Blood Vengeance (Blood Curse Series Book 7)

by Tessa Dawn

  Tiffany nodded. “I have.”

  “Well, that’s no accident,” Ramsey said. “While Napolean may have conceived of all four disciplines right from the start, his initial emphasis was straightforward: The house of Jaegar could reproduce at a far greater rate than we could, and in order to survive, we needed skilled Master Warriors, a lot of them, males who could fight better, stronger, faster, and with more efficiency than the Dark Ones. That took some serious training and time. It wasn’t until a few centuries ago, after we attained true stability and our numbers stabilized, that Napolean gave the nod to more than a handful of males to pursue the alternate disciplines. In other words, what you see now? It didn’t happen all at once. In fact, it took centuries to create the society you see today, but eventually, Napolean did it. And it’s worked ever since.” His eyes grew darker, more focused, and his upper lip drew back in a very subtle snarl. “For the longest time, we thought the Dark Ones were still scattered, living like animals in hidden caves and arroyos, but now we know better. They were right here… beneath us… all this time, and they developed their own advanced society, despite their degenerate ways.”

  Tiffany took a moment to let it all sink in, the history, the implications. When she was finally ready to push on, she chose to address a more personal subject: “And so your parents—they lived during a time of great turmoil and danger, before things were as established as they are today?”

  Ramsey nodded, seemingly impressed with her quick grasp of the account. “Exactly. The first few generations of vampires rarely survived the battles, the bloodlust, the Curse, or the vampire-hunting societies.” He shrugged, although it was not indifferent. “Kind of in the same way that early humans didn’t survive the plagues, childbirth, or territorial wars of expansion. It takes time and understanding, science and civilization, to learn and to evolve. Napolean is the only original male left from the time of the Blood Curse, and while my parents came a few generations later, Dark Moon Vale was not an established stronghold, a sanctuary for our kind, at the time. Like so many of the vampires who would now be over one or two thousand years old, they fell prey to the world we lived in, before we knew how to navigate it.”

  Tiffany closed her eyes and tried to gentle her racing heart.

  She had never given the history of the house of Jadon more than a cursory thought, and she was humbled by Napolean’s ingenuity as well as Ramsey’s retelling of the past. “I am sorry, Ramsey,” she said softly. “So sorry.”

  At the mention of his name, his eyes locked unerringly with hers, and then he nodded in acknowledgment. But he didn’t speak.

  “So, that’s why you serve the king so faithfully?”

  Ramsey declined his head in a hard, definitive nod. “That’s why we all revere him so deeply.”

  Tiffany understood. “And how did you come to be a sentinel?”

  Ramsey’s features relaxed as he digested the question. “We volunteered… a long time ago.”

  “You and your brothers?”

  “Yeah.”

  Okay, so he was getting a little more tight-lipped now. She held his gaze with unwavering determination. “What do you do? I mean, as sentinels?”

  He made a speculative gesture with his hand, as if to say, a little of this—a little of that. In other words, he evaded the question.

  She braced her elbows on the desk and leaned forward in persistence. “Ramsey, what do you do?”

  He looked away and frowned, and then he stood up from the chair with the silent grace of a jungle cat and nearly slinked across the room to her desk, where he bent over, placed both hands flat on the top panel, and stared directly into her eyes. “Very rarely, but on occasion, there are members of the house of Jadon who do not comply with the laws.” His expression hardened. “I mete out justice for Napolean.” He held her gaze without blinking. “And also rarely, but not unheard of, there are humans who do not respect the boundaries, not just leftover vampire-hunting societies, but criminal types, those who”—he seemed to be searching for just the right word—“those who take an interest in the casino or our other financial holdings, those who hear about the precious gems, the mines, and want a piece of our wealth for themselves. I make them go away.” He licked his lips apathetically. “You already know that I hunt Dark Ones and fight lycans, when they occasionally rear their ugly heads, but I also do the king’s bidding, whatever it may be, whether that’s an execution, barring the door to the sacrificial chamber after a male has failed to fulfill the terms of his Blood Moon, or seeing to it that a firstborn, dark twin does not get a chance to grow up because his parents are having second thoughts. I’m a mercenary, an enforcer, and a protector. I make sure that the house of Jadon survives.”

  Tiffany felt all at once nauseous, her stomach turning over in roiling waves. Dear gods, he was a killer, a straight-up killer. She had always known this on some level, but for some reason, his words had driven it home. She cupped her hand over her mouth to stifle any emotional outbursts, to try and hide her fear. She wanted to duck under the desk, run from the room, anything, just to get away from his fearsome presence. And she knew that it wasn’t fair.

  After all, Ramsey Olaru had shown her three very important things that afternoon: First, that he wasn’t some barbaric caveman who could only spit out one-syllable words. He was intelligent as hell, even eloquent, when he wanted to be, both articulate and organized. Second, that he was as loyal as the day was long, and despite the brutal nature of his work, he was driven by an internal code based on his own intrinsic idea of right and wrong. And last, that he had overcome great tragedy in his own life. He wasn’t impervious to what it meant to suffer.

  And all that had to count for something, didn’t it?

