Xavier: Vampires in Europe (Vampires in America Book 14)

by D. B. Reynolds

  “The rest?” she mumbled, but didn’t hear his answer, because she was already asleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  LAYLA WAS COLD, but she didn’t want to get up. Didn’t even want to open her eyes. She was feeling lazy, and hell, she’d earned a day off. But she was cold. Scowling, eyes still shut, she reached blindly for the extra blanket that was always on her bed, and found . . . Heat. Hmmm.

  Stretching farther, she patted the mattress until she found the source of the heat in a length of hard thigh, and smooth warm skin. Her hand moved higher.

  “If you go any farther, cariño, you’d better have something in mind.”

  She froze at the sound of that familiar voice. Only her eyes moved, popping open to find herself in an utterly dark room. She knew that voice, however. She even knew the feel of his skin against hers. She liked the feel of that skin rubbing all over her, as a matter of fact. So rather than pretend otherwise, she said, “I’m cold.”

  Xavier responded as she’d known he would, scooping her up and bringing her closer, until she was tucked up against his side, with both of his powerful arms around her. God, she loved that. Loved the feeling of a strong man pulling her across the sheets to take her in his arms. No other man had ever made her feel that way. Feminine and fragile. And she loved it. She didn’t care if it made her less than liberated, or not sexually actualized or whatever other tags some people would put on it. She kicked ass everywhere else in her life. But when she was in bed with her lover, she could feel anything she damn well wanted.

  “So there,” she muttered.

  “There what?”

  She wriggled a micro-fraction closer. “I was talking to myself.”

  “Should I be insulted that you prefer your own conversation when I’m lying right here?”

  “The conversation was very flattering to you.”

  “Well. I feel better then.”

  She slid a leg over his thigh and said, “You feel great.”

  “You said you loved me.”

  She frowned at the seeming non sequitur, and had to think a moment before answering, though that hadn’t been a question at all, had it? “I do love you,” she said cautiously. “What’s going on?”

  “And I love you. Would you like to get married?”

  She sat up and stared, even though she couldn’t see him in the pitch black room. “I didn’t know vampires got married,” she replied, then pinched herself to be sure she was awake and this was really happening.

  “You grew up here. How can you say that?”

  “I didn’t pay much attention to who was married, or who was mated, or who was shacking up. It didn’t matter to me then.”

  “But it matters to you now?”

  “Well, yeah. I know the difference now.”

  “How? You’ve never been married.”

  This had to be the strangest conversation she’d ever had, and that wasn’t even taking into account that she was lying in bed naked, with a vampire lord, in his bedroom vault beneath an ancient stronghold, in Spain. “No,” she agreed, “I’ve never been married, but I know people who have. So I have a fairly good idea of how it works.”

  “Good. So . . . you want to get married?”

  “Xavier, where is this coming from?”

  “I love you,” he said somewhat defensively. “I was lying here thinking about that while you slept, and I realized how much I wanted you to stay. Not just in the Fortalesa, but here with me, in my bed. And then I thought you probably wouldn’t think the mating ceremony is official enough. Certainly not grand enough. No twenty-thousand-dollar wedding gown, no flowers, no church filled with flowers, with Ferran walking you down the aisle, and all the rest. I’ve never actually been to a wedding—I saw most of that on television. But I know it’s an important day for women.”

  “For some,” she amended.

  “Not for you?”

  “No. I never saw the point.”

  He was silent longer than she was comfortable with. At least in this conversation. But then he sighed, his deep chest moving up and down beneath her ear, before he asked, “What do you want, Layla?”

  “What I’ve always wanted,” she admitted, suddenly taking the entire conversation much more seriously. “You.”

  “Then stay with me,” he said quietly. “Be with me. As my mate.”

  It was her turn to remain silent, but not because she didn’t understand what he was saying. But because she did. And it had tears filling her eyes all over again.

  “Layla?” He shrugged his shoulder, which had the effect of lifting her face so he could see her better. Which was great for him, since she could see jack all in the pitch black room. “Are you crying, cariño? Are you unhappy?”

  “No,” she said softly. “I mean, yes, I’m crying, a little. But I’m happy. Happy my father will soon be back home and well, but mostly . . . happy to be here, with you. Even though I didn’t believe I would be when I first came back.” She propped herself on one arm and looked up to where his beautiful face had to be, knowing he could see her, which was what mattered in that moment. “And yes, I want to stay here with you. And damn it, yes. I’ll be your mate.”

  She’d swear his heart beat a little bit faster then, when he put his arms around her and rolled, until she was completely covered by his weight and warmth. Her arms circled his neck when he kissed her. It was the kind of kiss they wrote songs about, she thought. Warm and romantic and full of emotion. Full of love. And oh damn it, she was going to cry again. She never cried like this. Like a girl. But hell, if she couldn’t shed a few happy tears now, when could she? The love of her life . . . literally, the Love. Of. Her. Life had just asked her to be his mate. That was about as serious as vampires ever got. Mating was for permanent. It was for life. She was going to be Xavier’s mate.

  When the kiss ended, he licked up her tears and kissed her closed eyelids, one at a time. “Llàgrimes de felicitate,” he murmured. Tears of happiness. “Now,” he growled.

