by T. S. Ryder
“I couldn’t wait to tell you, but I wanted to do it after the fight. I only told your father, but I think Misha knew too.”
“And the union?”
“Your father asked me if I wanted it, and I said yes. He said he’ll take care of the rest. I can say I changed my mind if you don’t want it.”
“Fuck, no,” I said, sweeping her off her feet and kissing her again. I got on my knees and planted a kiss on her belly. “This one’s for my pup.”
The crowd reached us, surrounded us and lifted us up. Pats on the back, handshakes and blessings were showered on us.
Mishayev came and snatched Siobhan from me. “Now she must see our doctor,” she said protectively. “You should go see one too.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
“You can’t be with Siobhan until the ceremony. You have already imprinted on her, but you have to do it properly. Once you form the bond, you’ll be considered married according to our customs. Until then, you can only meet her under my supervision.”
“I don’t mind,” Siobhan said. “He can see me whenever he wants.”
“I have already disregarded too many rules by sending you here, young lady,” said my dad’s raucous voice from behind. “I can’t break anymore rules. We will hold the ceremony tomorrow and you will join in union. Until then, you must wait.”
“Lay down the Mountain Ash,” Grandfather chimed in.
“What’s that?” Siobhan and I asked simultaneously.
“It is something that is very toxic to werewolves,” Mishayev explained. “But humans help us with it when we need.”
“What for?” Siobhan asked.
“It forms a protective boundary when laid down in a perfect circle. No wolf can cross it. It is customary for us to lay it around during periods of mourning or celebration, so we are not attacked by rivals when we least expect it.”
Mishayev took Siobhan and headed to the infirmary, but not before I stole her for a fiery make-out session. I could see in her eyes how much she hated being separated from me, and if the tent in my pants was any indication, I wouldn’t be having an easy night either. In just a week, I had grown too used to her presence to spend a night without her. But the new sun was filled with glad tidings, and I couldn’t wait!
*****
THE END
The Vampire Prince's Prisoner
Description
A curvy nomad in search of an escape PLUS a sexy vampire warrior who is heir to the throne PLUS his cold wife who has evil plans!
Avery Lathe is a nomad. Her entire life she’s travelled between the Severed Kingdoms and the land of Varlyn, ruled by the Vampire King Granzen Thorne. Avery has never thought of herself as special or important, but somehow, this poor curvy nomad has captured the eye of the Crown Prince.
Crown Prince Alistair Thorne is a vampire warrior, heir to the Crown of Varlyn. Married to a cold and distant princess, he cannot help but be drawn to the beautiful human Avery. After destroying her caravan and killing her abusive father, Alistair welcomes Avery into his bed, promising to protect her from the powers in the palace.
A prophecy exists that tells the tale of the half-human half-vampire prince that will unite the Severed Kingdoms and bring peace to the realm. Could Avery be the human woman to bring the prophecy to life? What will happen when the Vampire Princess senses a threat to her position? Caught between political intrigue and the machinations of her devious brother, Avery must not only survive, but also protect her unborn child: the bastard son of her Vampire Prince.
Her Vampire Prince
On the seventh full moon of a red year
The only daughter of a seventh son of the lands of Mygie
will lie with a Vampire Prince
In nine months’ time,
she will bear him a son born on a moonless night
Half-human half-vampire, he will be beautiful and terrible to behold
He will conquer the world and reunite the Severed Kingdoms
He shall be the greatest King that Varlyn has ever seen
The world will shudder from his power
- Celisa the Prophet of Four Boulders
Chapter One
He could smell them. Prince Alastair Thorne lifted his nose in the air and took a deep breath. Humans, he could smell their sweat, the smoke from their camp, the fat of a roasting rabbit dripping into the fire. His mouth watered. He tongued the sharp fangs in his mouth knowing that soon he would be able to fill his thirst.
