“Ayal?”
She extended her hand, and her smile made her appear painfully young, that same Loki-esque contradiction.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to meet the other halfling.”
He gestured at an empty chair. What did a guy say to a five-thousand-year-old woman? “I’m sorry you were alone for so long.”
“Thank you.” She perched on the seat. “In truth, I only regretted it near the end. And now I am not alone anymore. In fact, I visited your brother Pedro at his new home.”
“Your home, you mean?”
“No, it belongs to him and Lucas now. It was time for me to leave.” She leaned close, scrutinizing him. “But I did notice a drawing was missing from my studio.”
Bel pulled it from his pocket, and laid it open on his desk.
“Have you guessed what it means yet?” She touched the edge closest to her with just the tips of her fingers.
He zeroed in on the vampire, chained to the humans. “I think it means that a bond is sometimes a prison.”
“Yes. And what else?”
“They made the wine to be free of it.”
“We made the wine so we had choices. Not to stay in our land. Not to take a bonded mate. Not to take partners in the intimacy of feeding. But still, almost always, vampires and Hunters alike chose their bonds.”
They wanted the choice, but still they chose each other. Could it really be so easy?
“Did she send you?”
“Pedro sent me.” Ayal handed him a business card before pushing back her chair. “I have an email address now. And I will leave you with one last thought: If I had been born bonded to a mate, I do not think I would have chosen to stay alone. Sometimes a bond is a prison, and sometimes, though it is imperfect, it is a blessing.”
He already knew which one Uta was.
Five minutes in the airport reminded him why he preferred flying by private jet, but both of his were in London, and if he sent for them, the whole crew would know where he was headed.
Thirty-six hours later, the last ferry of the night pulled into Rogač. A crisp breeze blew off the water, warning that winter approached. At this time of night, with only a few street lamps on the dock, Šolta appeared nearly unchanged from the days of his youth.
Her presence tugged at him. Shite. If she felt it too, it would ruin his surprise. He strengthened his internal barriers, cutting off the emotional wire.
The route to her house took shape in his mind as clearly as if he’d walked it last week. But of course, there were no taxis in sleepy little Rogač. A young man waited for the only other passenger on the boat, a young woman. When she reached the end of the dock, he lifted her off her feet into an embrace, and pushed her up against a car for a kiss. Bel should have turned away, wanted to, but all he could think was that the kid had wheels.
“I’ll pay you five hundred euros to drive me to the north end of the island.”
Dazed, the man slid the woman down his body and turned. “Are you crazy? That’s a ten minute drive.”
“Yes, but it’s a two hour walk, and I am exhausted.”
He took a step closer, peering at Bel in the dark. “Andre?”
“I’m his son, Lobel.”
“Oh.”
“So. About that ride?”
He glanced at his girl, who nodded. “Sure thing, but don’t bother with the cash. I’m happy to do you a favor.”
Ten minutes later, he pulled up to her house. Just as Andre had built Kaštel in California, she had rebuilt an exact replica of the one he’d visited so often as a boy. Graceful stone walls extended up two stories. Upstairs, only one light burned in all the wood-framed windows.
“Is my father staying here?” Bel asked the driver.
“I’m not sure. They’ve made a lot of progress on his place already.”
Something about that news buoyed Bel as he waved farewell to the friendly kid. His father was rebuilding, and the war was over.
He didn’t knock, but he treaded lightly on the stairs—their polished pine catching just enough moonlight to illuminate his path.
Yellow light seeped from a door hanging slightly ajar at the end of the hall. If he remembered correctly, that was a small room with a bathtub.
“Kos, is that you? I thought you all were staying in the big house tonight.”
His nerves thrummed, his blood buzzed, and his cock, which had been on an extended vacation since she’d left California, sprang to life.
Then she gasped, and warmth bloomed in his gut, radiating out into his limbs.
She knew it was him.
