Love Ever After: Eleven All-New Romances!

by Nina Lane

  “You are the sister.” His voice softens. It’s magnetic.

  Which means this handsome man in front of me—all six-feet-four-inches of him, like Renoir—must be a vampire.

  “Christiane’s sister, you mean?” I say boldly. “What do you know about my sister? Did he take her? Is he the one who killed her?”

  Neither man answers me. They move back and forth like pacing panthers, eyeing each other. I stare at them both, especially the one who vowed to protect me.

  Dressed entirely in black with that blue-black hair, he exudes darkness. He’s stunningly beautiful and he looks like a creature of the night, a creature of shadows. A complete contrast to pale blond Renoir and his pastel blue shirt and designer steel grey suit. Like a wild biker staring down a privileged billionaire.

  But even though the two men glare at each other, I am trapped between them. I’m the vulnerable one.

  “Your sister is not dead, Lauren,” Renoir says, behind me. “Do not listen to my brother. He wants to use you for his own purposes. He would kill you. He would drain every drop of your blood. I am a civilized vampire. Batiste is not. He’s wild. Uncontrolled. I rule the vampires and force them to obey rules. But Batiste wants to be king in my place—and he would let the demons run wild. Yes, I took your sister. But I did not touch her. Come with me. See her.”

  “No. No, I don’t trust you.” I’m trying to take everything in. The other man is Renoir Carlyle’s brother. They are both vampires. Do I really believe one of them will protect me? I’m not that naïve. They must both be evil. And I’m between them, my heart pumping hard.

  “You can trust me,” Batiste Carlyle says from behind me. “My brother lies. Unlike him, I do not feed on humans. And you—I would never hurt you.”

  There’s a note of deep, gruff pain in his voice.

  “She doesn’t believe you, Batiste. But she knows I tell the truth about her sister,” Renoir says. His pale hair is silver-white and his eyes glow like they emit moonlight. “Will you come with me, Lauren? Christiane misses you.”

  “I won’t come with you.” Though if he takes me, I can’t fight him. I shake my head and back away. I bump up against something solid.

  Batiste’s lean muscular body.

  He’s unyielding. Hard as a rock face and he smells of a subtle, expensive cologne. It’s not heavy, just a soft tease for my nose.

  A low growl emits from him. His broad chest rumbles against my back. Is this the sound vampires make when they’re tempted to bite?

  Heart in my throat, I step away from him.

  Suddenly a strong arm wraps around me and I’m slammed back against another rock-hard male body. Renoir.

  With his hand against my jaw, Renoir forces my head to the side, baring my throat. “You’re the beast,” he goads his brother. “Take the first sip.”

  Batiste jerks back as if disgusted. “You’re the one who still takes human victims.”

  Renoir laughs. “You want her. You’re my brother and I made you. I feel everything that you feel. You hunger for her. It’s more powerful than any craving you’ve ever had.”

  Renoir bends to my neck. His fangs scrape my skin. I hit at his face. “Stop it. Don’t touch me. You are not going to bite me.”

  But my slaps don’t affect him.

  “Foreplay,” he whispers.

  I freeze.

  Batiste takes a step toward us. “Let her go, Renoir.”

  “No, dear brother. Because you want her.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Renoir smirk like a naughty child.

  But Batiste’s beautiful, sculptured, shadowed face contorts in fury. “Don’t touch her,” he snarls. “Goddamn it, she’s innocent in all this.”

  “That makes it all the sweeter.”

  Renoir makes a low growling sound. His fangs push hard against my neck. The tips gouge in. My scream fills my heart and soul.

  Then he’s pulled back and I gasp in pain as his fangs slide out.

  Renoir flies through the air, arms flailing. With a thunderous crack, he slams against the wall and slides down to the marble floor. The force with which he hits shakes the floor. A cry escapes my lips.

  Renoir leaps back to his feet. “You want to play, brother?”

  “Of course.” Batiste looks to me. “Get back, Lauren.”

