Vivienne was having such a good time goading her with sarcastic and snide remarks, she didn’t notice they’d picked up more of an audience.
After Sloan had received an angry phone call from Conall, he’d stripped, jumped through a back window, and allowed his nose to take him to Vivienne. The pack members he passed, sensing his urgency, had followed. And there they all stood, watching from the shadows as Vivienne bantered with Samia. She looked poised, an aloof smile on her face, even as Samia raged against her.
“You—”
“Weak, pathetic bitch? Weak, skinny bitch? Weak bitch? Or just bitch?” Vivienne shook her head and clucked her tongue. “You’ll have to do much better than that. You’re becoming boringly predictable.”
Samia pushed into her face once more, and Vivienne did a mental count from one to five to keep herself from ramming her backward. There was something called personal space and Samia was all up in hers.
“You will never satisfy him, witch,” she spat, and for all the venom in the word she might as well have called her a bitch, or something worse. Vivienne sighed and tried to look bored. Samia wasn’t finished. “You can’t satisfy him because you don’t know how. Your kind is weak, barely better than a humans, and he will grow tired of controlling himself so he doesn’t break you. Soon, he’ll leave your bed and come to mine and while he’s there, I’ll remind him what a true mate does for her wolf.” Samia paused, grinning as Vivienne tensed. “Has he pinned you yet?”
Vivienne allowed her guard to slip when her brows furrowed. What the hell did she mean by pinned?
“No? Of course not.” Pleased with herself, Samia smiled and leaned closer, placing her lips directly over Vivienne’s ear. “He won’t pin you, but he always pins me.”
Somewhere between Samia’s bringing up Conall and telling Vivienne that he’d pinned her—she didn’t have to know what it was to know that it was a sexual act—a red haze began to cloud her sight.
Sensing her rising anger, Samia pressed her advantage. “Every night before he found you, he fucked me like the animal he is, and pinned me under him. And every night after he tires of you, he’ll do the same. Fuck me, pin me, mate me.” And then she did it. The thing that pushed Vivienne over the edge. Her tongue snaked out and touched Vivienne’s earlobe.
After that, things happened in rapid-fire succession. Vivienne blasted her. She didn’t know how, but she’d intended to shove her hard. Her hands hit Samia right between her two perfect breasts, and the bitch went flying. Samia’s body made a sickening thud as it collided with a tree, but she was up in seconds, charging forward. Instinct drove Vivienne as she set her feet apart, let her arms fall to her sides, and held her ground. Her body felt like an electrical circuit. Something dark and utterly delicious had taken over.
The noise in the background blended, becoming one garbled sound. All she could focus on was Samia: Samia’s rapidly pounding heartbeat, the flowing red hair that whipped behind her as she ran, the snapping of twigs and dry leaves as her feet pounded against them.
Eli appeared in front of Vivienne, but she sidestepped him, wanting Samia to advance. She felt powerful. Invincible. And she’d had just about enough of that bitch.
As Samia closed in, Sloan was suddenly there, catching the angry woman and hauling her backward. She screamed and clawed at him, and Vivienne watched as three long, red lines opened along Sloan’s cheek before he slipped into a form that was neither man nor wolf, but both. A hybrid form. He wrestled Samia to the ground and held her arms above her head as she screamed obscenities.
Vivienne’s vision cleared. The red slipped away and she shook her head, struggling to understand what had just happened. Turning around, she noticed that several of the pack members were staring at her in confusion.
“Stop!” It was a growl, a warning.
Vivienne looked back to where Sloan and Samia were. She was still struggling, and he was restraining her, using more and more force. Suddenly, Samia stilled and Sloan released her. She jumped to her feet. Immediately, Vivienne saw the rage, the embarrassment, the pain in her gaze. She also saw the bright red mark in the center of her chest where she’d hit her.
“Go home, Samia,” Sloan growled. “Get yourself cleaned up.”
