Rose Bound: The Rose and King series Book 1

by J. J. Marshall

  Excitement coursed through the heiress as she took him in. She could feel the tension growing between their bodies when he leaned forward to inhale the scent of her neck, placing a quick kiss on her cheek.

  “I’ve waited so long to see you, darling.” His deep voice purred, rattling Dahlia to her core. Her feral instincts writhed within her, begging for release. She bit her full bottom lip, eyeing him longingly. Conan slowly brought his hand to her mouth, gently prying her lip from the vice of her teeth. He said, “Now, you know I want to do that.”

  That was all she could take. The animalistic need in his eyes swept her up into a stupor only he could give her. Conan trailed his index finger from her lips, along her jaw, making his way down her chest to hook her blouse. “This is in my way, milady.” His breath was molten fire on her otherwise cool skin.

  “Well, by all means tear the thing from me,” she pleaded. Conan’s breath hitched. Grabbing her shoulders, he roughly tore the fragile fabric, exposing her completely to him. Her nipples hardened as Conan leaned back appreciating his view. A coy smile played at the corners of Dahlia’s lips. She hadn’t only summoned him for business, but for pleasure as well. Something they had grown masterful at.

  Seconds later, Dahlia crashed her lips into his, unable to wait any longer. She pressed herself against his hard frame, running her hands up the front of his tunic. How she loved the plains of his body. The heat from his skin sunk into her, fueling her need and driving her wild with desire. This would surely be a destructive encounter for her office, but she didn’t care. The only thing in her mind was Conan. Conan with eyes the color of the sun at harvest. The same wolf that was scarred because of her, scars that told a story, one that she traced with her fingers every time she could touch him. She knew every mark on him, just as he knew hers. The only one that marred her marble body.

  Conan’s hands roamed her body, coming to rest on her thighs. Slouching over, he pulled her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. She greedily kissed him, running her own hands up into his hair. Knotting her right hand there, she guided him to her throat, exposing it for him to kiss. Placing her on the desk, Conan made his way to her breasts lavishing them with his tongue.

  A sound at the door snapped Dahlia’s eyes open. Palmer stood in her doorway, red-faced and wide-eyed. Dahlia smirked as Conan continued his relentless assault. Palmer trailed his eyes over her exposed form to land on the man between her legs. Soft moans escaped her lips despite the unwanted audience.

  Conan’s hand slipped from her thigh to her ankle sheath. Fingering a blade, he flung it backward, narrowly missing Palmer’s left ear to lodge into the wall. Without taking his attention from Dahlia, Conan said out of breath, “If you wish to keep your eyes, I suggest you take them off of what is mine.”

  Palmer quickly scuttled backward nearly smashing through the wall behind him. Dahlia laughed. “You know,” she purred, “I love it when you get possessive.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Heiress.” Conan lowered his head again, lining her abdomen with gentle nibbles that sent shivers down her spine as he lowered to his knees. She opened her thighs a bit wider, flashing a stunned Palmer a grin over her shoulder as her wolf descended. His tongue lapped at her sweet spot, sending bursts of ecstasy through the vampiress. A moan tore from her lips as she tangled her fingers in Conan’s dark mane.

  “Oh fuck,” she cried, another moan tore from her core. He felt so good. So goddessdamned good. Conan continued his assault with his tongue, bringing his mistress right to the edge. Dahlia leaned her head back, feeling her wolf dip in and out of her. She rocked into his mouth, her body begging for release and peeled an eye open. She flashed a grin over her shoulder to the shell-shocked ghoul that stood in the doorway and let out another moan. Conan stopped and rose from between her thighs, knotting his hands in her plum locks. His mouth crashed to hers with fervor, asking for more. And she would give him more. She needed him inside of her. She needed to feel his claim. Pulling from his kiss, Dahlia looked into Conan’s sunset eyes, seeing the love and need that matched her own.

  “Take off your pants,” she breathed, eyeing up the hardened bulge that strained against his trousers. Conan complied, unsheathing himself fully. His hands fumbled to hoist up her skirts before he closed the space between them, claiming Dahlia’s mouth once more with his own. Their kiss deepened and without hesitation, Conan squared his hips with Dahlia’s as she lowered herself onto him, rising and falling as he plunged into her completely.

