Blood Bond

by Shannon K. Butcher

  This new angle lit up all kinds of nerve endings that had never been awake before. Within seconds, she forgot all about his blood and let the new rise of need consume her.

  He moved faster, each stroke harder than the last.

  Justice gripped the beige carpet and held on tight. If she didn’t, she knew what was coming for her would send her spinning away, too far to ever reach.

  His presence flared in her mind. An instant later, he forced her to feel what he did—the feral need consuming him, the desire to give her pleasure.

  He reached around her body and took her clit between his fingers. Whatever he did there made her erupt again, only this time she knew it was coming. She welcomed it with open arms and let her orgasm wash over her.

  Ronan let out a harsh bellow. A hot flood of liquid spilled into her and somehow made her feel whole, connected. She was too swept away to understand why, but it hardly mattered. She was no longer in control, and for the first time in her life, she liked the feeling.

  ***

  The rising sun forced Ronan downstairs after a quick shower. Justice had the luxury of lingering under the spray as the first rays of dawn broke through the bare trees outside.

  She was still marveling over what he’d done to her, what he’d made her feel. Not only had he freed her from the fates, he’d made her feel things. She’d never known that kind of pleasure existed, but now that she did, she was going to wring more of it from him. Soon.

  She could hardly wait for the sun to set. She wanted to see him again, to touch him. She’d been so lonely for so long, she’d lost all hope that she’d ever have any kind of meaningful relationship with anyone. Her life had stretched out in front of her, bleak and empty, with only the relentless drive to obey and inanimate objects to keep her company. Any other ties she had were superficial at best, because there was always that constant fear that the fates would betray her and make her kill again.

  Until now.

  Ronan had freed her, not just from her compulsions, but also from a life of utter isolation. She could finally be with people, and the top of the list of those she wanted to be with was him. She didn’t care that he drank blood to survive, or that he was unconscious every day. She didn’t even care that his life was filled with danger. He was a good man—the only one who’d ever helped her, and at great personal risk to himself.

  Now that she had him in her life, she didn’t know what she’d do without him. She needed to tell him that and let him know just how much his gift meant to her.

  Already, she was trying to find a way to repay him, or at least find the words to express how lucky she felt to have him in her life.

  Justice had just finished drying off when the itch at the base of her skull began.

  All her happy excitement and hope for a future without loneliness shriveled to dust.

  She wasn’t free. Whatever Ronan had done had been temporary.

  She clutched the edge of the sink to steady herself against the weight of her disappointment. Her lungs refused to open up and let in her next breath, as if they too were too devastated to carry on.

  She wasn’t free. The fates still controlled her, which meant no one was safe around her. Especially Ronan.

  The itch progressed quickly to a slow burn, as if her tiny respite was somehow a punishable offense. Maybe it was. Maybe the fates were pissed that she’d found a way to reject their control, if only for a few minutes.

  She dressed in fresh clothes as fast as she could. The fates weren’t going to wait, and she feared that what Ronan had done would only make them angry.

  Whatever they had in store for her, it wasn’t going to be pleasant, and she didn’t want to be anywhere near him when it happened.

  It was far better to be alone than to carry the guilt of killing someone she cared about.

  Justice found a scrap of paper in a kitchen drawer. Her hand hovered over the page, searching for words that would hold him at bay without hurting him.

  She really didn’t want to hurt him.

  Finally, she settled on as few words as possible and scrawled a note. Then she stole his van and took off into the glaring light of day. As she drove away, she told herself that her tears were due to the bright light, rather than what she’d lost.

  How could she have lost something she never truly had?

  The secret is out!

  Shannon K. Butcher

  is now writing as

  Anna Argent

  For a list of books available now, visit: www.AnnaArgent.com

  Chapter Ten

  Ronan woke mid-morning to the certain knowledge that something was wrong. He’d had this feeling many times before, and every time he’d been right.

  Fatigue pulled at him, but not nearly as bad as it would have been without Justice’s blood running through his veins.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on what had woken him.

  Justice had left. He could feel her presence, but it was too far away—miles away.

  She’d left him, but why? Was she in danger? Is that what had pulled him from a deep sleep?

  He pushed himself to his feet on unsteady legs and went upstairs.

  As soon as he cleared the basement door, sunlight blasted him. There were blinds on the windows, but some light still flowed inside to pool on the floor in parallel lines.

  The glass in this house wasn’t warded as far as he knew. If that light touched his skin, he would never see her again. No way could he win a battle against Warden with the weakness of day plaguing him.

  “Justice?” he called out, even though he knew she wasn’t here.

  No one answered.

  Had she been taken? Surely, she wouldn’t have just left him without a word. Not after what they’d shared.

  Unless it meant nothing to her.

  Dark emotions roiled in his chest at the thought. He didn’t know what to call them, but he knew that he had suddenly become very dangerous.

  If someone had taken her, he was going to make them pay.

  Careful not to step in any of the glowing puddles of sunlight dotting the floors, Ronan searched the house for signs of a struggle. Not only was everything in order—except for the broken coffee table—his van was gone.

  He was trapped here until sunset.