Samia bared her teeth at him, but after a tense moment, began walking. Vivienne gasped when she saw the bloody scratches along Samia’s back. They were healing already, but she could still make them out. She’d taken a few steps when she turned and looked over her shoulder. In a low voice, she said, “They can’t protect you forever. I will have my blood rite, witch, and then no one—” she broke off to glare at Sloan “—no one will save you from me.”
When she’d disappeared into the trees, Sloan turned to face Vivienne. He’d shifted back to his human form, and looked murderous. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d obviously done something wrong. Maybe it had something to do with giving Samia what had been coming to her for a long while.
He approached her in clipped steps, and took her arm. It wasn’t a painful hold, but it was firm.
“We’re going back to the house. Walk.”
“I can walk by myself, Sloan,” she murmured, pulling at his hold. He began to move, and she followed, tugging at her arm all the way. She didn’t want to say anything to embarrass him for in truth she didn’t need any more enemies in this place, but he wasn’t her father, and she wasn’t a child.
As soon as they entered the house and Eli closed the door, Vivienne tugged harder. When he didn’t release her, she looked up into those cold eyes. “Sloan, I’m not a child. Let go of my arm.”
He didn’t say anything, which she expected—she’d almost thought the man was mute—and she repeated her request.
“You say you’re not a child, but you just acted like one.” Vivienne wasn’t sure what surprised her more. That he’d spoken so many words at one time, or that she’d just been set down by a man she didn’t know.
Anger won out. Who the hell did he think he was? She’d been goaded. She had the patience of a saint, and Samia had completely crossed the line by licking her ear. She wasn’t going to justify it to him. She wasn’t a child, and Sloan, beta or theta or whatever the hell he was, was going to have to get that through his thick skull.
“Release me now.” Her voice was whiplash soft, and she held herself still.
“Or what? Will you use your powers to blast me as well?”
Vivienne yanked her arm, trying to dislodge him, but only succeed in hurting her arm. She winced as her arm began to throb and he slackened his hold.
“There are rules. You cannot go around—” he began in a calmer tone of voice but she was beyond listening.
“Get off of me!” she hissed, pulling her body away from him even as he held her arm.
***
Sloan blinked at the burst of strength and used his other arm to secure her. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted her to listen. The fact that Samia had instigated the fight hadn’t gone over his head. He and everyone witnessing them had seen Samia touch Vivienne first, but she hadn’t drawn blood. The law would still favor Samia as Vivienne had drawn blood…again. Samia’s previous demand for a blood rite was still pending but with this new attack, it was almost definite she was going to get it.
“Vivienne!”
“No!” She pushed against him, shaking her head when he refused to budge.
“Sloan, maybe you should let her go. She doesn’t look so good.” Eli’s voice sounded far away.
***
She closed her eyes. There it was again. The darkness. It was clouding her mind, swarming her senses, and this time, weakening her body. A lock clicked, and what sounded like footsteps rushed into the room. She heard a curse, and pushed weakly at Sloan.
“Release…me.” To her own ears, her voice was whispery-soft, barely there.
Sloan was suddenly off her, and she heard a grunt and distinct thud, followed by swift curses as she fell backward, allowing the warm arms of darkness to ensnare her.
Conall couldn’t find words to explain the rage overpowering his body. When Vivienne had projected her fear to him, he had been about half an hour away from Cedar Creek. After the call to Sloan, he’d driven like a maniac, cutting the journey down to fifteen minutes, and had stepped through his door to find Sloan holding his struggling and distressed mate.
He’d reacted immediately, rushing Sloan and throwing him up against the wall with such force the wall cracked.
Caught off guard, Sloan gripped his shirt, but gradually, he relaxed. Conall wasn’t appeased in the least. He slammed him into the wall again. A grimace touched Sloan’s lips, but he remained immobile, his eyes watchfully alert.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Vivienne whimpered somewhere behind him, and Conall briefly took his gaze off Sloan to look at his mate. She was on the floor unconscious, her head in Eli’s lap. A growl erupted in his chest at the intimate position, and he had to force himself to remember that Eli had caught her, broken her fall. Her breathing was even, but her mind…. Her mind was filled with garbled voices, whispers. It was all erratic. She’d suffered some form of trauma.