  Yet and still, Tiffany remained terrified.

  Why her?

  Why had the gods chosen her for this particular, petrifying male?

  She glanced up into his bottomless hazel eyes and struggled to hold his gaze. “And now you want me to be a part of that world, of your world, knowing what it’s about?”

  He shook his head slowly, the object in his mouth going still. “No, baby girl, never that. I don’t want you to share in the brutality or the ugliness. Never, ever that.”

  She frowned, confused. “Then what? What do you want from me?”

  He removed the toothpick from his mouth and leaned in so close that, for a moment, she actually thought he was going to kiss her—she prayed that he wouldn’t.

  She just wasn’t ready.

  Oh gods, was she ever not ready…

  “I want you to do for me what Napolean did for the house of Jadon,” he said evenly, his typical rasp, softened a bit.

  She held his searing gaze, and it felt like the air simply left her body. “And what’s that?” Her words were barely audible.

  “I want you to provide me with a sanctuary from all the madness.”

  Tiffany sat back in her chair and gulped. She had to create some distance between them. She had to get out of that room. “Ramsey, I… I—”

  “And in return”—he spoke over her, his voice as close to a whisper as it had ever been before—“I promise to give you the world, Tiffany Matthews. To insulate you from all the stress and uncertainty of life, to protect you from even the thought of disappointment.”

  She reeled in her seat.

  She pushed back against the floor with her toes until the stubborn chair rolled a couple feet away, and then she stood up abruptly, rounded the desk, and hightailed it out of the room.

  It was childish.

  Maybe even immature or beneath her, but she just couldn’t help it.

  Ramsey was right on her heels.

  He caught her by the arm, spun her around, and pulled her beneath his powerful frame, her much narrower shoulders folding effortlessly into his broad, all-encompassing chest.

  “Ramsey, please… ”

  “Shh,” he instructed. “Don’t run.” He kept his left arm at his side, even as his right arm slipped around her
middle, pulling her tighter into his chest, and then he nuzzled his chin in her hair. “Don’t think.” He kissed the top of her head. “Can you feel my heart beating, Miss Matthews?”

  She gulped again.

  “I do have one, you know,” he said in a satin voice. “And it is yours.” He lowered his head until his warm breath wafted over her earlobe. “I want you, Tiffany. And not just because the gods have decreed it. Not just because my life now depends upon it, but because of your rebellious spirit, because of your incredible eyes, because the entire universe lights up when you smile.” He pulled back a bit, giving her some room to breathe. “The first time I met you, I was working, making sure that the king’s Blood Moon went off without a hitch. I remember erasing your memories and sending you back on your way to San Francisco, but I didn’t have time to stop and enjoy the view. The first time I really saw you was several months later, at Napolean’s mansion. You were sitting on the sofa in the front room in a pair of killer stilettos. You had half a dozen toys wrapped up in your arms, a ballpoint pen tucked behind your ear, and your makeup was smeared along the corner of your left eye. And I said to myself, Holy shit, Ramsey; now that’s one fine-as-hell woman. If I hadn’t been bound by this Curse, and you hadn’t been the queen’s best friend, I would have been all kinds of all over you.” He chuckled deep in his throat. “Point is: I want you, Tiffany. And I always have.”

  Tiffany’s stomach did a tiny little flip, and she lifted her chin to gaze up at him—she couldn’t help it, and she couldn’t avoid it. She felt like a moth drawn to an infernal flame, and her heart literally fluttered in her chest. “I d-d-don’t even know what to say.”

  The corner of his lip turned up, and she flinched, still terrified that he was going to try and kiss her, that she was utterly incapable of stopping him.

  That maybe she didn’t want to.

  “Just answer one question.” He spoke with confidence. “And that’s all I’ll ask of you, for now.”

  She averted her eyes and nodded abruptly, hoping he would just say his piece and let her go. Gods help her, but she felt like a mouse shivering in the paws of a lion.

  “All the bullshit aside: Are you attracted to me, baby girl?”

  Tiffany nearly swooned, and she wasn’t the type to swoon. What kind of question was that? Any woman who had eyes, ears, or warm blood coursing through her veins couldn’t help but be attracted to Ramsey Olaru. On a scale from one to ten, with regard to physical perfection, he was a five hundred, a demi-god. “Yes,” she uttered.

  Why lie?

  He nearly groaned, and she felt his body instantly harden. But to his credit, he didn’t make any type of salacious move. “Then we’ll get there,” he said unemotionally. And with that, he slowly released her waist, held her gaze a moment longer than was reasonable, and sauntered out of the room.

  eight

  Tawni cowered in the corner of Salvatore’s lair, trying to tuck her body into a small insignificant ball. She wanted to become invisible.

  Hell, she wanted to become extinct.

  Her right hand was broken, each and every finger at each and every joint, and her body was still covered with ghastly snake bites, a result of spending the entire afternoon in the colony’s Chamber of Cobras with her new sadistic master. She shuddered at the thought of the horrifying chamber, where black smoke swirled around flaming candelabras, walls undulated like copulating men, and serpents slithered from the hollows of stony walls, before striking their helpless prey; and she tried to back even further into the corner.