  Sweat glistened the werewolf’s skin as Dahlia rode him closer to oblivion. His hands clasped her backside, holding her close to him, though she wasn’t sure there was any closer she could get. Conan quickened his pace and lowered his face into the crook of her neck. His breath was hot against her skin and claws threatened to break her milky flesh as a guttural moan roared through the wolf. The desk beneath Dahlia groaned, feigning to collapse beneath their weight, but neither of them paid it any mind, refusing to stop until a leg beneath them gave way. Instead, Dahlia tipped her head back, allowing her wolf to claim her and rose into pure bliss.

  Dahlia picked up the remnants of her torn clothing and tossed it to Conan. “You owe me silk,” she chided, inspecting her destroyed blouse. “And not that cheap garb from the other end of the realm. Tatum silk, the highest quality.”

  “Anything you desire, my sweet,” Conan replied; a lazy grin spread across his lips. His eyes drooped, watching Dahlia as she dressed. His satisfied expression was payment enough, for the moment. Pulling the wolf’s tunic from the floor, Dahlia’s lips pulled into a frown as she inspected the cheap thread.

  “We really have to dress you better,” she muttered before pulling the rough fabric over her head.

  “You want to dress me?”

  “More like undress. But I want you to be dressed well while I tear your clothing off,” she replied, perching on the corner of her wrecked desk. Conan watched her. A primal, protective, gleam shone in his eye, one that she used to hate. Dahlia caught his stare, her lips perking up into a smirk. There was a time she used to think he assumed her weak, in need of protection, despite her vampiric nature, but now she understood it was not only for her, but for him as well. Protecting his heart’s investment—in her.

  “My wolf,” she crooned. “My love, I need something from you.”

  “You mean more than what I just gave you?” Conan winked at her before breaking eye contact to button his trousers.

  “Yes, my love. I need you to kill—a wolf,” Dahlia said matter-of-factly.

  “And what pray tell, did my kin do to dissatisfy you, m’lady?” Conan’s face fell only slightly, his brows furrowed, wrinkling a crease in his otherwise smooth forehead.

  “He’s in my way.” Dahlia pouted, as if she needed a reason for him to do as she asked. She knew pouting was childish, but Dahlia also knew that Conan couldn’t resist her requests. This would drive it home. Oliver Dawson was the closest thing to a weakness the Prince of Blood had, and she would exploit it. “He’s Sinclair’s puppy and I need him put down.”

  “Ah.” Conan pursed his lips. “So suicide missions are on my resume now, are they?”

  “I know you’re more than capable.”

  “You’re asking more than you think. My love, what is my last name?” Conan asked, changing the subject. Dahlia thought for a moment, rapping her fingernail on the wood. What was his last name? Why the damn hell did it matter?

  “And just what does that have to do with anything?” Dahlia snapped.

  “Just humor me,” Conan said. Had she ever learned it? Ever bothered? Her forehead creased as she sifted through her memories. He must have told her at some point, right?

  “Dawson,” Conan said, taking her silence as an answer. “My last name is Dawson. And what you’re asking is for me to kill my brother.” A chill ran down the heiress’s spine. She hadn’t anticipated her meeting to take such an unexpected turn.

  “I see,” she replied. Her heart hammered aga
inst her ribcage. Brothers.

  Brothers? Oh, goddess, how had she not put two and two together? She’d seen Oliver countless times in the Underground, had even bet on him. And here before her, holding her heart in the palm of his hand, was his brother! Dahlia released a sigh. Her mind was whirling, trying to comprehend everything.

  “Despite your familial ties, can you do as I’ve requested?” she asked. She knew it was a long shot. A dead request if there ever was one. Hell, if the roles were reversed and he was requesting this of her, would she be able to kill Rose? No, probably not.

  Conan’s eyes dropped to the floor and Dahlia knew that he didn’t want to answer her. This hesitation, however, was something she knew well. A dark swirl of emotion fluttered in her gut. It was almost enough to make her nauseous.

