to his lips and downed the entire thing.

  Perfect, Rose thought as she rose from her knees and seized the glass from the mutt’s fingers, watching the effects of the bane work almost immediately. Oliver’s eyes drooped and his body slumped. She hoped her added twist was enough to slow his heart rate to keep him from shifting into the wolf.

  “Alright, big guy,” she said, releasing a stored breath. “Just relax.” Her plan was shaping up nicely. Oliver would be safe for a while longer and then it was up to him.

  Rose could hear Palmer’s rancid voice coming from above and she knew it was about time for the gates to open. His magnified tone echoed through the pits and dining booths, making the floor beneath her shake.

  “Shit,” she cursed under her breath, looking back to the now snoring wolf. Crouching down, Rose was nose to nose with the beast as she raised her hand. What doesn’t kill him, makes him stronger, right?

  Crack!

  Her hand smashed against his cheek. Pain strung along her fingers. Rose winced, a cry escaping from parted lips as she caressed her reddening hand with the other. Her eyes darted to Oliver’s cheek, watching as a red handprint formed there. The werewolf jolted to life. A snarl erupted from Oliver’s lips, as the beast within him threatened to transition.

  “Get up,” Rose hissed. She hoped Gavin would stall, not wanting the evening’s events to proceed faster than necessary. She knew Gavin well enough to know that her plan would not work if he knew Oliver was impaired. He’d hold back. Rose needed Palmer to think that he had succeeded in breaking Gavin. She needed him to think that he had succeeded in whatever he was planning with these two. Oliver squinted his yellowing, beastly eyes in her direction, fanning a snarl. “Fucking bit-,” he muttered, cutting off the last word before pushing to his wobbly legs. Good boy, Rose thought.

  “Hey now! I’m still a lady, you overgrown man child.” Rose gritted her teeth, biting back the words she desperately wanted to say. She needed him to fight and lose. Palmer needed the rug pulled out from under him, but she wanted to do it as gracefully as possible. Why he wanted to destroy this nightwalker was beyond her. All Rose knew was that the slimy son of a bitch wanted blood and she needed to find out within that hate where her sister lay.

  4

  Gavin

  Gavin felt the beast rumbling within, begging to be released as he stood in his six by six holding cell, shirtless and waiting for his name to be called. His clothes sat in a neatly discarded pile on the floor, a shame really for such expensive fibers to sit in. The smell of blood, sweat, and piss drenched the air, choking Gavin’s vampire senses, silencing his Ripper demon. A demon that relished in destruction, death and blood lust. Oftentimes, born from tragedy itself. That was the case for Gavin when he was forced to fight against the human rebellion.

  * * *

  Cool rain ran down Gavin’s face as he scanned the woods surrounding him. The midnight sky was crying in protest to the betrayal brought down upon Elirion. For five hundred years, the vampires had ruled, placing themselves on a pedestal. They treated the humans like garbage. On Hallows Eve, the rebellion struck back against the capitol of Tatum. Blood painted the streets and stained the soil from one end of the realm to the next and Gavin’s regiment was tasked with mopping it up.

  A creak.

  A snap meant that an enemy was close by. And though Gavin knew that the Forest of Knowing took pleasure in taunting his kind, he also knew he could never be too careful. Ghosts came in all different forms. Gavin’s heart thudded wildly in his chest. His ears twitched at the snap of a branch. As the prince turned, a silver-tipped arrow whistled past his right ear, sinking feathers deep, into the bark of a nearby tree. His hand bolted to the hilt of his sword as he searched the trees for his assailant. A silver-tipped arrow to the heart would end him, permanently. Death, true and immediate, was in the vicinity, especially if the enemy had silver weapons. Every fiber of Gavin’s body stood on end.

  “Come out and fight me, you bastard!” he howled into the night. But only rain answered, running down his face, soaking him to the bone. He sucked in a breath, sending out a prayer to whatever goddess would listen and pulled his blade from its resting place.

  Shadows flit above in between the branches, catching in the corner of his eye. Screams ricocheted through the trees as friend and foe dropped, and death enveloped his troops.

  The hair on Gavin’s neck rose. A shuffle to his left had him turning and steel against steel rang through the night. A two against one attack. Gavin’s feet danced against the scarlet earth, dodging and deflecting blows. Arrows whizzed through the branches, landing in the sodden ground around him. His second assailant was a poor shot, something he was thankful for.

  “Fuck,” he hissed, as his first attacker lunged the tip of his blade toward Gavin’s ribs, marring his skin.

  “Serves you right, fanger,” a male voice broke from the tree. Gavin’s eyes flicked to the branches.

  A mistake.

  His attacker lunged again, driving his weapon home in Gavin’s gut. Pain seared through the prince, doubling him over. Hot, sticky blood poured from the wound, drenching his tunic. Stars swam in the vampire’s eyes and a chill set about his bones—a shivering embrace as death neared, calling him home to her side. He breathed in a ragged breath, wincing as the pain turned to numbing blindness and then something dark took hold of him. Gavin suspected what it was but had no way of stopping the killer that laid dormant within.

  His lips curled into a sinister grin as he gripped at the blade and thrust it deeper into himself. His attacker lurched forward, fear etched in his eyes.

  “You thought you could bring me down?” Gavin sneered, slicing his palms open. “You thought you were burning down the Sinclair empire? You’re nothing and you’ll die as nothing.” Fangs bared, Gavin hurled forward and tore the man’s throat from his neck, awakening the darkness within.

  Survival.

  It was all about survival.

  Strength flooded his broken body, bringing with it a blood lust so insatiable Gavin feared he would never overc
ome it. Flesh still wedged between his teeth, Gavin felt sick, guilt plummeting to his stomach in droves. But the Ripper born in that moment was not done. It needed more.

  Wrenching the sword from his abdomen, Gavin’s eyes flashed red in the moonlight. Turning eerily slowly to face his second attacker who was frozen in shock, Gavin’s face pulled into a feral snarl of its own accord.

  “You’ve created a Prince of Blood.”

  Blood sprayed the trees behind the assailant, forever marking them as the birthplace of the Sinclair Coven’s greatest tragedy.

  * * *

  Gavin winced, the memory of his first kill flooding through him. How harsh he had been during that time, the day his Ripper was born. But the humans deserved better. They’d been right to revolt. And every day since, Gavin had been buying their freedom. But blood didn’t wash easily from his hands. He’d killed and he’d do it again before the day’s end.

  Chants from the pit echoed through the tunnel as Palmer riled the crowd above. Gavin sighed, tearing his discarded shirt into strips before tossing the rest of it into a heap on the dirty ground. Quietly, he used the shreds of fabric to wrap his wrists and began preparing for what felt like the beginning of the end. And maybe it was.

  He knew Ollie, his every swing, every jab, and every dodge. He’d trained with the wolf, learning and sparring to hone his reflexes, which made this fight one for the books. On the other hand, Oliver didn’t know his strategies, didn’t know his dirty little tricks and secrets. Although Gavin wished he’d spent his time bedding a woman or drinking her blood, he’d known that the sleepy stupor would give his opponent an edge.