by Michele Hauf
She would own this man. This vampire.
"Gods," he said with a gasp. "That is…perfect. Your mouth… Jane!"
One of his hands clasped her breast and squeezed. His hips tilted forward, deepening his penetration into her mouth. She sucked him and cradled his tightened sac. His body shuddered. She sensed he was close to release.
"I…" He pulled his cock from her mouth, but she quickly grabbed the length and began to pump it as she licked the crown. "…am yours!"
Body trembling, he spilled over her lips and down her chin, wetting her breasts with his cum. He tasted salty and hot. Jane laughed as her mighty lover collapsed onto her and promised with a kiss to her neck that he was truly hers.
* * *
"I want to tell you something before you go out there." Jane stopped Marcello from his furious pace toward the door at the back of the palazzo. "Please?"
He swung around with a look she had never seen before on his face. Vengeance. And while she'd never felt more protected and loved by a man since meeting Marcello, she could not wish harm to another. Even if he had harmed her.
"After the duel, you must let Thatcher leave. You said you could control his thoughts?"
"I can make him never want to see you again."
"Then do that. But only that. I know you promised not to take his life, but…I'd also hate for him to be seriously wounded."
He gaped at her, which she'd expected. Surely the man was accustomed to some means of violence and couldn't understand her need to avoid it.
Of course, if she said what she'd next planned to say, she'd have to grow accustomed to such violence, as well. Could she do that? Did she want to?
If it meant she could live a long life with Marcello it did.
On the other hand, he'd given her no promise beyond that she could stay as long as she liked. He hadn't promised to love her forever or even to care for her. And marriage? That was probably out of the question for a man who was immortal.
But she'd thought about this. And…it felt right.
"Marcello, I want you to make me vampire."
"No."
"Why deny me a long and interesting life? Is it because you don't want me in your life for so long? We needn't—"
He stopped her with a kiss, holding her at the shoulders to keep her in his hard and demanding embrace. Jane submitted with ease. She would take whatever he deemed to give her. Because she loved him.
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, pulling away and yet staying so close she could feel his heat against her face. "You, who faint at the mere idea of violence. Jane, how could you manage to drink blood from an innocent?"
"I will learn. I want this, Marcello. I want a long life. I want, oh, so many things. I want to travel and learn new languages. I want to master the pianoforte, perhaps even polish my singing voice. But most of all, I want freedom."
"Do you feel that living with me, another man, would give you such freedom?"
"You're not like Thatcher. You respect me."
"I do. And I'll never tell you what to do or how to think. But as I've mentioned, I do require you in my bed. Often."
"Perhaps I require vampirism?"
He smirked and shook his head. "You need to give it more thought. Right now? I've the duel. We'll discuss your wishes later. Can you be good with that?"
She nodded, then clasped his hand. "Pull up your cloak hood. The sun is already winking on the horizon."
"I know." He pulled up the hood, which shadowed his face and made him a sort of dark lord looming over her. "Let's get this done."
Chapter 15
The alleyway Marcello and Carlo had chosen was blocked by three wagons loaded with hay and sheep manure. They'd been forced to choose another location. This alley was not covered, and it opened out to the canal. Jane had heard Marcello curse as they'd arrived at the new meeting spot. Rising sunlight flooded the end of the street near the canal. Yet before they could find another, more sheltered location, Thatcher had arrived.
She remained ten paces behind Marcello, according to his directions, and watched from the cool shadows as he approached her husband, who stood in sunlight just before the line of demarcation that was swiftly moving her way as the sun snuck through an adjoining alleyway and beamed across the cobblestones.
Carlo, Marcello's second, wore a black domino mask and gloves, but still managed to cling to the shadows. He carried a box, which must have the pistols in it.
Thatcher did have a second, but Jane didn't recognize the man. Where had he found him? And did he wear a baker's apron dusted with flour?
