Bound Guardian Angel

by Donya Lynne

  “You’re like a newborn opening his eyes for the first time.” Cynthia’s fingers embraced his as she leaned into him and rested her temple against his shoulder.

  He towered over her, but she had enormous strength for a human. Not just physical strength, but mental fortitude. Without her courage and conviction, he wouldn’t be free right now. She’d been the one who allowed him to find Jacob and Haslet and kill them, thus freeing himself and all the others they’d held as slaves in one way or another.

  “Come on,” Cynthia said, “let’s go inside. It’s getting cold out here, and dinner’s almost ready.” She shivered against him as she gave his hand a light tug.

  Brak didn’t mind the cold. It made him feel alive. Not the way he had in that environmentally controlled basement he’d been kept in like a lab rat.

  Not the way Trace must have felt in that dungeon Brak had found him in a week ago.

  He let Cynthia lead him inside as his thoughts turned to his brother. Micah had told him Trace had been due to be released last night. Early this morning, to be exact. Before the sun came up. Which meant Trace was free now. Like him. They were both free.

  “Has Micah called?” he asked as Cynthia slid the glass door shut behind them.

  “No.”

  He sighed and lowered his gaze. Micah was supposed to contact him after he’d talked to Trace. Micah had thought it would be better if he broke the news Brak was in Chicago, simply because he hadn’t known the condition Trace would be in upon his release.

  Brak was eager to see his twin. To talk to him. Ask him where he’d been all this time? To tell him why he’d never searched for him. That he’d been taking care of their father then locked into servitude by the opportunists who’d altered the entire course of his life.

  From the brief glimpse Brak had gotten inside Trace’s head a week ago, he had seen the torment Trace had put himself through—both mentally and physically—over their mother’s death. That he blamed himself. That the guilt he carried burdened him as if he were carrying the weight of a hundred suns on his shoulders.

  “He needs to know it’s not his fault,” he said quietly.

  Cynthia turned off the stove. “Who? Trace?” She ladled his favorite soup—a combination of chicken, spinach, and artichokes stewed in a brothy cream—from a large stock pot into a bright-yellow bowl.

  He met her gaze and nodded as she turned and placed the bowl in front of him. “He blames himself for the death of our mother, and I need to let him know it wasn’t his fault.”

  Cynthia’s eyebrows turned up at the inside corners as she caressed his arm reassuringly. “I’m sure Micah will call soon.”

  He nodded again, as if he were convincing himself she was right, but until he saw Trace with his own eyes and heard his voice with his own ears, he wouldn’t be satisfied.

  Cynthia ladled up another serving of soup for herself, and then they ventured to the living room to eat while they watched a movie.

  Twenty minutes later, with their soup bowls abandoned on the coffee table, he settled into the oversized couch, his arm around Cynthia’s shoulders as she nestled against him. She’d always snuggled him during his recovery, so he didn’t think anything of the gesture.

  Tonight felt different, though.

  She was quieter than usual. Not just less talkative. Her energy was quieter, too. Yet it was also thicker. More electric. As if she were a storm like the one that hit this morning. Except she was still building. The buzz around her was tight, focused, spiraling toward some destination he could neither see nor predict, and it was affecting him, as well.

  A strange sensation thrummed through his veins. A charged current that wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but it wasn’t comforting, either. His nerves bristled as if reaching for something palpable that wasn’t there.

  He’d never felt anything like this before, and Cynthia seemed to be the source. Whatever this was, it was coming from her, wrapping around him, stirring his senses, bringing his body to life.

  “Brak?” The way she spoke his name, so soft, so husky . . . made him draw in a steadying breath.

  He blinked several times, his brow tightening as he looked away, trying to figure out what this sensation was. Why was his pulse racing? Why were his muscles tensing? Why did his flesh stir between his legs, tingling in such a provocative way, all from the way she’d lilted her voice when she said his name and caressed his chest as she snuggled a little closer?

