Red Rooster (Sons of Rome Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  A whippoorwill called. A cool breeze lifted her hair. Under the smell of spilled gasoline and truck exhaust, it was almost peaceful.

  Lanny had always had the purposeful, bouncy walk of a boxer, and vampirism hadn’t changed that. She heard him coming, and tensed in anticipation.

  He stepped around in front of her with one smooth movement, so his moon-silvered face became her view.

  His hair had grown longer than he usually let it get, thick, loose curls on top that she wanted to twine her fingers through. One fat loop fell onto his forehead and stuck to the faint sheen of sweat there. He carried himself loose, painless, confident. There was something artfully rumpled about him now that she hadn’t seen before: not the glazed, bourbon-induced slouch of a late night, but a self-assured sprawl. A magnetism.

  She wanted to put her hands on him.

  “Are you freaking out?” he asked.

  “No.” His eyes seemed to shine, wide and hungry as a junkie’s. “Are you?”

  “I–” He shifted forward a half-step, and beneath the loose satisfaction lurked something that still wanted. Another step. Another. His body bowed, curving to make space for hers, face above hers now, and…oh. She got it, then.

  “Okay, awkward question. Does feeding get you all…” She made a gesture.

  He let out a breathy laugh and grinned, teeth flashing; she saw the sharp tips of his fangs. “Guess so.”

  Trina felt her pulse speed up, felt her palms tingle with anticipation. She was a grown woman, a homicide detective, and she told herself, firmly, that she wasn’t someone who got off on danger. She wasn’t drawn to bad boys.

  Then she reached up and fingered the curl of hair on Lanny’s forehead, threaded it back into the rest of his hair.

  The smile fell off his face and a sound very much like a low purr filled the space between them; she could hear it rumbling in his throat.

  “Probably be a bad idea to run right now,” he said, voice strained.

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  “Um. But, you can go, if you–”

  She pushed both hands through his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers.

  He hesitated a moment, stock still. But then she teased at his closed lips with her tongue, and he came alive. Shifted in close, pressed against her, and she felt the play and ripple of muscle under his clothes. His hands latched onto her waist, and his mouth opened against hers. A possessive kiss; wicked flex of his tongue.

  She expected him to taste of blood, but he didn’t. Only sweet red wine vinegar. Once she’d thought it, though, she couldn’t chase the thought away: he’d drank blood from a man’s throat.

  It hit her like she was learning it for the first time: Lanny was a vampire. She was kissing a vampire.

  She tightened her hands in his hair until he grunted against her mouth and lifted her off her feet.

  He carried her effortlessly, up over the curb and into the trees, their swaying, dappled shadows. He pushed her up against a gnarled trunk and broke away from her mouth, trailed his lips down the side of her throat. She felt the faint scrape of his teeth, and when sensation spilled through it, it wasn’t cold fear, but hot, reckless excitement.

  They’d circled one another awkwardly ever since his turning. She’d put off this moment, holding him at careful arm’s length, because she’d thought it would frighten her to let him in close, skin-to-skin, within striking distance. She’d thought it would be awkward, strange, and terrifying. But when he closed his mouth over her neck and sucked lightly at her pulse, liquid heat gathered low in her belly.

  She tipped her head back against the bark of the tree and opened her eyes to see flashes of starlight through the leaves. She couldn’t bite back the breathless sound that left her lips, electric with sensation.

  His hands moved over her, restless but gentle, up under her shirt, over the bare skin of her stomach and waist. He unfastened the button of her jeans, but only tipped his fingers into the waistband, shaking with restraint, but waiting for her.

  “Trina,” he said against her throat, lips skimming back up her jaw, searching for her mouth again.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, just before he kissed her.

  He didn’t stop.

  He hesitated, just one more endless second, lips still against hers, fingertips shivering against the sensitive skin just under her waistband. And then something in him snapped. She felt the break in the way he surged against her like a whip-crack; pushed her back hard against the tree; shoved his hands down inside her jeans and gripped her ass; hiked her up higher against the rough bark, and fastened his mouth to her throat.