  His eyes lifted back to her and he said, “Command it and it shall be so, Heiress.” There was a sadness that hung on his features, in his voice; a chill to his demeanor and a bite to his words. Dahlia bit at her lip and hated herself for what came next.

  “Do it,” she snarled. She had just signed Oliver Dawson’s death warrant.

  Palmer

  A deep-seated hatred reverberated through Palmer’s pudgy frame. Shaking with fury and jealousy, he scuttled down the dark stony hall as quickly as he could. He knew Dahlia had taunted him on purpose, enjoying the look of embarrassment it brought him.

  These past few weeks with the disgruntled vampiress had been hell for the Ghoul Boss. He would much rather deal with the undead than a pampered, spoiled daughter of an aristocrat. But alas, here he was, neck deep in coven bullshit. Palmer admitted only to himself that he lusted after Dahlia Coston. Fantasies flitted through his mind, picturing himself as the one pleasuring her, imagining that it was his name she cried.

  A shadow swirled on the wall in front of him, pulling him from his sordid thoughts. Walking closer, the shadow darted down the hall, bouncing back and forth for him to follow. “I’m coming, dammit. My legs are short, you impatient bastard.” Waddling on after the elusive creature, Palmer finally opened the door to a large cell. It smelled of filth and moldy decay.

  The shadow danced in the air before him, disappearing for a moment only to reappear in a burst of purple light. As the light dissipated, a ghoulish man stood naked before Palmer. The shadows never had bothered with clothes, why would they? Transformations into physical form were rare.

  “What news have you? Out with it.” Palmer waved his hand impatiently.

  “Yes, Boss. Jagger has been made aware of our presence. He has barricaded the castle to prevent our scouts from entering or leaving. We have recruits still inside.” Palmer’s eyebrows shot up as he continued to listen.

  “But we are still able to travel through wherever air can.” The ghoul glimmered in and out of focus. Physical projection was straining without a host to provide energy to the shadow.

  Palmer stroked his double chin, thoughtfully. “The Mistress will want to know about this immediately. How in fuck’s sake did he discover you?”

  “The child, Boss.”

  “The ramblings of a child caused a full-blown coven lockdown? You fools!” he seethed. “Jagger is seizing more power than we had anticipated. Fuck!” The ghoul before him flickered quickly now. “You’d better rectify this situation or there will be hell to pay! Kill the girl! I don’t give two flying fucks what happens! Fix it!” Palmer snarled.

  “Y-yes, Boss!” With a wave of his hand, the ghoul dissipated back into nothing, leaving Palmer fuming and alone.

  “Idiots!” he yelled into the empty room, throwing his fist into the wall. The wall remained unscathed by his anger. Palmer’s hand was a bloody mangled mess, but it relented to releasing his rage.

  “I hope you are not speaking of me?” Dahlia’s sultry voice sounded behind him. Palmer turned, shaking his bloodied knuckles, clutching them with his good hand. He faced a disheveled-looking mistress. Though her hair was tangled and lipstick smeared, she was still a goddess. Palmer’s lips pulled into a smile as his stomach twisted.

  “Of course not, m’lady! I trust your, erm, meeting went well?” he asked, his tone insinuating what they both already knew.

  Dahlia rolled her eyes, clucking her tongue on a fang. “So, what was it that had you yelling into nothing? Or do you enjoy the sound of your own voice?”

  “I-uh-a shadow appeared and gave a most disturbing report.”

  Dahlia’s jaw set. Her eyes slit, waiting for him to continue. Palmer opened his mouth to do just that, wanting to please his mistress, but just as he was about to speak, Conan appeared behind Dahlia. He smirked at the ghoul, enjoying the discomfort his presence brought. Conan wrapped his arms around Dahlia’s waist, nuzzling his lips to her neck. A riptide of anger washed over Palmer, making him wish it were his lips. He shifted away from the pair and narrowed his gaze on Conan. He’d make him pay. Oh, how he’d wish he’d never set foot in the Pits.

  “Perhaps, it would be best if we spoke in private,” Palmer said, trying to muster up the smooth, powerful voice his cronies were accustomed to. Dahlia waved off his request with a flick of her hand.

