by Jessica Lee
“Whoa, girl. Okay, well, that’s not good,” she mumbled on her way back down to the mattress.
With the option of pulling herself upright shelved, she tried to keep a tight-fisted hold on her growing anxiety. She looked around the bedroom. Rich browns and deep burgundies gave the large room warmth. A heavy mahogany chest of drawers with brass pulls sat across from her, resting on a dark-stained hardwood floor.
The bed appeared not only big enough for her but also one heck of a sleepover. Emily rolled onto her back. Massive, ornately carved posts stood at each corner. Her hands glided across dark and glossy burgundy sheets. Wow, silk. They had to be the most expensive available. Really? Who was she kidding? Like she would even know how cheap silk felt? But these sure were nice.
The door to her right opened. Emily closed her eyes. Whoever it was, she decided she would rather figure out their agenda before they knew she was awake.
The sound of bare feet padded around the foot of the bed. She opened her eyelids enough for a peek. A man with wavy, jet-black hair, wearing only a white towel hung low on his hips, stood with his back to her.
He didn’t appear the least bit familiar. It wasn’t like she needed two hands to count the number of men’s bedrooms she’d been in, and there was no way she would have forgotten that body, even from the back.
His damp bronze skin glistened in the dim light of the room as he rummaged through a dresser drawer. Shadows formed in the valleys between the muscles flexing across his back. Tension and anxiety wound in her gut, making it difficult to remain still.
Who is he?
She glanced over to the lamp on the bedside table. The slender shape of the base would make a good handhold for a weapon. Movement in her peripheral vision captured her attention and had her gaze darting back to the man in front of her.
Without warning, the towel dropped from his hips.
“Oh, God!” Emily clamped a hand over her mouth. He must have not heard her, because he proceeded to bend over, his bare ass right in front of her. Oh. My. God. The finest-looking piece of male anatomy swayed against the inside of his thigh. She swallowed hard at the dry cotton lining the back of her throat and tried unsuccessfully to pull her gaze away.
He straightened and pulled on a pair of faded, snug-fitting blue jeans, up and over the tightest set of buns she’d ever seen.
He turned and lifted his hands out to his sides, displaying empty palms. “Please, don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.” Mr. Commando edged closer to her side of the bed. She had no idea what he had in mind, but she had no plans to hang around long enough to find out.
She bolted.
Her legs scrambled to propel her while her upper body weaved and wobbled to the other side of the bed. “Damn, damn, damn.” Her feet hit the floor seconds before her legs melted. Strong arms grabbed her just before she hit the floor, face-first.
“We need to get some fluids into you.” He scooped her up, holding her tight. Not like a mental patient who’d tried to escape, but rather like a fragile doll that had almost broken. The fight knocked out of her for the moment, Emily gave in and rested her head against his bare shoulder. The scent of warm sandalwood mixed with pine teased her nostrils. Damn, he smells good.
“No one’s going to hurt you.” He laid her back against the pillow.
The words sounded nice and all, but she wasn’t taking them to heart until she had some answers. Like, now. “Who are you?” Emily grasped the sheet beside her and dropped it back to the bed for emphasis. “And what am I doing here?”
“To answer your first question, I’m Kenric St. James. And second, you weren’t well, and I brought you here until you feel better.” From the bedside table, he picked up a full glass. “Here, you need to drink. It’ll help.”
She recoiled. He did not think she was going to drink that? She had no idea who he even was. He could be some ax murderer, for all she knew.
“It’s not poison, only water. Look.” He tipped the glass to his lips and took a sip. His gaze never left hers as he swallowed. Emily followed the path the liquid took as it made its way down his throat and beyond. Her gaze landed on the light spray of dark hairs covering his chest. A wave of heat rolled from the tips of her toes to the top of her head in a hot rush. She’d never been what the other girls used to call “boy crazy.” Had never sat and watched the way a man walked or talked. No man had ever appealed to her in that way. But this man. Whew! Her nipples tightened beneath her scrub top, sending a jolt of awareness between her legs. This man made drinking water a sexual act.