He needed to seize the final moments of surprise. He strode to the door and pushed it open, to find her exactly where he expected—submerged in an antique copper tub, her mass of auburn hair pinned into a messy knot with knitting needles. Candles lit the small room. Her red-painted toes curled around the faucet. Mounds of bubbles covered the surface of the water, but he didn’t need to see to know the perfect lines of her body under the suds. Even his eleven-year-old self had known, somehow.
He staggered backward, sliding down the wall to sit on his arse.
His hazy boyhood fantasy returned—the youthful imaginings of an inexperienced child who had nevertheless known her body from years of roughhousing, from walking behind her pert little arse all over the island.
Her hands came out of the bubbles to grip the side of the tub. “Bel?” she whispered.
But it was too late. The bathtub triggered another memory—of his mother. Poor, miserable Mila, who hadn’t really wanted to live for as long as Bel could remember. Dead, floating, blond hair spread across pink water. He’d never seen her like that, Kos had prevented him, but his imagination had concocted its own visuals nonetheless.
Oh hell. All his ghosts were in this steamy little room.
“Bel?” The water sloshed around her. Oh God, he would lose control if she stood up all wet and naked.
“Why did you let Gwen kill herself?”
“Oh.” Uta’s full lips parted.
That confirmed his worst fears. “Shite.”
She shook her head. “No, Bel, it was not like that. I froze. I started thinking about all the times I had failed, and how I had let her down, and what she had to live for, and…” She pressed her lips together and closed her almond-shaped eyes, then opened them to meet his stare. “I want to be alive. And I want to be with you.”
Something caused her voice to waver, and the relief her words promised taunted him, just out of reach. “But?”
“This is not a fairy tale. All I can tell you about is now. I cannot say you are all I will ever need and I cannot promise forever.” Tears sparkled in her eyelashes, but she laughed. “Not much of a bargain, am I? All my luggage, and no guarantee of a happily ever after.”
“Your baggage.” His face tightened into a smile, he couldn’t help it. “And I don’t want to be your reason for living. That’s just one more burden neither of us need.”
She nodded, her mouth set in a grave line.
He tilted his head to stare at the ceiling and didn’t look at her. “Will you try?”
She exhaled on a sigh. “With every ounce of strength I possess, I will fight to want to live, for your sake.”
Loud and clear, he heard what she wasn’t saying—she hadn’t fought before. “Why now?”
“Because I gave you a choice, and you have finally chosen me.” Her voice had gone low and husky.
This needing, this trying—it had to be enough.
She already knew it, but he wanted her to hear the words from his mouth. “Yes. I chose you.”
“Then I am yours.” And she stood up, the water pouring off her in one silken sheet—her sweet breasts, the flat plane of her belly, her long slender thighs, coming together in that vee of auburn curls.
He wobbled, finally getting to his feet and crossing to her in two strides. With the tip of his index finger, he tweaked her nipples, first one, then the other. “I choose th
ese.”
He trailed his hand down her to her core, dipping into her slit. “I choose this.” The slippery moisture of her desire covered his finger, slicker than mere bathwater. He sucked it into his mouth. Her ragged breaths echoed on the tiles of the small room. Or were those his?
She smiled, beauty herself.
Yes. The breaths were definitely his. “Maybe I never had a choice about wanting your body.”
A tiny crease appeared between her eyes. He smoothed it away and tapped her there. Behind her thick skull lay that lightning quick brain and a frontal lobe holding more personality that he’d have thought possible.
“But this, I choose of my own free will.”
She grabbed hold of his wrist and pressed his hand to her heart.
“Yes,” he said. “And this, I will love as long as you will let me.”
“Show me,” she whispered. Or were the words just a plea across their bond?
He unzipped his hoodie, yanked his shirt off, kicked off his boots.
When he reached for his fly, she covered his hands. “Let me.”
Before he could agree, she knelt before him, undoing his jeans and sliding them down his legs. She reached for his erection, and the power that arced between them sent him staggering backward.