  Salvatore rose from his kingly perch on the bed and sauntered in her direction, his massive, powerful hands plastered over his ears. “Would you please shut up!” He was either referring to her constant, low-pitched, keening wail or her heavy, desperate pants. She rotated back and forth between the two, trying to withstand the pain.

  He stopped about three feet in front of her, and she ducked to the side, covering her head. “Please,” she pleaded. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She was angry. She was desperate. She was at her wits’ end.

  He raised his hand, drew it back, and just held it there, allowing the threat to linger in the air. “I mean it, skank. Shut up.”

  She bit her lip so hard she drew blood, and then she simply kowtowed before him, trembling and waiting for the next bout of torture to come.

  When he didn’t strike, she peeked up at him through dirty, disheveled hair. “Please,” she whispered in desperation, “just convert me. Please. I’ve done everything you asked.”

  He scowled, his top lip matching the angle of his widow’s peak. “No.”

  “But why?” she pleaded.

  He licked his lips and retracted his hand, each gesture both confusing and terrifying her. “You know why,” he snarled. “You can still walk in the sun.”

  She nodded agreeably. “I know. I know. And I understand why that’s so important. I do. It’s just—”

  The blow caught her off guard this time, sending her front left tooth spiraling across the floor. She shrieked and curled into a ball, tucking her head into her lap.

  Salvatore watched the tooth roll across the marble floor, ricochet off a stalagmite, and finally come to a full stop, with measured indifference. He rolled his seedy, dark eyes, sauntered over to the tooth, and then bent to pick it up. Scowling, he released a dollop of venom from his incisors, coated the tooth in the viscous fluid, and tossed it at her feet. “Put that back in before you’re stuck like that.”

  Tawni snatched the tooth with her one good hand and tried to wedge it back into her gums. She sat there silently, waiting for the venom to take effect. Once the tooth attached, she sighed. And then she began to sob.

  She couldn’t help it.

  The pain was unbearable.

  The torture was never-ending.

  And the crazy-as-hell vampire was driving her to insanity.

  “Why don’t you just kill me?” she blurted.

  Remembering that he had left a dagger on the floor earlier, after carving his name into her thigh, she crawled the two or three feet necessary to retrieve it, grasped it awkwardly in her left hand, and placed the point of the blade directly against her carotid artery. “Convert me, or I’ll end this now.”

  Salvatore’s thin brows rose in amusement, and his cruel mouth curved up in a smile. “Oh, will you, little rabbit?” he hissed. He nicked his own throat with a fingernail and laughed. “Can you do it quickly? So quickly that I can’t stop you first?” He cocked his head to the side. “Or will you fail miserably and provoke my punishment?”

  Now this set Tawni off.

  By all that was dark and unholy, what did she have left to lose?

  “Provoke your punishment?” she mocked him, imitating his facial expression. “Provoke your punishment! Are you kidding me?” She forgot the condition of her broken hand and waved it wildly through the air, wincing from the sudden stab of pain. “All you do is punish me. All day. All night. Every second that I breathe. What the hell do I care if you try to punish me?” And then she did something that surprised even her—she drew the blade across her throat. As awkward as the angle was, she sliced her gullet from ear to ear and immediately began to gurgle. Her eyes bulged and her jaw shot open as she clutched at her throat and choked.

  Salvatore harrumphed. “Hmm. Well, I suppose that answers the question.” He strolled across the room once more and squatted in front of her, staring absently at the wound as sputtering pools of blood welled up from the gash and spilled onto the floor. And then he bent even lower, to taste the bright red substance, moaning in delight.

  Tawni shook like a leaf now, completely stunned by what was happening: So this was how she was going to die? How long does it take? she wondered, emitting ever more violent choking sounds.

  Salvatore sank back on his heels and continued to watch her. Obviously, he could not have cared less one way or the other. He placed his hand on his jaw and rubbed at the five o’clock shadow that had just started to sprout that morni
ng. “Well, let’s see,” he pondered. “I could heal you”—he reached forward and poked an extended pair of fingers directly into the wound, causing her to gag on the sharp, added obstruction, and frowned—“Or maybe not. That is a fairly nasty wound, and you are yet human.” He scrunched up his nose and shook his head in disgust. “I could convert you”—he pressed his forefinger to his lips as if really giving the idea a lot of thought—“but then, that would be a lot like giving a spoiled child her way, very poor parenting, very poor indeed.” He sat all the way down on his bottom, brought his knees up to his chest, and hooked his arms around his shins. “What should I do, Miss Duvall?”

  Tawni began to feel the room sway and tilt. The light was fading, and the pain? Well, it was beyond imagining, beyond enduring. It was otherworldly, and she prayed for death.

  Salvatore hissed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to come from far away. “You are really trying my patience this time, Tawni.” He extended his incisors to a grotesque-looking length, punctured his palm, and began to rapidly fill it with venom until it swelled up like a blowfish. And then he released a claw on the opposite hand, tore a long, deep gash in the swollen flesh, and shoved it against her throat, applying the substance like a poultice.