“See, just water,” he said, handing the glass to her.
Emily crossed her arms, so he couldn’t see how her body reacted to him. How embarrassing. She stared at the water, and then back at the stranger who called himself Kenric St. James. He hadn’t tried to hurt her—yet, and her throat did feel like a dry lake bed. Deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, she took his offer but immediately inched over in the bed. His presence…overwhelmed.
The cool liquid bathed her parched throat. She finished it off in three large swallows.
“Would you like another?” He raised his chin toward her empty glass. “You should drink as much as you can.”
She nodded.
Kenric plucked the glass from her hand. The smell of the forest and the heady musk of testosterone radiated off him. Very nice. Some of the anxiety eased from her tense muscles only to gather in other places she did not want to think about.
He poured her a refill from the container on the bedside table. Still wet from a shower, his damp hair fell forward in soft ebony waves across his forehead. As he passed her the drink, his ink-black eyelashes lifted, and his gaze met hers. The color of his eyes knocked her off-kilter: azure. The same color she imagined tropical waters would appear as they rolled onto a white sandy beach on some faraway shore. Their fingers touched, and the glass wobbled in her hand. She jerked and glanced away, steadying the glass with her other hand.
He hovered at her bedside, following her every move. The way he watched her from under those lashes felt almost…possessive. I’m not going to freak out. I’m not going to freak out. Breathe. In and out. She inhaled through her nose and out her mouth. A parting gift from her ex left her paranoid of any man getting ideas of ownership. She had to keep a clear head. He was just making sure she was okay. At least that was what she was going to tell herself. All the way to the door.
She kept her sights trained on the tiny air bubbles in her glass and away from Mr. St. James. What’s wrong with me? I don’t know this man. Yet here I am, sitting on a stranger’s bed, getting all hot and bothered, instead of getting my butt up and out of here.
“Look, I really appreciate you helping me. Really, I do. But I need to go home now. You can fill me in on what happened and how I got here on my way home. I’m sure everyone is worried sick about me,” she added, glancing back up at the hard edge of his jaw. Her rational mind screamed, Run, idiot.
He reached for the water pitcher again. She couldn’t help but follow the flexing line of muscles in his arms. Her gaze trailed along his smooth bronze skin and the cut outline of his forearm up to his defined bicep. An intricate black tattoo halfway encircled the muscle there. She reached out to touch the design. Her fingertips brushed the warmth of his skin. A sudden sense of déjà vu surrounded her, sending a shiver racing down her spine.
Emily couldn’t take her eyes off the tattoo. Her stomach tightened, as if something unpleasant had joined with the ink. She’d seen this before, touched this same tattoo. Images shuttered past, frame by frame, as if she was viewing an old movie reel.
She had stood at the bedside of an injured male patient in the ER. Her fingertips had brushed the black and red pattern wrapping his bicep. The interconnecting loops had formed the infinity symbol, while a dagger, dripping blood, had penetrated its center.
The patient had woken up and gripped her arm. She’d jumped from the unexpected touch and beautiful vivid blue eyes had met hers.
> Her gaze left the arm of the man beside her now and shifted to his face. Same tattoo, same beautiful blue irises, and the same scar that had graced the face of her handsome John Doe.
This isn’t possible.
The patient on that gurney had had life-threatening stab wounds. She glanced to the right of Kenric’s neck and saw a raised jagged pink scar. With her lungs tight and her heart in her throat, she scanned his bare chest and side.
Same story.
Impossible.
No one healed that fast.
“Who are you?” Shit, that sounded weak and shaky. Emily wanted to cringe but refrained. She hated to let anyone know she was afraid, especially a man.
“Kenric St. James, remember?”
“I know that’s what you said, but you look just like my patient from the ER last night. A John Doe. A man I found stabbed and near death down at The Docks. But that’s not possible, right?”
No answer.