  She’d left and taken his only means of transportation with her? What would drive her to do such a thing?

  He was so furious at her that he didn’t see her note until his second sweep of the house. He pulled the paper from beneath the magnet on the fridge and read it twice.

  I’m sorry I had to leave. It’s better this way. Good luck.

  What the fuck was that supposed to mean? And where had she gone? Had she left of her own free will? Had someone forced her to leave?

  Then the truth hit him.

  Ronan slumped into a kitchen chair, suddenly too weak to stand.

  He’d freed her from her compulsions and she’d left him. She’d used him.

  Anger suffused him. He wanted to lash out and smash his fists into walls, break glass and tear this house to the ground with his bare hands. He wanted to howl in betrayal.

  He’d given her what she wanted most and she’d walked away as soon as she got it. She hadn’t even written down her phone number so he could call and ask her why.

  Another flutter of wrongness swept through him, but this time he ignored it. Justice was no longer his problem. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to be.

  He made it as far as the basement when he realized he couldn’t let her suffer. Whatever trouble she was in, he had to help.

  That was who he was, what he did, no matter how much it sucked.

  He used his phone to find the only ally within a hundred miles and dialed.

  Morgan Valens answered immediately. “You’re up late.”

  “Are your car windows warded against the sun?”

  “She’s a truck, and yes, they are. Standard feature on all the new vehicles Joseph buys. Why do you ask?”

 
; “I need a ride.”

  “I’m on a job for Joseph.”

  “Is it a matter of life and death?”

  “I sure as hell hope not, ‘cause if it is, she’ll be the one to kill me, not the other way around. Heaven knows she’s tried hard enough with the last few men Joseph has sent to fetch her.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Serena.”

  “Ah.” Pieces clicked together in Ronan’s sluggish mind.

  Serena had been betrothed to Iain two centuries ago and locked inside a prison outside the normal flow of time. Everyone thought she was dead. When she’d finally been freed, Iain was with another woman, their bond permanent. Serena hadn’t taken it well. She’d fled Dabyr and had been out on her own for months, refusing all attempts by Joseph to bring her back into the safety of compound’s walls.

  Logan and Hope had healed more than one man who’d tried to force Serena to obey Joseph’s orders. Apparently, she had grown quite violent, even to her own kind.

  “I’ll help you,” Ronan said. “I’ll help you find Serena and bring her home. But I need you to help me first.”

  Morgan let out a heavy breath that was almost a sigh. “Sure. Okay. I’m one of the few people Joseph has let leave the compound, so your options are pretty slim. I’ll head your way now.”

  The feeling of foreboding racing through Ronan solidified into cold, hard fear. “Please hurry.”

  “I will.” Morgan hung up while Ronan prayed the Theronai wouldn’t be too late.

  ***

  Justice didn’t mind stealing from assholes with more trinkets than honor. She didn’t even mind stealing from emotionless organizations, like museums. But whenever the fates drove her to steal from those who had so little, she always felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe more than just a twinge.

  Before meeting Ronan, such trivial things as emotions had always slid off her, leaving her untouched. She didn’t feel much, and what she did feel was shallow and easily ignored.

  But since the night they’d met, when he’d taken her blood, she’d been altered. Irrevocably changed.

  Emotions plagued her constantly, even to the point of tears. What the hell was she supposed to do with tears? And how was guilt or loneliness going to help anyone?

  She had no idea, but when she let herself into the little stone house in a small town she’d never heard of, she knew that what she was about to do was going to cause her eyes to leak all over again.

  The woman who lived here was nearly deaf, judging from the volume on the TV. From Justice’s vantage point inside the back door leading to the kitchen, she could see into the living room where a white-haired woman sat hunched in a recliner. She had hearing aids in both ears, and a floral housecoat faded from decades of washings.

  Her gnarled hands rested in her lap, all knuckles, protruding blue veins and brown age spots. A cup of tea sat beside her, next to a half-finished crossword puzzle done in shaky handwriting.

  Thick woolen socks protected her feet from the cold. The drafts flowing through the old house were so strong the sheers on the windows moved with every gust of wind outside. Inside, the temperature wasn’t much higher, as if the woman couldn’t afford to keep her small house toasty.

  The carpet in here had been laid in the early seventies and had stayed here since. The vinyl floor in the tiny kitchen was scuffed and dull with age. There were no doors on the cabinets, and the open shelving revealed too many mismatched dishes and not enough groceries.

  Signs of poverty were everywhere, from the generic, store-brand labels on her canned goods, to the used plastic baggies washed and left to dry next to a cracked plate and chipped glass.

  Justice walked to the fridge and peered inside. There was even less food here than on the bare shelves—just a quart of milk, a few restaurant packets of ketchup and mustard, a half-dozen eggs, and a pickle jar with one lone, shriveled cucumber floating inside.

  The calendar on the fridge had a red circle around the first of the month with the label “check comes today.” After that were the various due dates of bills the woman had to pay, half of which were listed as overdue.

  The fates had sent Justice here to steal something from a woman who had nothing to spare. How the fuck could they do that?