  “Hm?” he acknowledged quietly, absently tilting his nose into her soft hair.

  Like him, Cynthia came from parents of different races. Her father was Caucasian while her mother was African American. Cynthia was the perfect blend of both. Fair, mocha skin. Dark-brown, silky soft hair with tight, wavy curls framing her face. Effervescent irises the color of cognac, with just a hint of amber and flecks of green around the edges.

  For all her beauty, Brak had never thought them more than friends. Two people burdened by the same fate, held prisoner by those without scruples.

  Cynthia had been born into servitude to Jacob and Haslet, taking over her mother’s duties to tend to him when she was eighteen, when her mother became too ill to do so. That had been almost five years ago, and in all that time, Brak had never considered Cynthia could be attracted to him.

  But now . . .

  Cynthia’s tentative palm slid over his chest. Then she slowly pulled away and turned to meet his gaze. “You’re free now.” Her long lashes fluttered as she shyly cast her eyes downward. “No one’s watching you, anymore. We’re finally alone. Just the two of us.” She nibbled her plump bottom lip, and her gaze darted to his again, searching his eyes. “We can be together now.” Her hand trailed boldly down his stomach, but her expression remained reserved. “If you want to.”

  Her fingers grazed the head of his swollen penis through his linen pants.

  He sucked in his breath, and every muscle in his body gently contracted as a sensation akin to pain but more like pleasure lit inside his blood. Even as his body reacted, he couldn’t speak. All he could do was stare at her, awed by how she’d changed so rapidly. Ten minutes ago, they’d been only friends. Now, his body seemed to be calling him to be more. To kiss her as the men in the movies kissed their women. To touch her and look upon her naked flesh as she looked upon his.

  He’d never lain with a woman, and the realization began to dawn on him that Cynthia was seducing him to do just that.

  She leaned in again, bringing her face to the crook of his neck as her palm caressed his hard penis more firmly. She sighed, and her breath warmed his skin. He closed his eyes, relishing the heated wash of air followed by the soft, supple touch of her lips under his ear.

  “Do you want us to be together?” she said, her voice hushed and breathy. Her body slid against the side of his as she bent one leg over his thighs and kissed his neck again.

  Tiny eruptions quaked under his skin, in his blood, over his nerve endings, sending fiery warmth down his spine to settle between his legs as he grew even harder. He became faintly aware that he was nodding.

  He’d never known he wanted this, but now that he was faced with the possibility of discovering all that went on between a male and a female, there was nothing he wanted more.

  “Yes.” His voice, normally so tranquil and benign, sounded foreign to his own ears. Even though he spoke softly, his voice was deep, gruff, full of a kind of desire he’d never experienced.

  A moment later, her entire body seemed to melt against his as a gentle, satisfied moan stirred in her throat. Her arm encircled his torso, and she pulled herself onto his lap as he sank more deeply into the cushions and gazed up at her.

  She pulled her fuzzy, baby-blue sweater over her head, revealing an expanse of pristine skin. A light-blue, satin bra covered her breasts, but only briefly, because she reached around, unfastened it, then tossed it onto the couch beside her sweater.

  Brak had never seen bared breasts before. At least not in person. Only in movies. But as with every
thing else he’d seen in pictures—the city, cars, thunderstorms—no image seen on a TV screen or online compared to the three-dimensional reality poised in front of him.

  Cynthia’s breasts were small but perky, tipped with light-brown nipples that tightened into pert nubs as he stared at them. But his amazement and utter awe were about so much more than what he could see with his eyes. He could feel her. Feel her warmth. And when he tentatively raised his hands to her breasts and let his fingertips slowly sweep around the supple swells of flesh, he absorbed her frenetic energy. It poured out of her, engulfing his senses, making him breathless and needy for more.

  Reaching down, she gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it up. He lifted his arms, and the fabric swished over his head.

