Taming the Vampire: Over 25 All New Paranormal Alpha Male Tales of Contemporary, Military, Shifters, Billionaires, Werewolves, Magic, Fae, Witches, Dragons, Demons & More

by Mandy M. Roth

  She was here.

  Damn.

  No.

  It either was Lyla, or… No. There was no other explanation for it. Her scent was unmistakable: oranges wrapped with sweet honey and twilight, mixed with musk and delicious, unique female pheromones.

  Gunnar stepped back into the study and closed the door. His damned undead heart was pounding. It was no accident she was here, surely no accident that she’d come at the same time, in the same way Tonja usually did.

  Lucifer’s Mark—which extended from beneath his hair, down over the back of his neck, and over his shoulder blade—pulsed with warning and delight. It was thrilled at his internal angst, charged by the dark desire and need rushing through him.

  Gunnar resisted the urge to reach over his shoulder and brush at it, the physical sign of his wounded soul and the proof of his contract with Lucifer…as if such a simple action could wipe away his connection to the devil. Damn and blast it all.

  And what had happened to Tonja, anyway? Lyla must have arranged this somehow. For what reason, he had no idea. What the hell would prompt her to take her life into her hands again, coming here like this?

  But if he didn’t let on he knew she was here and not Tonja…well, he could treat this as if it was a normal evening. He could remain cloistered here in this room, as he did more often than not on Tuesday nights, and she’d never know he knew.

  And then he wouldn’t have to see her.

  He could hide away like the coward he was.

  No, it wasn’t precisely cowardly, he told himself, yanking open the door of the liquor cabinet. It was intelligent and prudent—mostly for her sake.

  After all, the last time they were alone together, she’d nearly died.

  He’d nearly killed her.

  It had happened after the wrap party for Belarus Showdown, the last movie he’d made. The last movie he’d ever work on.

  Damn. His hands were shaky as he reached for a glass. A good dose of blood whiskey would help dull his senses—all of them. And it would help keep Lucifer’s Mark satisfied.

  He splashed the burgundy-colored whiskey into the glass and was just bringing it to his lips for a gulp when his study door was opened by an unseen person.

  But before he even looked over, he knew it was her. Not only was there no one else in the vast reaches of his seven-thousand-square-foot house—as was the case every Tuesday night—but…Lyla’s very presence overwhelmed him.

  Biting down in a vain effort to keep his fangs from extending, Gunnar looked up casually. But it cost him…oh, it cost him to keep his eyes from burning with their possessive, desirous glow, and to hold back any expression than one of mild curiosity. The Mark over his shoulder gave a sharp pang. As usual, he ignored it and slugged back the whiskey.

  After he swallowed the searing, cloying drink, he said, “Well. You’re not Tonja.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, Gunnar.”

  “Apology accepted. For the disappointment. I do have a weekly appointment for a reason, you know—and, quite frankly, I prefer to pick my own substitutes.” His voice sounded rusty and grating to his own ears.

  Lyla didn’t respond other than to come into the room, bringing with her everything he’d tried to forget for two years.

  He did glance at her—with what he hoped was an impassive, impersonal sweep of his eyes—and in doing so, burned a quick image onto his mind of sleek black leather and a snug white t-shirt. She had a roomy messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and he was pretty sure she was packing.

  Not that it mattered to him whether she had a gun in the back of her denim waistband. A bullet, unless it was wrapped in white feathers, wouldn’t damage him in the least.

  In deference to the fact that she was pretending to be Tonja, Lyla’s hair was red instead of her normal honey blond (had she dyed it just for tonight, or was it a wig, or was it a change unrelated, but nevertheless convenient, to her masquerade?), and, damn, but it was sexy as all hell: like lush, unruly bedhead. So were her full, bow-shaped lips. She still had ivory skin that made her look like a china doll, and though she wasn’t looking directly into his gaze, he knew her cornflower eyes with sun-tipped dark brown lashes hadn’t changed.

  Overall, she seemed no worse for wear since the last time he’d seen her. Gunnar suppressed a shudder that was underscored by a shiver of desire. She’d always done that to him—ever since the first time he’d seen her on set. Something about her had completely captured and enticed him, and nothing had changed.