  She didn’t have a lot of cash on her, but she took out most of it and tucked it under the eggs. She didn’t know if that would even come close to covering the cost of whatever she was here to steal, but if not, she had the woman’s address and would send her more.

  Sadly, paying the old lady did nothing to ease her guilt, because whatever she was about to take, if the woman had wanted to part with it for cash, she would have long ago.

  The commercial on the TV ended, and a talk show came back on. It was one of those trashy ones with angry guests and lots of curse words bleeped out. There was some young man saying that the baby couldn’t possibly be his, and an even younger woman convinced that he was the father. Apparently, they were going to find out the results of a paternity test, but not before a few more family and friends with opinions were brought out to express them in raised fists and more bleeps.

  Justice made a mental note to buy the old woman a cable subscription so she’d have more choices of entertainment.

  The fates were irritated with her diversion into the kitchen, and made their displeasure known in a spike of pain down her spine.

  She sent them a silent message that would have needed its own lengthy bleep, then moved in the direction she was ordered to go.

  A narrow stairway led up from one end of the kitchen. Justice followed her compulsion up the creaky stairs, wincing when the scream of the wood got too loud. She paused, waiting for the TV to be muted so the woman could listen for intruders, but the talk show droned on in a combination of shouts and beeps.

  There were two bedrooms up here. One was set up as a sewing room, but from the thickness of the dust coating everything, it hadn’t been used in a while. The second room was decorated in an explosion of pink roses, faded from the sun. The bed was meticulously made, with the pillows perfectly plumped. An embroidered pillow in the shape of a heart sat in the center, a treasured possession on open display.

  A small dresser sat opposite the bed, topped with an array of children’s photos in handmade frames and several porcelain nick knacks. Unlike the sewing room, everything in here was clean, tidy and dust-free.

  She had no idea why she was here. She knew she had to find something, but she had no clue what. Eventually, something would catch her eye and the fates would let her know she’d hit the mark, but until then, all she could do was search.

  She started with the small, low nightstand next to the bed. Atop it was an alarm clock set in a faceted glass cube, and a porcelain egg that, from the smell of it, had once held a bottle of expensive perfume. The single drawer held only a bible and a revolver, both well used.

  Grandma had slept alone for a long time, judging by the sag on only one side of the bed. If there ever had been a grandpa, he’d been gone so long his clothes had been put away. There was no sign of a man hanging from the single rod or stacked on an overburdened shoe rack. That was filled with high heels that hadn’t been worn in decades and purses so old their leather had cracked.

  The only other obvious place to hide something was the narrow dresser opposite the bed, so Justice went there next before she started ripping up floorboards and slashing through floral wallpaper.

  In the top drawer, next to a stack of voluminous, nylon underwear and overstretched bras, was a tray filled with costume jewelry, campaign pins for dead presidents, glass buttons, a couple of random bottle caps and something that lit up like Christmas as soon as Justice laid eyes on it.

  She picked up the metal object in an effort to figure out what it was but found herself stumped, nonetheless.

  A long, hexagonal shaft was connected to a swirling trio of loops on one end. On that was a bit of beaded chain, as if this object had once hung from a lamp. The chain was plated gold and
tarnished with age. The hexagonal piece was made from a matte silver metal and inscribed with the same intricate markings as the brooch and ring she’d found. The other end of the shaft was blunt and rough, as if it had been broken off. Just like the back of the brooch.

  She took the brooch from her pocket and held the new piece against it. The remnants of hot glue on the back obscured her view, but it seemed like the two rough edges might match.

  Of course, if she put those pieces together, the whole thing would look vaguely like a highly decorative, miniature umbrella, which made no sense at all.

  Still, the fates had fallen silent. The burning in her skull was gone, telling her she’d found what she’d come here to find.

  Justice untwisted the bit of wire holding the tarnished beaded chain in place and left that behind in the tray. The rest—the six-inch long hexagonal cylinder and its looping end were coming with her. She shoved them into her pocket and turned to leave.

  Standing in the bedroom doorway was Grandma in her faded housecoat and woolen socks. Her pale face was calm, resigned. In her gnarled hand was another revolver much like the one she kept in her bible drawer.

  The barrel wavered, but not because of nerves or indecision. The hard look in her cloudy eyes told Justice all she needed to know.

  If she so much as twitched, Grandma was going to pull the trigger.

  Chapter Eleven

  Justice had stared down the barrel of a gun three other times in her life, but never had she been as scared as she was now, on the business end of Grandma’s revolver. Then again, she’d never felt things as deeply as she did now, nor had she ever cared too much about the outcome.

  Pull the trigger. Don’t pull the trigger. It was all the same to her.

  She lived or died by the fates. There was no sense in getting upset if it was her time to go.

  Only now, she was upset. She didn’t want to die. It wasn’t that she feared the pain or what came after. No, the thing that made her tremble in terror was the idea that she’d never again see Ronan. She’d never feel his touch or see the way his eyes glowed whenever she offered him her blood. She’d never give her body to him so he could make her very nerves dance with pleasure. She’d never see him smile or hear his laugh.