He listened to their sounds. Men and women went about their business unaware of the monsters lurking in the shadows. He ignored the low mutterings of men and focused on a woman singing a slow mournful song. The grumbling men were of no concern to him. He wasn’t interested in their kind. It was the women he wanted.
He could hear their light, high-pitched voices creating a tantalizing music that danced towards him. Closing his eyes for a moment, he just listened. He heard laughter from a group, a tittering that sounded like bells and a deep longing surged to the surface. They were so close.
He gripped his sword, his fingers digging into the supple leather of the handle. The blood lust was coming on. His heart began to pound, adrenaline pumped through his veins.
His pupils dilated and the darkness around him lit up. He could see everything clearly. Every blade of grass stood out in bright detail. The wind picked up making the boughs of the trees shudder. It was as if nature herself knew what was coming.
“On marks,” Alistair ordered. Behind him, fifty men unsheathed their swords and bared their fangs.
“Now!”he said. He took off at a run, racing towards the bright fires of nomad’s camp. He ran across the flat grassland as his men fanning out behind him. The dogs in the human camp began to bark furiously, tugging and straining at their leashes. The sound only made Alistair’s feet go faster. He opened his mouth and let out a screaming war cry echoed by the men around him.
They crashed on the camp the way a wave crashes on the shore. Swords clashed as women screamed. Men leapt up from their chairs and reached for their swords, but they were too slow and their blades dull.
The nomads were not fighters. As the vampires descended on their camp, the men panicked and fled. They abandoned their dull weapons on the ground to speed up their cowardly retreat. The abandoned women began running in all directions clutching at each other and screaming for help. It was chaos and madness. To his left there was a bright burst of flame as one of the elaborately decorated caravans of the nomads caught fire.
He was halfway through the camp before he came upon the first man willing to put up a fight. A fat nomad raced towards Alistair, holding his no doubt stolen sword like a cudgel. Bringing up his own sharp, well-hewn blade, Alastair took a moment to sneer at the nomad before cutting him down with one slice of his blade.
In disgust, Alastair watched as several men threw their women in front of them, attempting to use them as shields. Alastair ignored the women, leaving them weeping on the ground, crying for the men who had left them behind. Racing past them he charged down their weak men. With a fury, his sword raked across their backs and legs sending them screaming to the ground.
Heaving for breath, Alastair looked around the chaotic camp searching for another threat, another enemy. All he could see were women huddled together holding onto each other. Caravans burned, his men emptied the elaborate carts searching for anyone attempting to hide from their fury. He needed a warrior, someone willing to put up a real blade. Was there no one left? Had they really defeated the nomads that easily?
Alastair wasn’t ready to be done yet. Bloodlust pumped through his veins. He wanted a real fight, a real challenge. These weakling nomads had disappointed him. He felt unfulfilled. He spun in a circle his eyes scanning the camp for movement. There must be someone who would give him a proper fight.
He heard a scream from a caravan behind him and he turned around in time to see a woman tumble to the ground. There was a man behind her, holding her by her hair, wrench
ing and pulling her forward. She screamed and fought against him, her hands trying to pull him off her hair. But he was bigger and anytime the girl managed to get her feet underneath her he would kick them and she would fall again.
Alistair snarled and the man whirled around, bringing the girl with him. Her face was screwed up in pain and wet with tears. The crying had smeared her make-up, leaving tracks of dark tear lines down her pale skin. It did nothing to hide her beauty.
“Take her, not me,” the man screamed throwing the woman on the ground in front of him. She tumbled, falling directly below Alistair. On her hands and knees, she looked up at him beseechingly. Even there, in the hectic chaos of battle, she did not quiver with fear or beg for mercy. He expected to see anger and hatred in her face. Instead, she looked up at Alistair like he was her savior. He stared into her deep grey eyes and the longing in his stomach surged.
By the Gods she was beautiful. Alastair let his sword drop as he took all of her in. She had a full head of thick, dark hair, clear alabaster skin and grey eyes that shone in the moonlight. Through her poor nomad's dress, he could see she had an hourglass figure with full breasts and hips.