  “What?”

  “I want to complete our mating now.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  He made an exasperated noise. “How can you have lived here and not know?” he repeated.

  “Because no one ever asked me before,” she explained, just as exasperated as he was.

  “I’m a vampire, Layla. Everything we do involves blood. The mating is blood. I take yours—”

  “You’ve already done that more than once.”

  “And you take mine.”

  “Oh. That’s . . . new.”

  He laughed. “It’s ancient.”

  “New to me, then. Interesting. Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. Let’s do this. I want to get my hooks into you, so I can give the next buxom beauty who glances your way a fully justified split lip.”

  The noise he made this time was nothing short of preening pleasure. “You’re jealous.”

  “Uh huh. Just like you’re jealous of Brian.”

  “Pfft. Certainly not.”

  She laughed, then rolled over and turned on the bedside lamp, so she could see. If she was about to mate with the most beautiful, most brilliant, and most deadly man on earth, she wanted to see him when they did it. She sat up, which had him reaching out to cup one of her naked breasts, his thumb rubbing idly over her nipple, his gaze fixed in fascinated attention as the soft nub hardened to a firm peak under the attention.

  “Lovely,” he whispered, more to himself than her.

  She leaned closer, going in for a kiss, but biting his lower lip instead. He didn’t curse and pull away as most men would have, most human men, anyway. Instead, he laughed and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her down on top of him and taking over the kiss, biting her lip in turn, then soothing t
he hurt with a stroke of his tongue that swept up the blood that spilled between them, a mingle of his and hers. His growl told her he liked it, and wanted more.

  “It’s time.” His voice had gone dark and snarly, vibrating with the kind of hunger only a vampire knew.

  “All right,” Layla agreed, a little out of breath, a little scared, but determined and ready.

  “You should take my blood first. It will make the rest far more pleasant, and besides, your blood is too intoxicating, and much too delicious for me to stop. Once I taste you, I’ll want you in every way.”

  Every part of her body responded to the desire, to the hunger in his voice. Both her breasts had gone heavy with need, the nipples swollen and achingly hard, while her thighs had clenched over her pussy, and it felt good. Hell, it felt erotic, and fucking fantastic. “Xavier,” she whispered.

  “Come here, amor meu.” He tugged her down on top of him again.

  His fangs had emerged, and she watched with studied interest when he lifted his wrist to his mouth, gasping when he sliced open his vein and blood poured out. Her eyes met his for an instant, looking for reassurance that this was . . . normal. That the blood dripping down his arm now was a good thing.

  He nodded and held it out to her. “Drink, Layla. And be my mate.”

  She licked her lips nervously. What would it taste like? But she’d never been a coward, never backed away from a challenge. Although this was so much more than anything she’d ever faced before. But if she wanted him, and God knew she did . . . She cupped his bleeding arm in both hands and lifted it to her mouth, intending to touch the tip of her tongue to the thick, red blood. What happened instead was driven by the raging need that small touch triggered in her brain, in her body. She’d never known such ecstasy, suddenly understanding for the first time what that word meant. Pleasure coursed through her body, hot and exciting, lighting up every nerve, every cell with lush passion and hunger. Her gaze swung to meet Xavier’s in demand. She wanted him. She was going to have him. A soft growl rumbled in her throat as she licked her lips.

  He growled back, deeper and louder, his power a living, breathing thing in the room, surrounding her, claiming her, wanting her as much as she wanted him. Moving so fast she didn’t see him coming, he snapped up, and pulled her beneath him, his mouth at her neck, his fangs scraping her skin, his growl vibrating down her throat. A moment later, his fangs were slicing into her vein, her blood hot as it dripped over her neck to shoulder, while he drew long, greedy swallows. The growl became a rumble of satisfaction, when her arms tightened and her body bowed beneath him, as the euphoric in his bite sent wave after wave of climax cascading through her body, building to an impossible peak that left her screaming in helpless pleasure.

  She was still trembling, still lost in the ripples of ecstasy rolling over her, when Xavier slid his cock deep inside her. Inner muscles stretched and ached in fresh need, welcoming his intrusion, sucking him in and holding him there, unwilling to let him go. Ever.

  When he started to move, when he tried to pull his thick penis from inside her, her sheath clenched around him, and he groaned. “Your pussy holds me so tightly, cariño.”

  She thought, “Because you belong there. You’re mine.” She opened her mouth to say the words, but she couldn’t remember how to speak. So she bit his jaw, opened the skin of his back with her nails, and didn’t let him go.

  He chuckled low and sexy and satisfied, then pulled his cock out and plunged it back in again, doing it over and over until Layla thought for sure the heat of his passage, the friction of his hard shaft against her clutching muscles would ignite them both in a fire of passion and desire. Glorious, she thought. What a way to die.