“Sheep teats. I am sorry, Bel. I swear, I do not mean to push you.”
He chuckled. “I know.”
One day, they would get past this awkwardness, but for the moment, he actually enjoyed it—the adorable push and pull of her demands and retreats, her vulnerable need and her shy remorse.
“It scared me at first, Uta. But I would be a fool not to be honored by your desire.”
She flashed him a fangy smile. “Still, I can be very agreeable. I will give you anything you ask for. I can suck—”
“Not now, Uta.”
“Bend me over the sink and take me—”
“No, Uta.”
She pouted. “Then what?”
“Then…you take me.” His pulse raced at a dangerous speed as he lowered himself onto a plush rug and lay back, resting his head in his palms. “I’m not afraid of you.” His words caught in his throat, rasping out as a whisper. Okay, he was a little afraid, but mostly in a good way.
The smile vanished from her face and a look of solemn reverence came over her. Water still beading on her from the tub, she knelt astride his hips and pressed her palms into his chest, capturing his erection flush against her hot pićka.
Where their bodies touched, blood throbbed, his and hers together drumming an incessant beat and demanding he taste her. He lifted his head to her breast, his cock rubbing friction between them.
She raised up and sheathed him in her glorious heat, driving all thoughts from his head. He became only sensation—her curves of her face, the taste of her skin, the feel of her on his body, up and down his cock, the scent of hyacinth cloaking them both.
She rode him, sweating and slipping over his body, driving him closer and closer to release. He stiffened, and she stilled—calming his need to spill.
“I love you, Bel, and I will fight to give you forever.”
She bent to his neck, preparing to feed with a lick. But he captured her hand. “I need to taste you too.”
Under half-lidded eyes, she smiled and sliced her wrist open on a fang. His mouthed closed over the slit, tasting the blissful salt of her blood, before she pierced his neck and took deep draws of his own. The effect of her bite seized him all at once—heightening every sense and melting him to the core. She rocked on him again, pressing her clit against his pelvic bone and grinding out her pleasure as she pulled on his vein. When she contracted around him, his orgasm roared through him, an explosion of pleasure in every cell.
And for the very first time in his life, he knew what it meant to be home.
Chapter 54
Four Years Later
ANDRE WIPED THE DUST from his sunglasses and slid them back onto his face. His eyes still had not acclimated to the bright light of day, even after these years of sun tolerance.
Just one more graft. He cut a sliver from the vine, a popular Croatian varietal the former owner of the vineyard had been producing with moderate success. But Andre had no interest in Plavac Mali.
From a pouch on his hip he pulled a bud—a rusty red knot of new growth cut from an ancient vineyard in eastern Turkey—and slid it into the cleft of raw plant flesh he had exposed. With clear plastic tape, he wrapped the splice together, leaving a gap for the bud to grow through.
There. He had finished his share.
He surveyed the hillside.
Pedro strode toward him, raising his hand in greeting. Kos came from the other direction, curling the brim of his baseball cap in his hand. They had done a good night’s work, all the way through the morning, even without Bel who insisted on spending his time in a small lab where he still worked to understand the mysterious mechanisms of blood bonds. But by this time of day he was surely lazing away in a shaded hammock, drinking bourbon; he always begged off the hard labor with the excuse that he was only human.
So the three vampires had worked alone to splice Ayal’s vines onto every knot of rootstock in the entire span of Andre’s new property.
Pedro mopped his sweaty forehead. “I hope she thrives here. The climate is warmer than on my mountain.”
“All we can do it wait and see.” Andre did not fret over things like this now that he had come home. There would be time to cross and graft over and over again until he grew another perfect wine. In the meantime, they had as much of Pedro’s wine as they could drink—good, rich stuff that gave even Andre a buzz.
He clapped his hands on both their shoulders as they ambled back to the house, enjoying Pedro’s company. He and Lucas’s frequent visits were not enough. Andre missed the days of everyone being under one another’s feet, the sounds of fucking, and arguing, and make-up sex from all corners of the Kaštel Estate. Funny that he now felt nostalgia for the place of his exile, though it only tugged at his heart and not his body.