A fire surged within him. He wanted to take her right then and there. He wanted to push her down into the grass, enter her and bite her, draining the beauty and have her all at the same time. But there was something he needed to do first. He tightened his grip on his sword and moved around the kneeling woman, leaving her be.
Alastair snarled at the sniveling man. The nomad turned and ran, but he was far too slow. Alastair was on him in a moment. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and plunged his sword into his chest. The nomad cried out and went weak. Alistair pulled his sword free and the man fell to a heap at his feet.
“Weak men are not permitted in Varlyn,” he said as he spat on the body. He turned around and saw the beautiful woman was still kneeling. She stared at him, her mouth hanging open as her eyes darted between Alastair and the dead man.
Looking down at the corpse he could see the similarities. The nose and the hair color were the same. This must have been her father.
“What is your name, nomad?” the Prince asked her, blood dripping down his sword. Her father’s blood.
She paused for a moment, staring at him in confusion. “Avery Lathe, My Lord,” she finally said.
“Stand,” he ordered.
She rose to her feet and he was able to take her all in. Her thin nomad rags flapped in the wind as her long hair danced on her shoulders. She was like something out a dream, a perfect gift from the Gods left just for him. Caravans burned around him as his men called to each other, but all Alistair could focus on was her.
He took a step towards Avery, expecting her to run away, but she didn’t move. She remained frozen in the spot staring up at him. He took another step. He moved slowly—as if she were a frightened animal that might run at any sudden movement. The moon lit up her soft features and he could not stop staring at the perfect curve of her cheek. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands all over her soft flesh. He needed to feel her in his arms.
“Shall I take her to join the rest of the women, My Lord?” one of his men asked. It was like being awakened from a dream. He had been so focused on the creature in front of him that he had missed the end of the battle.
“No,” he said to his soldier. “She is mine, let no one touch her. Take her to my tent.”
She looked up at him startled. Her eyes went wide and her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but the soldier took her by the upper arm and pulled her away before she could speak.
Chapter Two
“No,” Avery heard the vampire warrior say. “She is mine. Let no one touch her.”
“Yes, My Lord,” the soldier said as he pulled her away from the blood-stained corpse of her father. She wanted to say something to the vampire warrior but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She felt numb and empty. Only a few moments prior she had been scrounging together a dinner for her ungrateful father. Now he was gone and she was a captive of this vampire, out of the frying pan and into the fire.
She glanced back to make sure her father was really dead. His corpse offered no resistance as the vampire soldiers grabbed his wrists and ankles and hefted him toward a pile of bodies. He was truly dead. He was gone for good. She had watched the life drain out of him. He would never hit her again.
Feeling numb and confused, she offered no resistance as the soldier led her through the burning remains of her camp. She could hear other women wailing and weeping for their lost husbands and sons. They were loud, tortured sobs carried to her by the wind. Avery imagined the tortured lamentations could be heard for miles.
Avery was grateful she was not with the other women. She didn’t want to have to pretend to mourn for her father. She felt no sadness at his passing, only relief. If he was gone, that meant he would never raise his hand to her again. She would never have to cook or clean for him again.
I’m glad he’s dead, the thought made her stop in her tracks. The guard prodded her in the back. She stumbled for a moment and then resumed walking. She should have felt afraid. All around her, vampires were ripping apart their caravans. Women were screaming and crying, but she only felt a detached numbness. She had no say in what would happen to her now. She could only march forward and do as she was told.
The chilly night air combed through her hair. The camp was growing quiet and anyone who might have put up a fight was dead or gone. Avery wondered where her brother was at that moment, how long it would take for the news to reach him. He had gone ahead to scout the nomads route to the next town, he was miles away. A dark part of her wished he had been here for the vampire’s slaughter. He was as bad as her father, worse maybe since he was still out there somewhere.