  Then her mouth was on his chest, his neck, and her hands worked the fastenings of her jeans before untying the drawstring of his pants. A vortex of energy threatened to consume him as it wound more tightly, bunching, pulling them closer to one another. With feverish adeptness, she freed them both of their remaining clothes. And then there was nothing between them. No barrier to impede desire’s demands. Her thighs straddled his. Her lips sought his. Her heat engulfed him as she took him inside her.

  He’d never felt anything like this. The ache that demanded release. The painfully pleasurable way his body lifted, sang, searching. But searching for what?

  He knew the way of male vampires. How their bodies sought to link with a mate.

  Was Cynthia his mate? Had she been under his nose the whole time, and he hadn’t known? He’d been too young when Mother died and Father fell into a healing sleep to learn much beyond the basics of how things worked among his kind, but he knew of mated males and of male callings. And he knew enough to understand the rite of passage having sex with Cynthia granted him.

  But was having sex enough? Did this mean they were mated?

  Barely a minute into the act, his body seized. A moment later, he fell into convulsions. And then all he could do was hold on tight as pure, white-hot pleasure lanced his soul. His fangs punched out, and his gaze sharpened on the vein in her neck even as his body fell into uncontrollable shudders.

  “Feed from me,” she said on a gasp, fisting the hair on the back of his head and yanking him forward so that his mouth pressed against her skin.

  He could smell her blood. He could practically taste it, having fed from her before. But this was different. Hormones poured through her veins alongside her blood. Pure, unadulterated adrenaline. If desire had a scent, this would be it.

  Without hesitation, he sank his fangs into her flesh and drank in long, drunken pulls as his body fell into bliss again. Above him, Cynthia gasped then trembled, and he felt her inner muscles quiver against him as she found the same pleasure he’d found only moments before. The air was thick with it.

  An hour later, the scent of lust permeated every molecule inside the house as Cynthia rolled to her back on the bed and took Brak with her.

  Brak’s thirst for this newfound worldly pleasure was insatiable. He’d had a taste, and now he wanted more. But as his body released yet again, he wondered once more if Cynthia was his mate. This time, a voice in the back of his mind responded.

  No.

  There was no denying the truth. Cynthia was not his mate. He knew with the certainty of the rising sun that there was another meant for him. That another female existed somewhere, out there, in a place he’d yet to discover. And once he found her, what he was feeling now would pale in comparison to the craving, devotion, and pleasure his true mate would awaken in his heart.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the gift Cynthia was willing to give him now. That he didn’t appreciate her physical generosity. Knowing another awaited him elsewhere didn’t mean that what he felt with Cynthia wasn’t real. And it didn’t mean he didn’t love her. He did. He loved her very much. But loving wasn’t the same as mating, and he knew enough to know the difference.

  He only hoped Cynthia did, too.

  Chapter 9

  When Trace awoke nine hours later, he felt as loose as a slack rubber band.

  Last night had been unreal. He had never sunk so deeply into subspace. Micah truly was all he’d hoped for and more.

  Until now, submitting himself hadn’t been about pleasure so much as it had been about battling his crippling power. But under Micah’s firm hand, and steeped within his domination, Trace had found pleasure. Pure, genuine pleasure.

  He had come during scenes before. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time when a session hadn’t led him to orgasm, but always because the pain had allowed him to feel something other than the presence that otherwise invaded his mind and body twenty-four seven. Last night, there had been very little pain. Just the slow burn of hot wax on his skin. In combination with Micah’s presence, that had been enough to send him to a whole new place both mentally and physically.

  Micah was at once demanding and loving, stern yet compassionate. Everything he did and said held a duality. He was the kind of Dom you wanted to obey and please, not because he demanded it, but because he earned it. Trace had never felt such love and devotion from another master, and he grinned as he stretched and remembered the way Micah had tended to him after their session.

  Breathing hadn’t come so easily in a long time, and Trace just wanted to lie there and feel the oxygen fill his lungs with every breath. For ten minutes, that’s all he did as he luxuriated in Micah’s and Sam’s bed. Then his full bladder got the better of him, so he sat up, swung his feet around, and made his way to the bathroom.