Conall’s vision blurred, and his grip on Sloan tightened.
“I didn’t hurt her, Conall.” Sloan’s voice was calm as he tried to rationalize what had happened. He shook his head slowly. “I was holding her—”
A growl escaped his lips as he returned his attention to Sloan. He’d been holding her? Why was he even touching her?
“Change!” he commanded, stepping away from Sloan and pulling at the expensive cream tie he’d donned with the three-piece navy blue suit. It was all coming off, and then he was going to physically explain to his beta why touching his mate was off limits.
Sloan held up a hand, as if doing so would succeed in calming the frantically stripping alpha.
“Conall, I didn’t—”
“CHANGE!”
“Oh, shit.” That was from Raoul, who’d just entered the room to find an unconscious Vivienne, a pissed-off, screaming Conall, and Sloan, looking extremely uncomfortable against the wall.
“What’d you do, Sloan?” Even as Raoul playfully asked the question, he tensed, preparing to get between two brawling werewolves if there was need. Waves of anger rolled off Conall, and Raoul remembered a time, not so long ago, that he and Sloan had had to cage Conall. Except now, there was no cage, and his backup was the focus of the alpha’s rage.
“Conall, I don’t think—” Sloan began, only to be cut off by Conall’s snarl.
“I said CHANGE!” Buttons popped and fell against the wooden floor as Conall pulled at his shirt.
“Conall.” Zahira stood in the doorway, the voice of reason inside the madness threatening to erupt. Her eyes were only for Conall. She moved forward quickly, and knelt beside Vivienne, touching a hand to her head.
The unconscious female groaned, whimpering as she twisted back and forth.
Upon seeing the strain on his mate’s face, Conall turned back to Sloan, intent on finishing what he’d started, when Zahira called out, “Help me, Conall.” When he returned his gaze to Zahira, she lifted an impatient brow at him. “I would imagine it’s not comfortable on the floor.”
With a glare to Sloan that said clearly ‘this is not over’, he marched over to Vivienne and gently scooped her into his arms. He positioned her comfortably against his chest and headed for the stairs. Zahira was the only one to follow him.
***
“Help him.”
Over the past days, Maximilian Cronin had tried everything in his power to do exactly what he was asking of the warlock, to help his son. He’d gone through numerous reversal spells, had tried a resurrection spell, and had even gone as far as to bring a human, hoping to entice Max to take his soul. Nothing worked. His body had grown tired, frail almost, with the amount of exertion he’d used as he attempted to bring Max out of this state. He refused to think of his son as dead. He was not breathing, but his heart beat had returned minutes after he’d cast that bedamned spell on himself, and though faint, his heartbeat was still there. He needed him back. Yes, he wanted his memories so that he could find the two girls, but Max was his heir. He’d been bred meticulously to maximize the reach of his power. Maximilian had trained his son personally. He would not sit idly by and let him slip away.
Kyros, the warlock to whom Maximilian had spoken, took a restricted step forward, the silver chains along his feet rattling. His pale blue body was dirty with the filth of weeks without a proper bath, and he smelled. Still, he walked proudly, his back straight, his head high.
“He is dead,” Kyros responded blandly, turning his swirling silver gaze on the Grand Wizard who’d imprisoned him.
“He is not dead. Help him and you’ll have your freedom.” Maximilian watched as a white brow lifted, and a smirk appeared on Kyros’s lips. Had he not needed his help, he would have had him beaten for that.
Kyros was one of two pure-breed warlocks he’d captured to add to his laboratory. The rest, almost a handful more, were all half-breeds. What he couldn’t accomplish through spells, he’d hoped to do through science. So far, he hadn’t found any cure for mortality. He’d tried splicing the genetics of various immortals, to no avail, but he had found other uses for the warlocks. Even Max’s mother, a hybrid he’d captured, had served the purpose of bearing his heir.