Air sawed in and out of her chest, and with each passing moment, she inched farther across the bed and away from the man.
More memories from the previous night unreeled.
He’d asked her name, and then she’d been like a puppet on a string. She had detached the John Doe from his heart monitor and IV. Her mind had rebelled, but her arms and legs had worked against her. She had had to help him. He needed to leave. The words cycled on repeat in her head.
Next, she had sat on the gurney beside him. Per his command, she’d leaned closer. Her heart raced as the memories continued to unfold. What had he done? He had gripped her upper arms, urging her even closer, until his whiskers scraped her cheek. His words had whispered in her ear. He was sorry. He wasn’t going to hurt her. The warmth of his breath had heated and caressed her skin.
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted and stood on end, ushering the last missing piece of the puzzle into place. Chills ran down her back, causing her to shiver.
“Oh my God!” Emily launched herself to the other side of the bed. Water sloshed in her wake from the forgotten glass, now overturned and pooling on the sheets. Sitting up on her knees with her hand at her throat, she gawked at Kenric St. James from the other side of the bed. Her fingertips brushed over two raised and tender bumps on the side of her neck.
“What did you do to me?”
He sat there, unmoving, watching her with those piercing blue eyes.
“Answer me!”
Kenric watched as Emily’s hazel eyes ignited in frustration. Her reaction to what he’d done played out exactly how he’d imagined it would. He’d run this scenario a dozen times or more in his mind before she had woken up. The problem was, he wasn’t any closer to knowing what to say to her at this moment than he’d been hours ago.
He’d fed on her. How does one downplay that reality? Somehow, when all was said and done, he hoped she wouldn’t hate him. She could hate the vampire. He could live with that. But for some reason, it mattered that she didn’t hate the man behind the monster.
Kenric backed away from the bed. He raised his hands in a nonthreatening manner. “Emily, please, I realize this sounds absurd after what you remember, and I know it must seem like these are the only words I know, but I’m not going to hurt you.”
“What did you do to me? I remember you at my neck. You… It felt like… You bit me! Why would I sit there and let you do that? Why on earth would you do that?”
Emily slid from the bed, trying to get as far away from him as the room allowed. Holding on to the curtains for balance, she stood before a wall of covered windows. With her eyes clenched shut, she gave herself a hard pinch.
“Ouch!” She opened her eyes and grimaced when their eyes met. He couldn’t resent her disappointment in his continued presence.
“You’re not dreaming,” he softly responded. She straightened, stood a little taller. A woman with dignity. Pride. He respected that, and her bravery in the face of what must feel like a nightmare. Most women would be sobbing by now and begging for mercy. This fiery redhead just got pissed. And damn if she didn’t heat his blood with all that fire.
“There’s a lot I need to explain. Do you think we can talk? Can you just sit for a moment? You’ll have your space. I’ll sit over there.” He indicated the overstuffed leather furniture in the sitting area on the other side of his bedroom. She glanced in the direction he pointed, then quickly back to him. Her guarded stance and the small clenched fist she held at her side said it all: she thought he was crazy. No doubt a part of him was, for what he was about to ask her. He had a whole lot of shit to dig out from underneath, and he had to make it smell sweet if he wanted any chance in hell of gaining her trust.
“Let me explain what happened last tonight,” he said. “I give you my word. I will never touch you again without your consent.”
Chapter Five
Marguerite breathed deep and pressed the combination sequence into the small square of buttons on the jeweled box sitting on her dresser. The lock released with a click. She opened the lid, and then pulled the deep drawer out. Inside lay a velvet sleeve covering an object the size of a large orange. Marguerite lifted it from its resting spot and slid it into her palm. She stared down at her newly procured source of power, her lips curling in a satisfied grin. This would ensure her success with Kenric.
