by Evie Byrne
Bound by Blood
( Faustin Bros - 2 )
Evie Byrne
The damned will be sucking snow cones in hell before Gregor Faustin succumbs to love and marriage. Or so he thinks. Until he ploughs his BMW straight into destiny. Madelena, with her smart mouth and her luscious ass, her old-man wardrobe and pointed questions, affects him like no woman he's ever met. Gregor can't decide if he'd rather throttle her, suck every sweet drop of blood from her body, or lock her in a room and make love to her until they both die of exhaustion.
Maddy begs the man who ran her over to keep her out of the hospital. In answer, he heals her with a kiss that leaves her haunted by erotic, soul-stealing dreams. But she's got too many problems to risk what's left of her heart on any man.
Gregor would like nothing better than to pull his usual disappearing act, but he finds himself entangled with Maddy in a way that goes beyond obsession. By tasting a few precious drops of her blood, he's bound his life to hers. Now both their days are numbered.
BOUND BY BLOOD
The Faustin Bros Series, Book 2
Evie Byrne
To J.C.
Author’s Note
Those of you who have already read Called by Blood should not be alarmed to find Alex single in this book. The events of this book take place before those of that book.
Chapter 1
Gregor Faustin knew his mother was up to something. Her expression was suspiciously complacent—cream fed, even. His father was in on it, whatever it was, because whenever he peeked over his newspaper he looked entirely too amused.
“My boys,” she said, surveying Gregor and his two brothers, gathered for the occasion and stuffed in the tiny living room like three lions in a birdcage. “Last night I dreamed of a bride for one of you, your perfect mate.”
With a flourish, she produced a small slip of paper from her bra and held it upraised between her white fingers. “I have her name.”
Gregor’s younger brother, Alex, blew a low whistle and elbowed him in the ribs. “Misha’s freaking.”
He and Gregor both looked over at Mikhail, who was in fact turning green at the prospect of being mated off.
“Dead man walking,” Gregor intoned between cupped hands. Alex laughed and Mikhail shot them both a poisonous glance.
Their father folded his newspaper and put it aside, a sure signal that it was time to be serious. When all eyes were upon her, Gregor’s mother crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. “Why do you assume I dreamed of a bride for Mikhail Ivanovich?” she said in her thick accent. “I did not. I saw a bride for our Gregor Ivanovich. Grisha will soon marry.”
“What?” Gregor jumped to his feet, fight or flight instincts kicking in like nobody’s business, but he was hemmed in by too much worn furniture, too many knickknacks, and his formidable brothers on either side.
“That’s crazy.” He turned back to his mother. “Why would you go and do something like that? First of all, no one does the dream thing anymore. And even if you had to, Mikhail is Eldest. Marry him off first.”
Mikhail sighed and leaned back in his chair. Gregor noted the color returning to his face. Yeah, you dodged that bullet, Misha.
“Or why not Alex?” Gregor gestured to his younger brother. “He wants to get married.” Alex was a complete sap, always had been.
His mother tapped her ashes, crossed her long legs and pointed at him with the end of her cigarette. Ma Faustin sang cabaret in Berlin in the 30’s, and still had the smoky voice and the mannerisms to match. “My son, it is not possible for you to argue with destiny. I have seen your mate.”
Mikhail rose and kissed his mother’s hand. “Congratulations on your first seeing, Mat'. I pray you will have a grandchild soon.”
Gregor considered kicking him.
Their father got up and pulled out his best scotch. “We will make a toast for your brother and his bride.” He started to hand the glasses around.
“Oh no, no.” Gregor waved his hands in front of him. “That kind of talk is way premature.”
“Is never premature to marry,” his mother said. “It is time you give up your fancy women and disco sluts—”
Alex burst out laughing, and Gregor did kick him. Alex howled.
“After all,” his mother continued, ignoring the violence, “what is a vampyr without a family?”
In ye olde tymes, Gregor would have taken the slip of paper with his intended’s name on it, sought her out that night, carried her to his castle, fucked her senseless and drained her half dry. The next night he and his new bride would have celebrated by eating their own serfs or something.
Thankfully the dark ages were over. Marriage and breeding were fine for some, but he had better things to do. Gregor ignored the paper and all the imperative that came along with it. If this woman his mother had dreamed about, this Madelena López de Victoria, was his perfect mate, then he figured she’d wait for him.
His second nightclub, Elixir, was about to open and all of his attention was focused on that. It would be the first nightclub in the U.S. created to facilitate the mixing of vampyr and humans—very expensive, and very, very exclusive. The buzz was enormous, because instead of trying to keep Elixir’s nature a secret, he’d decided to be open about it. The press knew that New York’s leading nightclub impresario was about to open a nightclub for vampires, and of course everyone thought it was a publicity stunt. That is, except the vampyr.
Costs had run to double what he had estimated, construction was behind schedule, and not surprisingly, his investors were spooky. Once Elixir was off the ground, maybe—maybe—he’d take a look at this woman, and decide what to do next.
But his family would not leave him alone.
“Grisha? It’s me.”