Clasping her hands together and glancing over a shoulder to Prudence, who stood alongside Adamo, she nodded to her, hoping to imbue some hope into the day. Everything would be all right. Marcello would not injure Thatcher. And Thatcher would catch the sun in his eyes and completely miss the target. For the first time ever.
She couldn't prevent the miserable groan that hummed in her throat. If the sun didn't get her lover, her husband's bullet would. And it would be all her fault for having involved Marcello in the first place!
She felt a faint coming on. Pacing, she gasped in breaths, seeking calm. She smoothed her hands down her bodice. She would stay calm. Her lover's life demanded that she stand strong and support him.
At Carlo's direction, the two duelists shook hands, which, due to Thatcher's position, occurred right at the line of demarcation. Jane noticed that Marcello tugged away from the clasp much quicker than the other man. He shoved his hand behind his back, and a wisp of smoke rose from his skin. Mercy, he really did burn in the sunlight!
Now, as he turned his back to Thatcher and held the pistol up near his face, he looked to her, but his face showed no emotion. Or rather a staunch determination marked his handsome profile.
Blessings, but he was so beautiful. And he was hers. And he was fighting to win her now. What had she done to deserve such a man? A prince?
"Vampire," she whispered.
It had been a spur of the moment thing to suggest that he change her, and perhaps he'd been wise to tell her to think it through some more. But she'd wanted to show him that she was willing to change for him.
Carlo started the count as the men marked off their steps. Marcello did not take his eyes from her. The connection grasped for her heart and held it firmly. He loved her. And she loved him so much.
The men stopped and turned. They would not take turns firing, but rather wait for the call and fire simultaneously. While dueling was not outlawed, they must be discreet and clear out of the area as quickly as possible after shots were fired in order to avoid detection.
A sudden swath of daylight cut across the cobblestones behind Marcello. Jane sucked in her breath. He didn't see the danger. But if she called out to him, then Thatcher would become suspicious.
Pray, he did not step backward.
Marcello stood with his right side facing Thatcher, as did Thatcher with Marcello. Best to keep their hearts away from the range of target. Yet Marcello lifted his pistol with his left hand and had to turn slightly to make aim. While the parson was right-handed, so he need not turn to fire.
"You asked for this, Jane!" Thatcher called. "You will be punished for your sins."
"You've no authority to punish a helpless woman," Marcello intercepted. "Only her God will see to that. Now stop your blathering and let's be done with this." He looked to his friend.
Carlo nodded and announced, "Fire!"
Marcello's pistol dispersed a spark and smoke. He took a step back. Sunlight beamed onto his face. He cried out as his entire left cheek instantly burned.
Yet for as shocking as that sight was to behold, Jane's attention diverted as Thatcher's aim pivoted. Toward her.
And in the next moment, she felt a fiery burn penetrate high on her chest.
Chapter 16
Hissing at the burn clawing at his skin, Marcello spun toward Jane and saw the crimson burst on her breast. What the— The bastard had shot her?
&nb
sp; Fingers clenching into fists, he growled and started toward Thatcher, who stood proudly holding the smoking gun. The man didn't show signs of pain from the wound on his thigh Marcello had delivered to him. It bled, but not overmuch. Due to Jane's plea for him to not harm the man, Marcello had specifically not aimed for his heart.
But Jane?
"You go to her! And get out of the sun!" Carlo shouted and shoved Marcello into the shadows. "I'll take care of the bastard."
"Don't let him get away. Bring him to me. I will have his heart!"
Wincing at the incredible burn that tore at his cheek, Marcello felt it creep down his jaw. Didn't matter. He was still alive. But how did Jane fare?
Lunging to the cobblestones before her, he pushed aside Prudence and his servant. His lover was still conscious, but her eyelids fluttered. Not her patented seductive flutter, though. Fuck, what had he wrought? Brilliant scarlet blossomed over her breast. Just above her heart. Could he pray the bullet had missed her vital organ? No matter, the wound could prove fatal if he did not—
If he did not what? Despite his centuries of life experience, he had no medical knowledge.
"Shall I fetch the surgeon?" Adamo asked.