The crimson glass vessel, formed in the size and weight of a human heart, warmed her flesh as if it still contained the live, beating essence of its former owner, Goran Madunic, not the thick sludge drained from the vampire’s heart more than six-hundred-years ago. She held it up to the lamp beside her. The light shimmered off the colored glass and highlighted the dark shadow of the level remaining in the relic. Not much left—a blunt reminder of the ticking clock that hovered over her plans.
The door to Marguerite’s chamber opened.
“Mistress, please excuse the interruption, but I thought you would want to…” The male’s words stopped short as Marguerite jerked her head in his direction. Swinging her arm out with her palm upright, she hurled a merciless blast of energy at her intruder. It slammed into him, knocking him off his feet and into the wall behind him. A gasp of air left his lungs as he crashed into the wall and slid dazed onto the floor.
“You fool!” she shrieked. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you where you lie for such ignorance. The next time you will be dead, and I shall find a new leader for my colony.”
They annoyed her at times, but she found it necessary to keep a few loyal vampires—minions—around whose minds were still intact, addicted to her and not DE. They served her sexually and were happy to handle whatever else she needed them to do, for just another sip at her vein. But that didn’t make them irreplaceable.
Shaking her head, Marguerite thrust the orb back into the security of her lockbox and brought her attention back to the current matter at hand: the vamp who lay sweating on her floor.
“Forgive me, Mistress.” Enrique pulled himself up off the hardwood and onto his knees. He crawled over in front of Marguerite. “I bring news of Kenric.”
“What have you learned?” He remained bowed before her, his straight brown hair partially covering his face. Marguerite savored the way the candlelight glowed on the chocolate color of his naked torso, his sides flaring with each rapid breath.
“Kenric was on patrol last night. Alone, he attacked and killed three of your DEAD recruits, Mistress.”
“Excellent,” Marguerite replied. She could care less whether the insane bastards lived or died. All of her recruits were dispensable. What mattered most was if they’d served her purpose. And they had. “With my visit and the increase in addicts he’s hunting now—Kenric knows I’m here.” She stood, allowed her robe to fall from her shoulders and drape over her chair, leaving her naked as she moved to her bed. She stretched out across her mattress and sighed. “I do love to agitate him. He could never tolerate killing feeble humans.” Rolling onto her side, she asked, “Who told you about Kenric?”
Enrique shuffled around on his knees in the
direction of her voice.
“One of your addicts, present during part of the battle, gave a description of the Enclave warrior who had attacked them. It matched your Kenric St. James, Mistress.”
“This vampire was not killed with the others?”
“No, Mistress. It appears he ran as the others were attacked. He went back when the fighting was over and found nothing but ashes.”
“He ran?” She lunged upright onto her knees and yanked Enrique to her by the back of his neck, digging her nails into his flesh. “Does he still live?” she hissed, her face inches from his.
“Yes, Mistress. I’ve questioned him but kept him alive for you. I thought you may have further need of him.”
“I have no use for cowards. Kill him.” She jerked her palm away, and Enrique stumbled back.
He turned to leave. “Where are you going? You haven’t been dismissed, Enrique. You have a job to finish here first.” Marguerite lowered herself onto her bed. With the crook of her finger, she beckoned her minion leader forth. He obeyed, crawling onto the bed and between her legs.
Twenty minutes later, Marguerite rose from her bed and glided back to her gilded Louis XIV vanity, leaving her trembling minion on the bed. She lifted her robe off the chair and slipped it on, enjoying how the cool, ivory-colored silk hardened her nipples and brought chills to her overheated flesh. The matching gilded chair, covered in her favorite ruby red velvet, sat before her mirrored dresser. She perched on the seat and selected her heavy gold hairbrush.
Her complexion glowed, thanks to the hearty meal she’d just partaken in. She brushed her hair in long, sweeping strokes and stared at the image of the sweat-drenched body of her painfully unfinished lover. Enrique moaned but lay very still. He knew better than to budge until she had dismissed him. His raging hard-on was the only thing brazen enough to move on his taut, muscled body. The wet shaft glistened and pulsed in the lamplight, as if begging its owner for relief.