  She panicked, for just a second, when she felt the damp heat of his mouth against her pulse. Felt the faint scrape of his fangs dragging across her jugular. He’d just done this, hadn’t he? Bitten a man and drained his blood.

  What was to keep him from…

  Why wouldn’t he…

  Did he even have any self-control…

  When he pulled back, she realized her heart was racing, breath coming in quick little bursts, but it no longer had anything to do with arousal.

  His eyes seemed to glow in the shadows, more reflective amber than their usual brown. “Trina.” His voice fell warm and honeyed against her face, and she felt her anxiety ebb in response. “I would never,” he said. Face pained. Sad. The face of a man who’d lost something important, rather than gained a whole new lease on life.

  She took a deep breath, chest aching for him. “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “…Yeah. I do.” And she did, she just…

  The next kiss was yet again different. He leaned in slow, and kissed her deep, and wet, and lush. Messy, his tongue hot in her mouth.

  “I would never hurt you,” he murmured against her lips.

  She pushed her hands through his short hair and held him to her; melted against him. She’d wanted this for so long, had wanted him, a constant urge, a grab in her belly and a tightness in her lungs that she’d never allowed to fully bloom for fear that the let-down would crush her. It was that, she realized, that still haunted her; her own self-control. He wouldn’t hurt her, she knew that. She wasn’t afraid of his fangs in her throat; she was afraid that somehow, now that she finally had what she’d always wanted, that she’d manage to screw it up, and that Lanny, strong and healthy again, would find someone else. Someone better.

  That was too painful to think about. She shoved it, and every other extraneous thought, firmly away.

  “Lanny, I need you.”

  “You got me,” he whispered back, like a promise.

  He put his arms around her and held her close while he turned and put his back to the tree. Sank down so he was sitting in the grass at its base, Trina on his lap, straddling his hips.

  He pressed gentle, sucking kisses to her jaw, and throat, and along her collarbones when he tugged her shirt to the side. Until heat gathered like a weight low in her belly, and she was rocking against him, teasing herself against the hard line of his erection through both their jeans.

  Getting her jeans and underwear off was awkward, her movements drugged and clumsy. Lanny tried to help, and chuckled when she accidently elbowed him in the face.

  “Oh, are you alright?”

  “Pretty sure I’ll live,” he said with a laugh, and pulled her in close, closer, his hands warm and heavy on her hips. “Hey, come here.”

  One hand slid in, along the join of hip and thigh, calluses on his fingertips sending goosebumps racing across her skin when he touched her inner thigh.

  She tried to kiss him again – and it turned to a gasp instead, lips hovering above his, when his hand went right there. Fingers teasing against her damp folds, teasing them apart.

  That had been the big surprise the first time – the only time – they did this. A part of her – a disappointed part – had always worried that Lanny would be the sort of guy who pawed at a woman down there. Clumsy, inexpert, just a lot of wild groping while he asked her how good it fel
t.

  Instead he was almost delicate. Exacting.

  He worked her with his fingers until she was riding them, chasing for more, panting. “Attagirl,” he murmured against her temple, and kissed her there.

  She shivered all the way down to her toes and reached with shaking, clumsy hands for his belt.

  He hissed when she wrapped her hand around his cock.

  “Hey, do you think vampires can get humans pregnant?” she asked.

  His voice was tight, strained, hips lifting as he sought friction. “Like…I don’t think? I dunno. Nik said it…shit…wasn’t likely.”

  She froze. “You asked him?”

  “Well, yeah!” Even in the shadows, she could see that his jaw was clenched, his gaze desperate.

  She had to bite back a sudden giggle.

  “You’re mean,” he protested.

  “I know.” She guided him to her entrance and sank down slow.

  She rode him, hands braced on his shoulders, denim of his opened jeans rough on the insides of her thighs. His hands skimmed, restless, across her ass, and hips; down her thighs, and then up under her shirt, over her waist. Small, almost-pained sounds built in his throat, little growls and grunts, and he lifted his hips, chasing her when she pulled off, back bowing when she slid back down.