  XAVIER SENSED HER surrender to the passion, the heat between them. Heard the first whisper of her mind speaking to his, welcoming the fire. But he wasn’t ready to die. Not when Layla was finally his. He began moving, thrusting in and out, his erection growing, swelling until he thought she might get her wish after all. But then . . . sweet release, as ecstasy claimed him and a different kind of fire rushed from his balls to his cock, shooting deep into Layla’s body and sending her into a final, powerful orgasm. Her legs tightened around his hips, holding him inside her, while her arms clutched at him, nails digging into his back in delicious pain, until they slowly collapsed in each other’s arms, panting, limp . . . and mated.

  They slept after that. Not daylight sleep, where he had no choice. But the two of them, sweating bodies twined together, sated and exhausted. They woke together. He didn’t know how long it had been, but his phone was ringing.

  He reached over and glanced at the display. He recognized the name, but his mate was warm and soft in his arms. So he put the phone down, flicked off the ringer, and slid back down, holding her tightly.

  “I love you,” he murmured, pulling the sheet over them both.

  “Love you, too,” she said softly, then kissed his chest and drifted back to sleep.

  Xavier smiled, utterly satisfied, utterly content and happy for the first time in his life.

  Epilogue

  Porto, Portugal, present day

  ANTÔNIO SILVEIRA, Lord of Portugal, scowled down at the phone in his hand when his call went to fucking voicemail. The curse of modern communication, he thought. It was well past sunset. Where the hell was Xavier? He’d never speak those words directly to the Lord of Spain, who also happened to be his Sire, but as his thoughts were his; he felt free to vent his frustration. When the damn beep filled his ear, he calmed himself and said, “Sire. A situation has come up here, and I could use your advice. If you could call . . . at your convenience, of course, I would be very appreciative. I trust everything is well with you, and look forward to speaking with you directly. Muito obrigado.”

  He disconnected, then assured that Xavier, his Sire, could no longer hear, slammed the phone down hard enough to crack the ancient acacia desktop.

  “Sire?”

  He looked up to see his security chief and eldest child, Breno Soares, standing in the doorway, appearing worried. “Did you speak to him? What did he say?”

  “Voicemail,” Antonio snapped.

  “Ah. Will he return the call?”

  “Eventually,” he muttered, but then remembered who he was, and what he was supposed to be. Breno would understand and never repeat anything that happened in this office, but others wouldn’t be so discreet. He had to remember that, or someday he’d storm out of this office, forgetting he had a responsibility to his people. To be their leader—confident and sure—so that they at least felt safe and protected. Even if that that bitch was trying to destroy him.

  “I’m sorry, Breno. Of course, he’ll call. It’s unrealistic of me to assume he would be sitting by the phone, waiting for me to contact him.”

  “Have you heard from the . . . other this evening?”

  “Thankfully, no. I’ve had my fill of her threats and bragging. Fucking German whore. Why can’t she take over her own country, and leave mine alone?”

  “The weather is much better here.”

  His gaze shot up in surprise, before he realized Breno was jesting. Not funny, he thought. Since that probably was one of her reasons, assuming one could consider anything about her reasonable. She was beautiful, he admitted. But that was how he’d gotten into this fucking mess in the first place. Xavier had warned him, hadn’t he? Told him his cock would lead him into trouble someday. But had he listened? No. No, he hadn’t. He was Lord of Portugal. What did he have to worry about? She was nothing but an incredibly sexy, stunningly beautiful woman, after all.

  He had a lot to worry about, apparently.

  “Don’t worry, Breno. Xavier and I have spoken of an alliance before. It’s his goal for all of Europe’s vampires, that we ally ourselves, much as they have in North America. This will be the first real test of his design. He’ll call, and he
’ll come. Besides,” he added with a grin, “I’m his favorite child.”

  To be continued . . .

  (Read on for a preview of Nicodemus)

  Somewhere in the mists of time…

  IT WAS A TIME when gods walked the earth, when armies fought not for bits of land, but for the very existence of humanity. On such a battlefield, five formidable warriors stood against an evil greater than any the earth had ever seen. But evil is not an honorable foe. Betrayed by someone they trusted, the warriors were cursed, one by one, tossed into the maelstrom of time, imprisoned in stone, their freedom resting on nearly impossible conditions. Alone of the five, their leader, the sorcerer Nicodemus, was left free. His curse? To know that his fellow warriors remained trapped forever out of his reach, condemned to an eternity of searching for their stone prisons and the keys to their freedom.

  NICODEMUS KATSAROS, the greatest sorcerer of his time, stared in shock at the battlefield before him, the desolation on the faces of victors and losers alike, the knee-deep mud colored red with the blood of the fallen, and beside him . . . nothing, no one. He stood alone in his victory. Aching at the lives lost, at the price he’d paid. A price that was so much greater than anyone could know. His warriors, the men he loved more than any on this earth, no matter that they were bound by friendship and loyalty instead of blood. They were his brothers.

  And they were gone. One moment, they’d stood, the four strongest, bravest, most loyal warriors a man could ask for, had fought side by side with him until this final battle. The battle that would bring a long-sought peace to his world, would defeat his enemy Sotiris Dellakos, the rival sorcerer whose brutality and heartless pursuit of power had left misery and despair in its wake. They’d been enemies for decades, though it seemed longer. Nicodemus had been still a teenager when they’d first fought. Sotiris confident that his greater years and talent would easily wipe away this child who’d dared to challenge him.