  Renoir comes at his brother like a kick boxer. His leg flies through the air in a blur, his boot slamming into the side of Batiste’s face. The impact snaps Batiste’s neck to the side. He must have broken his neck—

  Batiste swings at Renoir like a cage fighter, punching his brother in the jaw, then the nose. But Renoir fights like a martial arts expert. He slams his brother to the floor so hard the tile cracks. Batiste jumps up, wrestles his elegant brother down. Renoir wraps his legs around Batiste, and drags him to the ground, then he arches up, using his gut muscles and pounds his brother’s face.

  Blood flies. I cringe, pulling back. I should run, run now while they are pounding each other into oblivion—

  Batiste grabs his brother’s leg and flips him. “Do not move,” he growls at me.

  Renoir leaps on Batiste. They slam punches into each other’s bodies at impossible speed. Then Renoir stands over Batiste and draws out a wooden stake from an inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I can finish this, brother.”

  “You could. But not tonight.”

  Renoir swings the stake toward his brother’s chest. Batiste stops his brother’s arm. He spins his powerful brother around and pins Renoir’s arm behind him.

  “How is this possible?” Renoir roars.

  “You’ve being playing king too long. You’re weak,” Batiste snaps. He throws his brother again. Renoir’s head slams into the wall and he slumps to the ground.

  “Is he dead?” I gasp.

  “No, and he will regain consciousness quickly. Come with me.”

  Batiste doesn’t debate with me. He scoops me into his arms. The walls pass in a blur. I want to be sick and I try to struggle, but we are suddenly flying through the air. I realize he ran up the stairs, holding me. And he jumps up the last flight up to the roof.

  We stand ninety stories above the streets of New York. Wind whips my hair into my face. That’s all I hear: the rushing sound of the wind up here. Lights cut through the sky. Around us, the glass facades of skyscrapers glitter.

  He runs toward the edge.

  “God, what are you doing?”

  He doesn’t answer. He shifts me so I’m pressed against his torso. Panicked, I wrap my arms and legs around him.

  He leaps off, holding me to him. My scream echoes across the city. A torrent of air rushes up at me. Lights flash in crazy dizzying patterns. Sirens scream as we near them. My ears feel like they might explode.

  We’re plummeting. So fast, I know we’re going to die. I cling to him and he holds me, his strong arms tight around me. The street streams up toward us, as if it’s luring us to our deaths, and I have to shut my eyes. My stomach wants to defy gravity and fly up. I think I’m screaming over and over, the way I would on a roller coaster.

  Batiste suddenly changes direction. Holding me tight, he swoops in an arc, and the ground drops away from us again. We soar up in darkness beside the side of an office tower. In mid-air, he rolls so I’m on top of him. He’s flying, with one arm protecting me. Staring at his face, I see movement behind him. Wings, like large bat wings, beat hard against the black sky. Where did they come from? He flies much slower, and I can’t believe we don’t plummet to the ground. But we don’t. Gracefully, he lands on his feet and sets us down on the sidewalk near a dark alley—a space between towering buildings.

  He’s breathing hard, his powerful chest moving beneath his tight T-shirt. He has no wings now. Did I imagine them? I can’t see his back. How did wings erupt through his clothes? Then I see that his T-shirt now looks looser, as if it’s falling away from him. Torn when wings shot through his back?

  He points away from the mouth of the alley. “You have to run, Lauren.”
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  “Where are we?”

  “Behind the gallery,” he answers curtly. “I want you to leave me now. Take the underground. Go to your home and stay there. If Renoir comes, do not invite him in. You will be safe if you do not allow him entrance to your home. I will wait and lead him away from you.”

  “Why? Because he wants to drink my blood?”

  “He wants more from you than that.” His hand rakes through his thick black waves. I can see the tips of his fangs—lethal and pale in the moonlight. His eyes look utterly black. Shadows flow over his sharp cheekbones, and I finally fully see the damage the fight did to his face.

  Cuts slash over his cheeks and his jaw is split and leaking blood. A black bruise surrounds his right eye, which is puffed up like a baseball.

  “You saved me,” I whisper.