  It wasn’t the rough, frantic fucking she’d expected when he first touched her in the shifting shadows, but something more real and imperfect. And because of that, it was better.

  For a little while, for a few minutes, they didn’t have to be cops, or crusaders, or humans or vampires. They could just be themselves; friends and lovers. A stolen moment.

  When he reeled her in for a kiss, and called her baby, she resolved to steal a whole lot more. All that she could.

  ~*~

  The others were still at the picnic table when they walked back, smoking. Nikita sent them an unreadable glance, and Jamie blushed a little, but no one commented on what they’d so obviously been doing.

  Trina blinked when she realized a pale-haired figure in velvet waited at the end of their table. “Val.”

  “Having a public tryst? How classy,” he said, dry and faintly amused.

  “How long’s he been here?” she asked Nikita.

  Val made an affronted noise. “I’m right here, you could ask me yourself.”

  “A few minutes,” Nikita said, shrugging. “He says it’s important.”

  “It is,” Val huffed. “It’s a trap.”

  “What’s a trap?” Trina asked.

  “It–” He flickered. Jumped and skipped like a TV with rabbit ears, and his voice cut out. His mouth moved, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. And then he froze. And then was gone.

  The warm, gooey, post-sex flush drained out of her in a heartbeat. “Val?”

  Jamie got up and swiped a hand through the space where his projection had stood. Nothing.

  “Val?”

  But he was gone.

  37

  The Ingraham Institute

  Subbasement Two

  Val returned to himself to the sound of growling. Two different kinds: wolf and vampire.

  He blinked off the last of his walk and sat up straight against the cell wall, the scene clearing as vision returned. The baroness stood with one small hand curled around one of the bars of his cell. Her husband stood in front of her, shoulders bunched, head dropped – protecting his throat – as he growled at…

  Vlad.

  Vlad looked as cold and impassive as ever, hands on his hips, staring at the snarling baron with a bored air.

  “Shit,” Val murmured, and all eyes came to him. “What’s happening?”

  Annabel looked completely unlike herself: white-faced, big-eyed, lips pressed together into a thin, pale line. Unspeaking.

  Fulk kept growling.

  Vlad said, “I came to see if you could be convinced to cooperate, and instead found you consorting with the enemy. As usual.”

  Vlad had known. How had he know? Val glanced at the baroness – her expression stricken – and wet his lips. “What in the world are you talking about?” he asked carefully.

  “Sometimes you talk to yourself when you dreamwalk,” Vlad said. “You used to as a boy. And you did it now: you were warning someone of a trap.”

  The bottom fell out of his stomach, and he tried hard to keep his face blank.

  I’m sorry, Annabel mouthed.

  Vlad said, “You and the wolf bitch–”

  Fulk snarled again, a rolling, barking, furious sound half-panic and half-murderous intent.

  “Have some respect for the Lady Strange,” Val said. His heart beat wildly; his skin seemed to shrink over his bones. His brother was known for many things, and leniency had never been among them.

  Vlad continued, unconcerned. “She’s a Familiar, and doesn’t know any better. But you, brother.” His gaze could have nicked steel.

  Val took a series of short, insufficient breaths. Lifted his chin high. “My lord and lady, don’t defend me, please.” Even though they weren’t; Fulk’s only worry was for his mate.

  “Leave us,” Vlad said.

  Fulk put an arm around his wife and hustled her out, still growling under his breath. Neither of them looked back.

  When they were alone – their breathing echoed off the stone around them, competing rhythms; one regular, one erratic – Vlad stepped forward, and pressed a flattened hand to the bars. “The problem with you, Radu” –

  Val didn’t correct him, only ground his teeth together.

  – “is that you never understood that actions have consequences. Even for princes.”

  Val lifted his hands so that his chains rattled. “I’m already a prisoner. Would you punish me further?”