  His fangs were at full thrust by now, but he kept them hidden and managed to stop his eyes from burning with the glow that could easily enthrall a woman to do whatever he wanted.

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here? Surely you aren’t crazy enough to be offering yourself as a substitute for Tonja.” Gunnar forced a note of derision into his tone.

  He sensed rather than saw the almost imperceptible jolt of her reaction—a silent, indrawn breath, the barest of recoils. Yes. That was good. Insult her, keep her off balance, and maybe she’d survive this.

  Maybe they’d both survive.

  “I’m here about Ren Tyroli.”

  Gunnar hid his own startled reaction behind hooded eyes and a relaxed pose. Tyroli? What the hell did she want with that bastard? “What about him?”

  “I need to find out where he is.” For the first time, her voice faltered. She was also doing an excellent job avoiding his eyes.

  “Why?”

  “He’s my husband.”

  Chapter 4

  When Even the Best Plans

  Are Flung Awry.

  Literally.

  Lyla had no idea why she’d told Gunnar she was married to Ren. Self-preservation? Pride? An attempt to wipe that crooked sneer off his face?

  It seemed to work, for his fingers tightened on the desk in front of him, and the eye glow that had threatened was quickly banked. She had to admit, she was a little surprised that it even mattered to him. Vampires, as a rule, weren’t terribly concerned with morality. Wasn’t that why they’d accepted Lucifer’s bargain and been turned undead and immortal in the first place?

  Unlike herself—who hadn’t had a choice in how she was born. And, yes, her morals—like most people’s—tended to slip along the grayscale most of the time anyway. Though she was normally far closer to white than to black.

  Except when it came to Gunnar Malkensen.

  He was looking at her with cold and empty gray orbs fringed with long, light lashes. “I see. Your husband. I had no idea you were married to that piece of roadkill.”

  Lyla choked back a snort at his choice of insult. Roadkill? Her descriptions of her husband were usually far worse than that. But that was between her and Ren…if he was even still alive.

  What Gunnar didn’t ask, but what he surely must want to know, was how long had they been married. Or, more specifically: had she been married two years ago, during that night she’d nearly died? During that night of passion that had turned so unexpectedly dangerous?

  Perhaps Lyla had best keep that information to herself for now.

  One thing was good: this little exchange between her and Gunnar had eased her nerves and helped distract her from the man himself. And she sure as hell needed distraction—for the minute she laid eyes on him again, Lyla’s knees had gone weak and she’d had to fight to steady her breath.

  Damn.

  How could a man who’d cloistered himself away for two years, who couldn’t go into the sunlight without wearing heavy UV stage makeup, who—by all accounts—interacted with no one except by email, text, or the very occasional phone call still look so incredibly powerful—not to mention mouthwatering? The first time she’d ever seen a picture of Gunnar Malkensen, Lyla’s immediate thought had been “David Beckham if he were on Vikings,” and her opinion hadn’t changed a bit.

  She was thankful he hadn’t done anything rash in his self-imposed exile, like shave his head—for the Dracule couldn’t grow their hair or nails, and it would h
ave been a damned waste to get rid of all that gorgeous blond hair.

  Tonight, instead of wearing it loose, he had it in a low, loose ponytail that rested at the base of his neck. He was clean-shaven as always, and his pecs and shoulder muscles bulged beneath a tight t-shirt of dusky gray-blue that seemed to have a silky sheen. He wore a braided leather bracelet around his left wrist, and she caught a hint of something glinting around his neck, tucked beneath the crew neck of his shirt.

  She swallowed again and felt the heat blazing through her body. The crystals embedded in her skin warmed, and she was certain their mellow glow was becoming stronger, just as her breathing became unsteady and her heart rate increased.

  That was enough of that. If he noticed, he’d know immediately that she was crazy about him.

  “I realize there’s no love lost between the two of you,” she began.

  “Stop it. Just stop, Lyla. I don’t want to talk about Ren, I don’t give a fuck about him, and I don’t want you here either.”