“It cannot be done, my lord,” Kyros spat, moving closer to inspect the body of the man lying across the slim hospital bed. “If he’s not dead yet, he’s surely dying.”
Kyros turned and began heading for the door. Maximilian barely resisted the urge to strangle him. Despite his imprisonment, almost for six months now, Kyros still acted every bit as arrogant as he had the first time he’d been captured and brought to the lab.
“He is one of yours,” Maximilian said, grinding his teeth at that thought. Max wasn’t one of them; he was a witch whose genes happened to have traces of warlock.
The warlock stopped, and turned his head, fixing Maximilian with a stare that was by far too all-encompassing. Kyros moved back over to the bed, and placed his pale blue hand against Max’s heart. He drew in a deep breath, and stilled.
Minutes trickled by before he lifted his hand and said, “There are no guarantees, but I know of a way to help warlocks in such conditions.”
“Do it.”
“I will need my powers at their fullest,” Kyros said slowly, looking over his shoulder to where Maximilian hovered. The Grand Wizard reluctantly nodded. Kyros was always kept weakened, as were most of the warlocks, because of the threat they could be when at their best. Still, Maximilian would deal with that later, after his son was alive.
“Whatever you need, you will have it.”
An almost feline smile touched Kyros’s lips. “I will need two souls, strong souls. Witches, perhaps?” He looked back to Max, and continued, “It would be kind of you to volunteer, my lord.”
Maximilian ignored the last part, and motioned to one of the trackers lining the opposite wall.
“Two civilians,” he instructed, and the tracker vanished. Within seconds, he returned with two younger witches. He pushed them forward and retook his position by the wall.
“Please, my lord, we have done nothing—” one of the witches began. Maximilian held up a hand, smiling reassuringly.
***
Kyros watched as the two witches slowly relaxed before they approached him in a trance-like manner. It was obvious Cronin was controlling them. Hunger, his friend and confidant, reared its head as the first witch reached him, and he caught his shirt collar, pulling the boy close. He opened his mouth and inhaled deeply, welcoming the white mist that left the boy’s mouth and entered his own body, strengthening him. Feeling the boy’s strength ebb, his body grow cold, Kyros forced himself to stop. When he released him, the boy fell to the ground unconscious but alive. He did the same to the other, taking as much of his soul as possible without killing him, before turning to the warlock
on the bed. He wasn’t a full-blood but the part of him that was still alive, the heart still beating, was definitely that of a warlock.
Placing a warm hand over Max’s cold chest, Kyros recited a quick spell in his native Greek before holding out his free hand. A sharp knife appeared, and the trackers rushed forward, halting only when the grand wizard barked orders for them to keep away.
Lifting the knife to the skin of his wrist, he made a quick, deep slice. Blood poured immediately, and he pressed his flesh to the other’s lips. A light breath escaped as pale blue lips opened, and before long, Max was pulling strongly at his vein. When Kyros would have removed his arm, the man’s hand ensnared his, holding it securely against his lips. He tugged, but it was futile. The grip was strong, and in such a position, Kyros was defenseless. Unless he wanted to seriously injure them both, he would have to get him to release him of his own will.
“That is enough, brother,” he said slowly, reverting to his native language. The man’s lids lifted, and silver-blue gazes clashed, before Kyros felt the grip loosen.
He licked the cut, watching as the skin closed beneath the deep red of his blood. The healing agent in their saliva was one helpful trait from vampire ancestors.
“Is he restored?” Maximilian asked from behind him.
Kyros resisted the urge to snarl, and shook his head. “Not yet.”
A howl of pain erupted from the man on the bed and he bared his teeth. The tendons in his neck stuck out, and Maximilian rushed forward, pushing Kyros out of the way.
“What’s happening?”
Seeing the concern on the Grand Wizard’s face, Kryos smiled and said heartlessly, “His body is dying.”
A full-blooded warlock could survive a blood transfusion from another, due to their relation to vampires, but a mixed breed, a hybrid, had about as much chance of living after ingesting the blood as he had of dying.
Taken by Moonlight Page 26