  “Not yet—” He breaks off as I move closer to him. He’s badly wounded. That beating would have killed a normal man. And he suffered that for me. Does he need help? But I realize the puffiness of his eye is decreasing. The bruising is fading. His cuts stop bleeding.

  Vampires heal with unnatural speed, I’d heard. I guess it’s true.

  “Thank you,” I begin, and I take another step toward him.

  “No.” It comes out like a bark.

  He backs away from me. “Come no closer.” He throws his head back and howls in agony. “The scent of you…so tempting. God. God have mercy on me.”

  His gaze meets mine. Reflecting like silver and full of pain. “Get out,” he roars. “Run. Run before my control snaps.”

  The wild fury in his voice shocks me.

  I flee. Part of me expects him to chase me. But I don’t hear anything behind me. I reach the end of the corridor and I look back.

  Batiste drops to one knee. His body twists and writhes, as if he is in excruciating torment.

  “No.” He whispers the word, but somehow I hear it.

  I can’t go back. That would be stupid. He saved my life but he is still a vampire. I hesitate. Renoir is gone, but he could return. Or he could even be lying in wait for me, knowing his brother would command me to go.

  He lets out a groan that makes the hairs rise on my nape. That was soul-wrenching pain.

  I look back again.

  Batiste straightens. His gaze locks on me. “Dear God, no,” he mutters, and his voice echoes in my head. Then he sprints toward me. Moving so fast, I know I’m already caught. All other sound drops away, except for the hammer of my heart—

  A twanging sound fills the stillness.

  Batiste roars and crumples to his knees.

  Chapter 3

  With superhuman strength, Batiste launches to his feet. The shaft of an arrow sticks out of the side of his torso. Growling, he yanks it out, tossing it aside. My knees shake at the horror of it. But Batiste jerks it out casually, as if he’s pulling a minor splinter from his thumb. He doesn’t touch the wound it must have made. Doesn’t bother to stem the blood or even look to see how bad it is.

  Instead he runs toward me.

  Who shot him? I’m so stunned I don’t even care if Batiste is running at me to attack me. Even though I could never outrun him. Not this man who leapt off a skyscraper and flew across the ground. Who moves so fast he is nothing more than a blur of reflective leather, gleaming eyes, silver buckles.

  He stops in front of me, grabs me by the shoulders, and thrusts me behind him, so he stands between me and men who are emerging from the alley.

  The men who shot him.

  Around Batiste’s tall, powerful body, I stare in shock at the five men walking out with the stealthily cautious gait I’ve seen soldiers use in movies. They carry crossbows—crossbows, not guns—loaded with arrows that are aimed at Batiste’s chest. The men wear black SWAT style gear—military type trousers, body armor. They wear helmets with large night vision type goggles pushed up on their foreheads.

  Stay back.

  Two things shock me. I heard Batiste’s voice in my head, though he didn’t speak.

  And apparently his first thought it is to protect me.

  The group has a leader. A tall, lean man steps forward and I see that he’s older than the others. In his fifties, with a lined face but brilliant green eyes. He carries a silver cross which he holds out toward Batiste.

  “Lauren, please, get away from the vampire.”

  The voice. The timber of it sends memories whirling through me. Lost in them, I stare helplessly into the man’s green eyes. Now I remember those eyes. I saw tears in those eyes on the night Christiane disappeared.

  “D-dad?”

  He pulls off his helmet and lets it drop to the pavement, revealing white hair buzzed close to his head.

  “Lauren, come to me.”

  He speaks as though we just saw each other hours or days ago. But I have not seen him for ten years. I remember him as a man with dark auburn hair. Seeing him now, with a snow white buzz cut shows how long ten years truly is.

  “Lauren, get away from the vampire.”

  But I don’t move. Batiste stands in an aggressive stance, legs slightly spread. His long coat flicks around him, dancing on the breeze. I step to the side of him. I sense he is aware of me, even though he doesn’t move. He’s waiting. He also has four weapons pointing at him, but he is looking at me. Only me.

  “He saved my life,” I say, my voice shaky. “If it weren’t for him, Renoir Carlyle would have bitten me. He would have drained my blood and killed me. I—I don’t want you to kill him.”