  She almost stepped back, the venom in his voice was so strong. But then something rippled between them, a sort of zinging energy, a sizzle, that caught her pulse and held it, betraying his anger. For a few breaths, she was frozen, her heartbeat captured and held by his stronger one, forced into the same rhythm…forced to become one with his.

  Thuh-thunk. Thuh-thunk. Thuh-thunk.

  Then, leveling her stare at him for the briefest of moments—just long enough to let him know she was capable of meeting his eyes then pulling away, of breaking the strength of his thrall—she stepped backward. Their gazes disconnected, and so did their heartbeats. She shivered deep inside.

  “The last time, there were extenuating factors,” she told him, setting her knapsack on the table. “That was why things went…the way they did.”

  “And so now you came back for more—to test things out again? To see how close you can come to dying this time?” He was bitter.

  “No,” Lyla replied as she opened her pack. “This time I came prepared. Because I need your help to find him—you know LA better than anyone that I can think of—and I thought you might be a little…reluctant to help me.”

  When she withdrew the small lead box, she felt him stiffen—really, it was his energy that did so, for she sensed it from across the room as if it rippled through the air like water. His attention fixated on a container the size of a paperback novel.

  “I’m assuming you can guess what’s inside.” She looked at him and was struck by the arrested, almost pained expression on his fine, chiseled face. Her hands hesitated over the top of the container.

  He didn’t reply, but his body tensed. Now his eyes held fury, rather than dismissal.

  Gunnar couldn’t see in the box, but obviously her suspicions were correct, for he drew in his breath softly when she lifted the lid. His expression remained like stone, but his eyes glowed more vibrantly now. Though he said or did nothing, it was clear he was enraged.

  Inside the box were two white feathers—only two, each one merely the length of her index finger. They were wrapped on the stem end with gold and blue thread, and suspended from a slender gold necklace such that, if she pulled it over her head, one feather would hang between her breasts, and the other between her shoulder blades.

  Those two feathers could do more damage to the magnificent Gunnar Malkensen than a bullet, a knife, or even a car crashing into him.

  And all she had to do was pull them out of the box.

  “How did you find out?” he asked. His voice was careful, slightly stilted. His body was very still.

  Each Dracule vampire had an Asthenia—an Achilles’ heel, a kryptonite, a personal weakness. Not silver or garlic or even running water—as was the case for the more common, half-demon vampires, the ones who descended from Judas Iscariot and were hunted by the Gardella Venators.

  No, the undead who’d descended from Count Dracula, Vlad Tepes, the ones who’d accepted the bargain offered by Lucifer, the ones who’d agreed to barter their soul in exchange for immortality—they were different. They carried with them the lethal weakness of an Asthenia as well as the rootlike Lucifer’s Mark over the back of his or her shoulder.

  For obvious reasons, the identity of one’s Asthenia was a closely guarded secret, and to share such information about another was the greatest betrayal of all, and tantamount to murder.

  “At least tell me that,” Gunnar said. His voice was low and soft, and filled with promise. “Who betrayed me?”

  “No one,” she replied steadily. “No one. It was me…I figured it out. From before. I swear it, Gunnar. And I’ve told no one.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said in a flat voice. “There’s no way you could have known.”

  “We were on set for Belarus Showdown—you probably didn’t even know I was an extra for that film—”

  “Yes I did.”

  She flicked a glance at him, but he was looking at the box. “Well, there was a day we were by the beach and a seagull flew by and a white feather fluttered to the ground after it. I saw you—I saw you change. Just barely, but I noticed it when it fluttered to the ground near you. It wafted there and—well, it was the way you didn’t look at it, but you made certain to avoid it, and you…changed. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. I…was watching you.” Ah, hell. Now she’d really told him more than he needed to know.

  He made a quiet noise that sounded like shock, but his gaze was hard and closed off.

  She’d lifted the necklace from the box and closed the lid. “I’m sorry to have to do this,” she told him as she drew it on over her head. The front feather wafted into place, settling white on white against her t-shirt, dangling just below her breasts. “But I have to find Ren as soon as possible. And you’re the only one who can help me. You used to know his hideaways—a long time ago.”