  After tending to business, he stood over the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. He was where he needed to be. Where he wanted to be. He belonged here.

  But something was still missing. No . . . someone. Even though his relationship with Micah and Sam was damn near perfect, neither belonged to him. Neither was his mate. With them, he would always be the fifth wheel. The guy who tagged along but never had anyone of his own.

  Part of him wanted to believe that Micah and Sam were enough, but he knew deep down they weren’t. Until he found the one female put on this earth expressly for him, the void in his heart would remain. The void only his mate could fill.

  At least he no longer had to worry about the holes left by the deaths of his father and brother. They hadn’t died, after all. He’d found his father, and he’d felt Brak’s presence during his incarceration, which was proof enough that his twin lived. Shocking, yes, but true.

  A myriad of emotions stirred inside him. Excitement, happiness, relief, but also fear. Also regret, worry, and doubt. While he was happy to know they hadn’t died, an unsettled anxiety had latched onto him, and its grip tightened every day. Old memories had awakened. Old pain. Things he hadn’t thought about in a long time and didn’t want to, but which he could no longer avoid now that his dad and brother were back.

  He splashed water on his face to clear his mind then took a quick shower to wash away the cobwebs still lingering from last night’s trip down the rabbit hole.

  With a towel wrapped around his waist, he returned to the bedroom. A pair of black sweats and a light-grey T-shirt were folded on the dresser as if they had been set there for him, so he put them on and headed upstairs. He was famished and needed to raid the kitchen ASAFP.

  As he opened the door at the top of the stairs, he heard kitchen cabinets open and close. Good. Sam was already up. He couldn’t wait to see her, hug her, smell the lilac scent of her hair.

  “Hey, beautiful, what’s for breakfa—” He came to a dead stop as Cordray spun around, blue eyes wide, her black and bright-blue hair flowing in long, lustrous waves over her shoulders and down her back, all the way to her ass.

  As if frozen in a pose from a Halloween snow globe—because, really, could Cordray be associated with any other holiday than Halloween?—the two stared at each other. Then she sniffed dismissively and shoved her hair behind her ears as she turned away and bent to look inside another cabinet.

  Wow, um . .
. okay, he’d never really noticed her ass before, but those pink sweats hugged her in all the right—wait a second. Pink? On Cordray? He had never seen her wear anything but witch black.

  “Don’t just stand there waiting for an invitation,” she said, rifling through the cabinet.

  His eyebrows shot up. An invitation? To what? Smack her ass? Because he was having a hard time keeping himself from reaching out to see if that thing was as firm as it looked. Amazing what her usual leather attire hid that a layer of pink cotton put a spotlight on.

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “Are you going to help me find the coffee or what?”

  Oh. Oops. His mind had gone in a totally different direction than she’d intended.

  But at least she’d confirmed he wasn’t in another dimension where a nice Cordray who wore pastels and said please and thank you existed. She barked out her commands the way she always did. No please. No thank you. No good morning. No nicey-niceness. This was the real Cordray, not a figment of his imagination. If he painted her red and gave her a pitchfork, she would be the devil.

  Trace stayed rooted in place and crossed his arms. “What are you doing here?”

  Devil horns and bad manners aside, Cordray looked different. All girly and shit. He’d never seen her with her hair down, without her black leather, and without all that Gothic-style makeup she usually wore. But those wicked tattoos on her arms weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and for once he was able to admire them without all the peripheral bullshit to distract him. That was some crazy-cool ink right there.

  She sighed heavily, stood back up, and settled her fists on her hips. “I’m looking for coffee, jackass. I thought I’d just made that clear. Did you suddenly forget how to speak English since I last saw you? Now, are you going to help me or stand there like a paperweight for floors?”

  Maybe she looked different, but she still had the same smart-assed mouth. Score one for continuity and lack of progress.

  He refused to let her spoil his good mood. Micah had left him flying, and he would enjoy the sensation for as long as he could.