Marcello nodded. "Yes. No!" He lifted Jane into his arms. "We can't risk waiting."
"But, signore, your face."
"It will heal." With blood.
Marcello's fangs tingled in his gums as he looked over Jane's bloodied chest. An idea occurred. And it could work. But he had to get to it immediately. "I'll take care of her."
"She's going to die!" Prudence wailed.
"You watch her and keep her calm," Marcello directed Adamo. "And report to me when Carlo returns with Jane's husband."
He raced down the alleyway toward his palazzo, using the angle of the shadows to his advantage. This morning as he'd marched down the street, his only fear had been of the sun. Why had he never suspected Thatcher Emery could be so vicious as to try to kill his own wife? That was a stupid oversight on his part. And now, Jane may die because of it.
He swung in through the servant's quarters, and up to the second floor. If he wanted to save Jane, he'd have to use the most extreme means available.
She had asked for vampirism earlier. She hadn't thought it through, as she'd tried to make him believe it was what she wanted. He'd heard the lack of surety in her voice then.
Now? He had little choice if he wanted to save her life. And to stop the burn from tearing away at his face. He felt the painful tug below his eye now. The burning would not cease until he got blood in his system.
"Jane, can you hear me?" he asked as he entered the room and kicked the door closed behind him.
He laid her on the bed, then lifted her shoulder. There was an exit wound on her back and blood dripped onto the counterpane. He needn't medical knowledge to know that was bad.
"Jane," he said on a gasp, emotion tightening his throat. "Jane, you can't die now. Not when I've just…" Found someone he could love. "I won't let you die. I need you."
Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. She was quickly fading.
Marcello tore away her dress front and sleeve to inspect the wound. So much blood spilled out—it must have hit her heart, or at the very least skimmed it. And it smelled…so good.
Fingers curling, he turned away his head as the scent filled his nostrils. His fangs lowered without volition. The creature in him wanted blood. The wounded vampire required a healing fix.
And the man—he wanted to keep Jane for himself.
He bowed his head, considering the implications of his actions. If he did nothing, she would die. If he bit her, and transformed her to vampire, she would live. But she'd then have to hunt the night to survive. And he still wasn't convinced she had the backbone for such a task.
"You'll learn," he said. "Or you can take only from me. I will keep you alive, Jane. Because I love you."
Bending to her neck, he lifted her under the shoulders, then sank his fangs into the thick, pulsing sweetness. Gods, she tasted so good, but he didn't want to revel in the lush taste when he must be quick about it. She needed to be brought to the brink of death. And she was already so close, so he wouldn't have to take much blood from her.
Drawing out her life was a bittersweet task. He also felt the skin on his face begin to tighten and knit as it healed. Yet he was not doing this for himself. The healing was a benefit to the wicked plan he’d been forced to invoke.
Soon, Jane's arm, when he lifted it, fell limply at her side. Her head sat heavily on his palm as he carefully set it on the pillow. So close to death, as was required to change into a vampire. Yet he could still feel her breath against his skin when he tested, and her chest rose and fell, slowly.
"Jane, I hope you can hear me. You'll need to drink my blood to change. It will save you. It will give you immortality. You'll have freedom. You can travel the world and master the pianoforte. I will become a part of you. We can share forever together. I beg you don't regret this rash decision."
Pressing his wrist against his mouth, he bit deeply into the vein and then held it over her lips. The blood pearled on her pale flesh and slid down her cheeks and into her hair.
"Drink, Jane." He opened her mouth, forcing in his blood. "Please?"
A knock on the door sounded, but he ignored it. He sensed it was Carlo, and his friend spoke soon after. "I've got the parson. He's detained but struggling. I'll watch over him for you."
Marcello mentally sent a thanks to his friend and then saw that Jane was swallowing. She reached up and pulled his wrist to her mouth and latched on.
"Good girl. Take as much as you desire. I am yours."