  “That’s right. Your husband. How could I forget.” He moved then, coming out from behind the desk. His long strides instantly ate up the distance between them, and all at once Lyla found herself nearly toe to toe with him.

  “As for this?” He reached up, slowly—she could see him fighting it in the way he moved, as if struggling against some unseen force, but winning, nevertheless—and pinched the gold chain between two fingers as if it were the tail of a dead rat. With a quick, sharp movement, he dragged it up and over her head and flung it out of the room with what was clearly great effort. “You’d need more than two measly feathers…to stop me from doing whatever I wanted.”

  Lyla stared up at him, hardly able to breathe. Her entire body was hot and shivery and expectant. “Like…what?” she whispered.

  “Like this,” he said, suddenly moving much more easily now as he slid his hand to cup the back of her head and pull her to him.

  Instead of the slice of fangs, which she’d half expected, Lyla was assaulted by his lips: hard and forceful as they covered hers. She gave a soft moan—oh yes!—and eased herself against him, opening her mouth beneath his to accept his thrusting, sweeping tongue in a hot, slick tangle. It took only that to catapult her back to the night two years earlier, filled with dark, intense passion and sensuality.

  He was everything she’d remembered: all hard planes, and powerful, dizzying aura, and a dark, rich scent. He tasted warm and spicy, like whiskey and man, and his hair was soft and wild against her face and when it tangled around her fingers.

  There was something behind her—the edge of a desk—and it cut into the back of her hips as he pressed against her, sliding one leg between her jeans-clad thighs and fairly bending her backward as he sampled her mouth, nibbled along her jaw, kissed and sucked deeply on the sensitive skin of her throat.

  She felt him trembling against her, the low-grade rumble of desire; felt it in the raging vibration of his body, the hard length of his cock behind the buttons of his jeans, and, suddenly, in the scrape of fangs sliding against her skin. She jolted a little, then, as his hand moved roughly to cover her breast, to find her nipple and thumb over i
ts sensitive tip. She arched into him and murmured, “Yes, Gunnar…taste me. Please.”

  He exhaled hot and hard beneath her ear, making a sound like negation, and she pulled him closer by his belt loops, lifting her hips and sliding herself along the thigh shoved between hers. “Oh Lord, please, Gunnar,” she whispered, her body hot and alive, the crystals in her skin burning and pulsing with every ragged breath. “Taste m— Oh.”

  The quick, smooth slide of fangs into the juncture of shoulder and neck took her by surprise, and caused a shock of pleasure that made her knees give out. He caught her as she sagged, holding her with one powerful arm as the blood burst from her veins in a small, orgasmic surge, and a rush of pleasure swamped her body in its wake.

  Gunnar tensed, drawing her lifeblood deeper and harder into his mouth, his hand closed over her breast as he gently fondled it and teased the sharp point of her nipple as she panted, shivering against him, damp and swollen everywhere.

  Oh yes, oh yes, she thought in a haze of eroticism and dark pleasure as her hands curled around his upper arms, filled with the bulge of biceps beneath the taut, shifting silk of his shirt. She gave a soft moan when he withdrew his fangs gently, then plunged once more into the top of her shoulder, drawing another surge of lifeblood, another explosion of pleasure.

  She was aware of that familiar, rising swell of heat, liquid and lush, and she gave a soft, desperate cry—wanting more, and more, and—

  Suddenly it stopped—it all stopped—and the next thing she knew she was cold, and alone, and she barely caught herself before she sagged to the ground.

  Gunnar was gone. Away—across the room, his back to her, his shoulders heaving, his long, rippling hair brushing his shoulder blades.

  “Get the necklace,” he snapped. “Now. Get…the goddamned necklace.”

  Chapter 5

  It Sucks to Have One’s

  Gentlemanly Intentions

  Questioned

  Gunnar gripped the edge of the bookshelf with two powerful hands, holding himself there. All he had to do was focus on keeping his fingers tight, on holding on as if for dear life. As long as he didn’t let go, it would be fine.