A week after the announcement, Alex left a message on his cell phone, knowing full well that Gregor was screening his family’s calls.
“Ma asked me to hunt down your girl since you won’t do it, you shameful bastard, and the good news is she’s local. She works for the New York Public Library, the Mid-Manhattan Branch on Fifth. Don’t you think it’s kind of interesting that Ma chose a human mate for you? Aren’t you even curious? Anyway, they have night hours. You should go to the library and check her out. Pun totally intended.”
Gregor groaned and dropped his head back on the padded leather booth that served as his office at Tangiers, his first club. Lights spun on the ceiling above, although no one was on the dance floor. It was too early. It figured Alex would be intrigued by the idea of a human mate. Alex had a soft spot for humans. Gregor didn’t care if this woman was a human or vampyr or Lady Bigfoot. He just wanted to be free.
Yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was a librarian, for crap’s sake. A local librarian, too. Why couldn’t she at least be a Bulgarian librarian? Then there’d be travel delays, language difficulties, goats to trade…
A light hand trailed from his chin up to his brow. He opened his eyes and found Betsy, one of his cocktail waitresses, leaning over the booth, smiling down on him. “Why the face, Gregor?”
“My family is killing me.”
“Poor Gregor.” She stroked his chin while he enjoyed a vertiginous view of her cleavage. “You’re all worn out. Have you fed tonight?”
He pulled her into an upside down kiss and murmured, “You volunteering?”
Three weeks after the announcement of his doom, Gregor was driving out of the city to meet up with a business associate of his on Long Island, when his phone rang. Expecting a call from his assistant, Honey, he answered his phone without thinking.
“Why do you break my heart?”
Gregor banged his head against the seat back. Trapped. Just like he was trapped in the gridlock traffic. He edged the car throu
gh an intersection and accepted his fate.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Do you think I will have another dream for you sometime in the future when you think you are ready? Do you think I am a…a gum machine?”
Gregor needed to change lanes, but the asshole in the lane next to him had no intention of letting him in. He shot his hand out the window and pointed straight at the driver, giving him the look of death. That worked, because it really was the look of death. Asswipe.
All the while his mother rattled on, the soundtrack to his stress. If he did not get out of the city within the next five minutes, he’d make history by being the first vamp to ever have a coronary.
“The dream is one time only. Your future is now, Gregor Ivanovich Faustin.”
“Ma, I told you, I have no time for this—”
His mother cut him off. It was just as well, because he was maneuvering to make a left and had to pay attention to the road. “This woman is not bound to you. If you ignore her, if she is lost, you give up your best chance of happiness.”
“Look, I’m in a hurry…” He saw a break in traffic ahead, opening the way for his left turn. He might escape after all.
“Gregor, your skull is like a rock. Always it has been this way. By the time you are in the mood, she will marry someone else, or be hit by a bus—”
Gregor gunned the left turn, and a woman appeared out of nowhere, right in his path. He had not seen her crossing the street, despite his excellent night vision. And despite his preternatural reflexes and all the expensive German engineering in his car, he hit her.
Each moment of the accident flashed in front of him like a series of stills, images he would never forget. The woman was wearing a huge puffy red parka that went down to her knees. It made her look like a beach ball in his headlights. When the BMW’s bumper hit her legs, she did not fall, she flew.
Fuck, shit, fuck. Gregor said something to his mother as he hung up, he didn’t even know what, leapt out of his car and threw his arms wide to stop oncoming traffic. A chorus of angry car horns and shouts followed him as he ran over to her body, praying she was alive.
A little crowd had already gathered around her. He pushed the bystanders aside. The woman was lying in a tattered heap in the gutter, which was running with water from God knew where. He smelled blood, but she was moaning and stirring. He almost wept with relief.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” He felt like an idiot the moment he said it. Well, no Gregor, I’m feeling a little unwell, a little like I’ve been run over.
The woman groaned again and raised her head. A tangle of wet hair fell over her face.
“Maybe you should hold still.”
“I’m…I’m okay I think.” She hoisted herself onto her elbows and looked around blearily.
“Are these yours?” He fished a pair of bobbing glasses out of the gutter and shook them dry. She took them from him and put them on. They sat on her face at a comic angle, but the lenses were whole. She blinked twice, focused on him, and her eyes widened in recognition.
“You’re the son of bitch who ran me down!”
He got the feeling she would have yelled if he had not just knocked all the breath out of her. Instead it came out a hoarse whisper.
“Well, yes…”
“You motherfucker! You could have killed me!” She cringed away from him, dragging herself backward through the flowing gutter.
“Uh huh.” A woman standing nearby folded her arms and stared down at Gregor. “I saw it all. It’s the Lord’s own mercy that she’s alive. You’d better get on your knees and thank Jesus.”
Gregor shot the woman a look, and then turned back to his victim, who was snarling up at him from the gutter.
“Look, lady, it’s not like I came over here to finish the job. I want to help you. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“No!” She put her hand on her chest for a few short breaths. “No ambulance.”
“One’s on the way,” said a man on the sidewalk. He was not speaking to Gregor or the woman in the gutter, but the other approving bystanders. Apparently he was running for Good Citizen of the Year. “I called the moment I saw her hit.”