At the edge of the vineyard, they passed onto Andre’s old estate. He’d begun to clear it, and prepare the earth for planting new vines.
Pedro knelt and let the soil fall through the sieve of his fingers. “How much land will it be all together?”
“About a third of what we had in California.”
“Papa!” Young Mirko sprinted down the row, a tiny blond figure on the hillside.
Kos wrapped his hands around his waist and raised him overhead. “Mirko, you know I don’t want you running so far from the house all alone.”
“But Kuma Zoey said she heard you just over the hill.”
Kos frowned at Andre. He just shrugged—Kos and Lena protected Mirko so much, so different from the way Mila and Andre had let Kos and Bel walk the length of Šolta four times in a day. But those had been idyllic times, and neither of the young boy’s parents were entirely settled into the new safety of their lives in this time of peace.
Andre ruffled Mirko’s hair. “Listen to your papa. Soon you will be big enough to explore on your own, and now you have your pick of friends to wander with you.”
The little boy’s face, nearly identical to Kos except for the hints of Lena’s fine mouth and jaw, grew solemn. “Yes, Deda. I just wanted to see Uncle Pedro.”
So earnest, so much desire to be good—he was Kos all over again, yet with parents whose bond would last. Andre’s chest grew tight with love for his family.
Kos hugged him before setting him down. “You are forgiven, son. Now run along and tell your mother we are returning.”
The little boy took off, gangly arms wide as he ran over the uneven earth.
“Wait, Mirko,” Andre called behind him. “Have the guests arrived?”
“Just a few,” he shouted into the air, his high sweet voice carrying on the breeze.
He walked with Kos a few steps toward the house before he realized Pedro did not follow. He stood stiff, his face perplexed.
“W
hat is it?” Andre asked.
Pedro’s dark brows pulled down over his golden eyes. “Maybe we should get one of those.”
Andre looked out at the sea for some yacht, but no boats spotted the turquoise-turning-blue Adriatic. What on earth did he want to acquire?
Kos laughed. “It’s a big decision. You might want to think it over. Besides, I don’t exactly see Lucas as Mr. Mom.”
Realization dawned on Andre, and he studied Pedro’s face, guessing at the spark that had lit up that surprising idea—to redeem Lucas’s past with a new, happy family.
“Son, there are all kinds of families.”
Pedro met his eye and smiled. “Verdad.”
On the back lawn, watered by some desalination contraption of Bel’s devising, a table covered with a red-checked cloth held stacks of jars, arranged by Lena in careful lines. Lucas carried out a cask of Ayal’s wine and set it next to them before saluting Andre.
A band tuned their instruments on the brick patio. Bel had one hand wrapped around Uta’s waist, whispering in her ear and trying to shove a fiddle into her hand even as she pushed it away, laughing.
Andre’s chest grew even tighter as he gazed at the pair—an excellent, deserving match. One more good thing to come from his broken past.
Lena came out of the kitchen door with Mirko balanced on her hip. The boy was nearly too big to be carried around in that manner. Lucky for him, his mother possessed a vampire’s strength. Kos hugged them both, kissing Lena first on the cheek, then longer on the mouth.
Andre glanced away.
The music began, and all around him, old friends converged as if on cue, from the air, the fields, and around the side of the house, greeting one another. Ayal the halfling lifted Mirko high into the air, exclaiming how much he had grown. Even Petar Ferić and his sons had joined the party.
Zoey stepped into Andre’s side, tucking herself under his arm, where she belonged. He inhaled her sweet, familiar scent.
“I dreamed this,” she said, looking up at him with her wide smile.
“This?”
“Yes, or very nearly—with Uta and Lena, and the music, and all your old friends wandering out of the vineyards. You were there too, and you told me it was the Night Harvest.”
Blood Reunited Page 31