* * *
Ten minutes later, Jane rested peacefully. Marcello studied the bullet wound above her chest. It had closed up and was beginning to scar. A fast healing action that only vampires were subject to. It would take longer because she was so new. But it confirmed that indeed their blood exchange had been successful. She was now a vampire.
He kissed her forehead and smoothed aside her hair. Did it seem shinier now? Her sisters would have nothing on his plainly gorgeous Jane.
Covering her with a blanket, he knew she would need to rest now. So he hastened from the room and found Prudence, warning her not to get upset over all the blood. Her mistress was going to live.
Prudence clasped his hands with hers. "Your face is healed."
He'd forgotten about that.
"I know what you are. She told me," Prudence said. "Thank you for saving my mistress's life. Your friend waits below with the parson. Make sure that animal forgets Jane's name forever, will you?"
"I can do that."
Carlo waited below in the cellar, standing over a bound and gagged Thatcher Emery. The parson started to struggle when Marcello walked into the dark, cold room that smelled of cheese and casked wine.
"You are despicable. The lowest of the low," Marcello admonished as he paced before Thatcher. He gripped the parson by the hair and pulled his head up, meeting the parson’s ridiculously defiant gaze. "If you couldn't have her than no man would? Was that your plan?" He tugged the gag from the man's mouth.
"Yes, and now she will never be yours," Thatcher hissed, "because she is dead. Ha!"
About to correct the man, Marcello met Carlo's gaze. If he allowed Thatcher to believe that Jane was dead, that would solve the issue of the parson continuing to seek out his wife. And it would give Jane freedom. His friend nodded, to confirm that strategy.
"Are you proud that you've murdered your wife?" Marcello asked.
"Her punishment was just."
Marcello could not help himself. He fisted the man across the jaw, sending blood spattering across the hem of Carlo's coat. Carlo lifted the hem and gave him a pout.
Marcello smirked.
Then, gripping the parson's head and standing before him, he locked gazes with him and used persuasion to sink into his thoughts and change them forever. "You traveled to Venice in search of your wife. You did find
her. You murdered her in cold blood. But you won't bring her home for a proper funeral. You must go into hiding now, for fear of prosecution. Because you know I will hunt you to the ends of the earth for your crime. You, Thatcher Emery, are a coward and a murderer. Flee now, with no memory of this palazzo, me, or Jane's sweet smile. Only be haunted by Jane's scream for the rest of your life."
Shoving the man back, Marcello nodded that Carlo untie him, which he did. The parson stood, twisting his hands together as he stared at the two of them. Blinked. He didn't recognize them.
Marcello pointed to the door, and the parson ran out and away.
Forever.
"How's Jane?" Carlo asked. "Did you have to…?"
Marcello nodded. "And she's alive because of it. I love her, Carlo. It wasn't a difficult decision to make."
"What will she think when she wakes?"
"I'm not sure, but I'll face that challenge soon enough. Thank you." He clasped a hand on Carlo's shoulder. "This has been a hell of a morning. Why do people rise so early?"
"You've got me. I am thankful for the canopies that cover our paths from house to house. I should make it home unscathed. Seeing you burn?" He shuddered. "There's a reason we are called creatures of the night."
"Indeed. Thank you, my friend."
"Any time. Except, not at dawn, yes? Give Jane my love."
* * *
Jane woke in a room filled with candlelight. Naked beneath the bedclothes, she tried to sit up but pain in her chest stopped her. She remembered the piercing intrusion of the bullet entering at her heart. She slapped a palm over her breast and felt the scar, just below the previous scar Thatcher had given her. That first time he had wielded a bread knife and had been trying for her heart. This time, he had managed better aim.
And yet, she was not dead. And she felt…rather well. Exhilarated, even. Like she could step out of bed and twirl into dance. All night long.
Remembering vaguely what had occurred when Marcello had carried her in, she touched her teeth, searching for evidence of fangs. None. Had his bite saved her life? Or?
And what of her lover? He'd been badly burned. Pray, he would not be permanently wounded from the sun. But if he wasn't here…? She sat up, looking around.