With her vampire guard close, Avery left the burning remnants of her caravan behind and arrived at the small vampire camp. Squires were racing about, setting up tents and building fires. They were orderly and efficient, a far cry from her haphazard nomad life.
Avery was led into the finest tent of them all. It was made of a white canvas material and inside there was a large wooden table covered in scrolls and maps. There was a thick carpet under her feet and several thick blankets piled in the corner for a bed. Candles were lit all around the room casting a soft light. Surrounded by such splendor, she felt dirty and insignificant. This tent was far finer than anything she had ever lived in and she wasn’t sure what to do with herself once she was inside it.
“You will wait here. If you leave this tent you will be found and strung up. Your body left to the crows. Do you understand?” the guard asked in Varlyn.
“Yes, sir,” she answered with a nod. He glanced around the room, as if he were taking note of everything in case anything went missing. He gave her one last glare and then turned on his heel and marched outside. The tent flaps closed behind him, but before they did Avery glimpsed two guards standing at the entrance.
She was trapped. Anything might happen to her now. Her hands shook as she nervously moved around the large tent. On the back wall, painted in a vibrant red was the seal of the King of Varlyn, Granzen Thorne. It made sense, the vampire warriors who had descended on her camp were no amateurs. They were well-trained warriors, sent by the King.
She stared up at the seal, the image of a spike piercing a heart, blood dripping down the side. The Vampire King of Varlyn was the strongest leader and wealthiest Lord in all of the Severed Lands.
Avery traced a finger down her neck. She could feel her own pounding heart. That was what the vampire warrior wanted, no doubt. To drink from her, drain her. But most likely he wouldn’t kill her. The vampires weren’t stupid, if they killed every human they drank from they would quickly kill the entire populace and then starve themselves. It was against the law for a vampire in Varlyn to kill a human by draining their blood.
She heard movement at the door. Spinning around, she saw the vampire who had killed her father. He had just entered the tent. With
out being told, she knelt down and lowered her eyes.
He said nothing. She watched his shiny boots as he trod over the carpet and past her. She glanced up at him and then quickly looked away. He was handsome, tall and muscular with a chiseled jaw, strong cheekbones and a pair of large, dark eyes. He was a commanding presence, one that made her feel meek and small merely from being near him. His hair was dark and cut short, his exposed arms were covered in tattoos, spiral designs that moved up and down his arms.
“I am Prince Alastair Thorne,” he began, “Crown Prince and heir to the crown of Varlyn, Commander of the Ten Legions, Knight of the First Order, Lord of the Fire Islands, Protector of the Sands, Grand Master of the Northern Sea.”
Her eyes went wide as she stifled a gasp. Alastair Thorne, the Crown Prince of Varlyn. When old Grazen died, this vampire would be King. Uncontrollably, she began to shake from head to toe. He was so powerful, so strong, she was nothing to him, just a poor nomad who only knew how to hide and steal. She had never been so close to a person of such importance.
“Stand,” he ordered. Avery complied, rising to her feet, but keeping her head down. He reached for her and she forced herself to not pull away. His cold hand caressed her cheek and then reached for her chin, tilting her head up to look at him.
He turned her head this way and that, looking at her in the soft light of the candles. A tingle raced up her back and she shuddered in his grip. His cold hand cupped her cheek and he traced his thumb over her supple lips. His grip was firm but gentle and she couldn’t help the quiet gasp that slid through her lips when he touched them.
She let out a shaky breath and then finally looked him in the eye. He was staring at her intensely, his eyes boring into hers. He moved, leaning down to give her a chaste kiss. She kept her eyes open, unsure of what to do. All she could think about was the fact that this was the Crown Prince of Varlyn. He lived in a castle with hundreds of servants. He was powerful and he had chosen her. A strange feeling bloomed in her chest and it took her a moment to recognize it as pride. Of all the women in the camp, he had wanted her.