  This isn’t the way I dreamed of greeting my father after ten years. Not with a vampire standing between us. Not with my father holding a weapon and dressed like he’s in Black Ops.

  “Lauren, if he spared you, it was for an agenda of his own.” My father glares at Batiste. “What do you want from my daughter?”

  “I wanted only to stop my brother from using her. Or hurting her. She is an innocent.” Batiste puts on a mocking smile. “Why not put an arrow through my heart and turn me to dust now?”

  “You are more valuable to me alive.”

  “I’m not alive. I’m worse than dead,” Batiste mutters, still wearing a wry, self-mocking smile.

  I take a step toward my father, but he comes to me, puts his arm around me and turns me away from Batiste. With a wave of his hand, he sends the other men to attack.

  “I can’t let this happen,” I whisper. I feel so lost. Batiste did save me. “He was beaten horribly by his brother to protect me.” I twist away from my father’s embrace.

  “Lauren, he is a vampire. In good conscience, I cannot walk away from a vampire.” Sorrow shows in my father’s green eyes. “We contain vampires. Keep them away from the human population. We would not destroy Batiste Carlyle.”

  Do I believe him? This moment makes me see how much he is a stranger to me.

  “You have had a terrible shock,” my father says severely. “You need treatment.”

  “I—I’m fine. But I don’t understand how you got here.”

  “You were tracked from the moment you entered the gallery,” my father says. “For your protection.”

  “You sent the invitation.”

  “I did not. I would never knowingly send you into Renoir Carlyle’s lair. Come with me now, Lauren. I will have our doctors examine you—”

  “Your doctors? What doctors? Why did you come back into my life now? Why bring me to New York? What do you want from me? Are you going to leave again?” I throw the words at him. My voice is cold, but my blood is surging inside me. Ten years of hurt and pain and uncertainty want to pour out.

  But not now. I can’t do that now.

  “Lauren, I left to protect you. Understand that.” He reaches out for me.

  I shake my head. “I just want to go home.” For a minute, I think of the home I left to come to New York. Home with my mother. She spent so much time with me. Making up for all the loss, I guess. The loss of Christiane and my father, who now expects me to just accept everything; to forget I had to grieve him. Over and over I
had to grieve, each time I had my hopes dashed that he would return.

  My father turns away from me.

  “Take the vampire,” I hear him say.

  “And your daughter?”

  “She is coming with us,” my father says firmly. “She has to.”

  Batiste lunges at the armed men, baring his fangs. I cringe, expecting them to fire their weapons. I don’t know why I feel this way. He’s a vampire. A monster. Yet, he showed humanity by saving me—

  One of the men lifts a black device and presses a trigger. A jolt of light streams out and hits Batiste. He arches in pain. Howls in fury as the bluish light sizzles and crackles around him. He struggles to fight it, trying to pull himself away from the arcing light. But he can’t.

  His head falls back, eyes wide with pure agony. Then he falls forward, slamming so hard into the pavement I feel a bounce under my feet.

  Something silver glints in the sky above us. The crossbows suddenly arc up to point at the man slowly lowering through the air. Huge wings beat, sending paper whirling, blowing dust at the stoic faces of the armed vampire hunters.

  I stare into the sculpted face of Renoir Carlyle. With his perfect face and wings, he looks like an angel, but he’s the exact opposite of anything heavenly. He is bare-chested, wearing only the trousers of his suit. His hair looks almost silver, his face pale and glowing. Shadows sit in the wells of his deep set eyes and beneath the planes of his stark cheekbones.

  “Dumb ass,” sneers one of the hunters, who trains his cross bow on Renoir. “You’re outnumbered.”

  “I think not. I never make mistakes.” Renoir lets out a low, eerie cry. Three of the hunters flinch. The fourth screams and falls to his knees.

  Bats rise from the alley. I had no idea the streets of Manhattan were filled with bats. But the creatures come from everywhere. A high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek fills the air. They swirl into a funnel cloud above us.

  “Get out,” my father barks. “Get out now. Take Batiste.”