  “There’s no need. Say what you must before I have to go for,” she flashed a come-hither grin at Palmer, “another meeting.”

  Heat swept over the ghoul, coursing through his veins, peppering his cheeks and neck. He ground his teeth against one another.

  “The castle is under lockdown. Gavin has won the council over and the covens have taken provisions to ensure that the fall of Tatum does not happen.”

  “Is that so?” Dahlia mused, paying no mind to the kingpin as she ran her fingers through the wolf’s dark locks. “Well played, Sinclair. Well played.” Flicking her tongue out, Palmer watched as Dahlia licked Conan’s cheek before pulling away from his embrace. She whirled on her black heels and faced the wolf.

  “I want you to ready the packs. Gather the villagers and tell them that the Rebellion is coming to the castle’s front door.”

  “Do you still want me to—”

  “Kill Oliver Dawson? Yes.”

  “And how do you suppose we’ll breach the castle?” Conan asked. A valid point, but his mistress’s lips curled into a sneer as Palmer stood silent.

  “Shadows can always slip through the cracks,” she replied. “Lucky for us that Dia has been generous with her magic. We’ll walk right through the front door.”

  “And what should I do, m’lady?” Palmer asked, still cradling his bloodied hand.

  “Sit here and take care of my establishment. And for the goddess’ sake, you better not fuck this up.”

  22

  Gavin

  The castle was in full swing, every servant and coven member running about as orders were given to the council members. No one was to be let in or out. Not until the murderer was found. Gavin felt the pang in his gut, one that told him that he was onto something. Growing up in this goddessforsaken place, one would think a prince would get used to having people obey him, but that wasn’t the case for the Prince of Blood.

  Rounding the corner on the ground floor, Gavin swiftly ducked into an alcove just off the main foyer to evade yet another council member’s daughter. The questions, the worry etched into each of their immortally beautiful faces was enough to drive him mad. And with a murderer in their midst, Gavin had no time for their vying attention.

  “Hiding from another beautiful lass, are ya?” Ollie’s low drawl drew Gavin’s attention to the large entry doors.

  “Get in here and be quiet,” he hissed. “There’s no fucking escape from them! What do those old fuckers do, procreate every damn second of every day?” Gavin snarled as he ducked behind the door to hide from a Barclay heiress.

  “Doesn’t sound like a bad gig to me, mate.” Ollie winked “Besides, did you expect anything less from the covens?”

  “No, but goddessdamnit, they should keep a leash on their offspring!” Gavin looked at his best friend. Ollie looked at ease today, almost too much so. He was casually dressed in a sleev
eless white linen shirt and dark pants with his trademark leather boots and a smug gleam to his eye.

  “What’re you so damned happy about?” Gavin raised a brow, anticipating some sarcastic reply about being tied down to one woman forever.

  Instead Ollie replied, “Rose will make a great queen.” Gavin looked past his friend at the covens as they rounded everyone up. Voices quieted down as the past surged within Gavin’s mind.

  * * *

  “Shush, Gav!” Rose snapped from behind the double doors of the castle foyer. “Your songs will give us away!” Gavin grinned a toothy smile as he pulled her to his chest. She was soft against his body.

  “But you always love it when I sing for you,” he whispered. Wind rustled through the open windows, playing with her golden locks. A young Rose pushed her lips into his, stealing a kiss, stealing his breath yet again, before Lorelei Bloodworth rounded a corner.

  “What are you two doing?” she asked, eyeing up the pair. “We said no pair hiding and you two are breaking the rules!”

  “Some rules are meant to be broken, Lor,” Gavin replied. Lorelei crossed her arms and squinted. At sixteen, Gavin had his hands full with the coven’s daughters.

  “Well,” she huffed, “you two look like you’re up to something and I don’t like it!” Taking a step forward, Lorelei grabbed for Rose’s wrist, pulling her away from Gavin. “Come on, Rose,” she whined some more. “We have to get ready for a junior council meeting!”

  Rose turned, mouthing ‘I’m sorry’ to Gavin as she was pulled away, leaving a love-sick teenager in her wake.