“So did I,” said another woman.
“Shit.” The woman in the gutter—his victim—turned to Gregor. “They can’t force me to go to the hospital, can they?”
“I don’t think so.” He’d never been to a doctor or in a hospital himself, and none of the drunken, OD’d or bleeding club patrons he’d loaded into ambulances over the years had ever objected. “But maybe you should go and get checked out.”
“No.” She began to struggle to her feet. Gregor helped her up, not sure if he should be pleased she was so spunky after being mowed down by a BMW, or if he should be worried she was in shock.
“Ah!” Midway up she stopped, and would have fallen if he hadn’t kept hold of her. “My foot. Oh Jesus, it really, really hurts. I think it’s fucked up. Oh shit.”
Gregor knelt down in front of her. While she leaned on his shoulder, he ran his hand down her leg, skimming over her muddy, wet pants (a polyester blend, he noted with distaste) and down over her tennis shoes, searching for signs of weakness and damage in her limb. These were things he could sense as a predator, not as a healer, but it worked all the same. The leg felt strong enough to him, and she didn’t scream when he flexed the joints.
“Nothing’s broken,” he said with fair confidence.
“You’re right.” Her voice shook. “I think my ankle is twisted. That’s all.”
The sound of an approaching ambulance made her stiffen under his hands. “Get me out of here. Now.”
Gregor glanced up at her from his place at her feet. “What?”
“Put me in that fancy car of yours and take me goddamn home.”
“Fine. Whatever you want.” Action. Excellent. Action he understood. He scooped her up in his arms. Water streamed out of her parka and soaked the front of his pants as he carried her to his car.
“Hey, you can’t leave the scene!” cried Mr. Good Citizen.
“Pardon me,” Gregor said as he settled her in the passenger seat, “but is this any of your fucking business?”
“Where are you going with her?” said the Lady Who Knew the Lord.
“We’ve got your license number!” said yet another Samaritan.
Gregor strode back over to the smallish mob and pulled out his wallet and threw cards at them. “This is my name. Give it to anyone who cares. I’m taking the lady home.”
He liked her idea of escaping. He liked getting away from the street noise and the mob and the cold. He especially liked having as little interaction with the law as possible. With a last shake of his head at the crowd, he climbed in the car and slammed the door. For the first time since he’d seen her body in his headlights, he drew a real breath and let it out again.
“Where do you live?”
“Queens,” she said. “Jackson Heights.”
He gunned it out of there.
Chapter 2
“Speeding like this is why you hit me in the first place.”
The man snorted and ignored her. He pulled a phone out of his pocket and made a call, rattling off orders to someone in a clipped tone—no doubt his assistant. He called her “honey” like it was 1950.
By the sound of it, running her over had really messed up his schedule.
Well, fuck him. At least she had a ride home. Maddy had to admit that riding in a luxury vehicle, was…well, luxurious. It ran smooth and quiet, like a shark in the water. She didn’t feel the road under her at all, and inside it was silent as a tomb. The world outside rolled past the windows, all sparkling lights and city vistas—just like in the car commercials. Maddy found the controls and reclined her seat, settling in for the duration. Her foot throbbed, but more than anything else she just felt tired.
The seats were buttery smooth under her fingers—real leather, she suspected. Pale beige leather, currently being soaked with the gutter water seeping off he
r ass.
Served him right. Most likely she’d dented his front end as well.
Still talking on the phone, now to someone else, her assailant? — rescuer? — driver? — turned up the heat, his long fingers flicking over the dashboard.
He was gorgeous, in a rough way. Dark, but of European stock. Kind of exotic looking for a white boy, though, with his broad cheekbones and deep set, hooded eyes. She’d guess he was Eastern European, but his accent was local. Probably Brooklyn.
The man had money, but he didn’t look like a suit. He looked more like mafia. Maybe the Russian mob? It made sense: the expensive suit, the car, the nose that had been broken more than once. All her instincts told her he was not entirely legit.
“So what exit am I going to take once I’m out of the tunnel?” he asked when he put away his phone.
“Queen’s Boulevard. Are you going to tell me your name?”
“Faustin,” he said. “Gregor Faustin.”
He sounded very Russian when he said his name. Another point in the Russian mafia column. But he was not as skeezy as those guys. No gold chains. No fancy watch. And judging by the smell of his car, he didn’t smoke. That was two points off the Russian mafia column.
“I’m Maddy.”
“So glad to have run into you, Maddy.”
He said it so deadpan, his eyes fixed on the road, his mouth fixed into a scowl, that she almost missed it. Mr. Grim had made a joke.
“Wish I could say the same,” she said, looking at him sidewise. She caught a hint of a smile, and in that instant he became very sexy. It amazed her that she could even think sexy thoughts, because she felt like a sewer rat that had been flattened by the bus and picked over by pigeons. But there it was. Sexy.
His hand caressed the stick shift lovingly as he threw the car into a higher gear and they picked up speed. Her knee, so close to his hand, tingled with jealousy. Pathetic knee.