  The first sign of emotion flickered in Vlad’s gaze, there and then gone again. He frowned. “I have never punished you, brother.”

  Val scoffed.

  “I have only ever done what was necessary for the good of my people, whether you liked it or not.”

  Val’s pulse reached a new crescendo, a rabbit-fast tattoo in his wrists, against the quelling silver of his cuffs. He lurched forward, and the chains made a snapping sound as they grew taut. “Liked it? Whether I liked it? You make it sound like I disagreed with your taste in castle construction,” he spat. “You abandoned me. You left me there with that – when he had–” He bit off the rest of the words with a physical effort that brought sweat prickling up along his hairline. Swallowed them down, choked on them. Endured the way they made his stomach cramp.

  “I knew where you were,” Vlad countered, emotionless. “You were safe.”

  “I was never safe.” His chest squeezed and his eyes burned and he didn’t want to remember. When he dragged air down into his lungs, his body flared with phantom aches, old remembered wounds and indignities. He panted. “Don’t pretend to think I should be loyal to your cause. You were never loyal to me. Your own flesh and blood.”

  “It was never about you.”

  “No,” he agreed, bitterly, “not for anyone.”

  Vlad turned his head, and gave a hand signal. Val hadn’t noticed there were human attendants lingering at the door, but they stepped into view now, carrying armfuls of things that Val didn’t want to look at, much less think about.

  “What are you doing?” He hated how his voice wavered, but he couldn’t control it. His hands shook and he curled them into fists to quiet them.

  Vlad sighed. “Hobbling you.”

  They opened the cell with its key, and Vlad stepped inside, a stun baton in one hand. The techs came in, trailing equipment, and Val shut his eyes.

  Mia, he thought, aching. He hadn’t gotten a chance to say goodbye.

  38

  Topeka, Kansas

  “But you cut grass,” Rooster said, stubbornly disbelieving.

  They’d stopped to refuel, at a small landing pad with attached maintenance shed, small barracks, and fuel station.

  Deshawn folded his arms and leaned against the
brick side of the shed, shaking his head, small, rueful smile on his lips. “On paper I do, yeah.”

  “But…you got out.”

  “I did. And then I got pulled into something else. Here.” He thrust a bottle of blue Gatorade into Rooster’s lax hand. “Drink that before you fall over.”

  Rooster made a face, but took a dutiful sip. He’d spotted a bench before, when he’d first put his back to the wall, and he sank down until it caught him now. His left knee flickered a moment, an echo of the pain that would eventually flare to life and cripple him if he didn’t get back to Red soon. If he didn’t–

  “Okay, start talking,” he said. He needed a distraction. A mission.

  “Alright,” Deshawn said, with a deep breath and the air of a man who’d practiced having this conversation. A few times. “So. It happened like this. After you up and took off, before I came home, Ash started digging into the Institute.”

  The idea terrified Rooster. Ashley didn’t let things go, as a general rule, and she could have been silenced for her meddling. “She shouldn’t,” he started, and Deshawn waved him to silence.

  “You gonna let me tell this, or not?”

  Rooster grumbled, but motioned for him to go on.

  “We talked about it on the phone every time we talked. It became her damn crusade: get the guys who tried to get you. And, well, her and Des, too. But. She went to the facility – the place in Queens – stood outside and tried to talk to the people who came out.”

  “Oh my God,” Rooster groaned.

  “I know, right? But she was on to something. By the time I got out, she had fifteen malpractice lawsuits all lined up. People who’d taken some kinda experimental drug from this place and had really, really bad reactions to it. Three were dead, and their families were suing on their behalf.”

  “Jesus. But–”

  “Oh, yeah, they’d all signed the waivers, but that didn’t stop Ash. And you know what? Turns out there weren’t any medical boards that had signed off on this trial. The whole thing was shady as shit. Ash knew it, and the Institute knew it. So when I got home, I started making some phone calls, seeing what I could learn about the place through military contacts. All the plaintiffs in her cases? Vets. That’s all the Institute works on: vets with medical discharges.”