by Laura Wright
“Goddamn Order,” Lucian muttered as he righted himself and slid his gaze over the table in front of him.
As usual, the ten ancient ones were dressed for success—otherwise known as “Please, assholes, be intimidated by us.” Each wore a red monklike robe, had a black circle, a perfect O, branded around their left eye, and each paven had a full beard. But—he squinted, there seemed to be a robe missing. His eyes searched the line of bodies, landing on his father at the end, head covered with his red hood. Only nine accounted for.
Cruen.
The mastermind, the evil one among all the other evil ones who had defected to places unknown. Sounded like a good trick. Maybe the others would follow his lead. Lucian sniffed at that. Maybe not. The Order had yet to find Cruen and bring him to justice for what he had done with Ethan Dare and all those Impure fools who had been destroyed and manipulated in the name of progress, but no doubt they were working their own schemes to find him.
Of the three veana members, the one with skin the color of clay and waist-length hair the color of snow spoke first. “Good evening, Lucian Roman.”
Lucian didn’t have time for making nicey-nice—even if he thought the old assholes before him worthy of it. “Where is she?” he said with undisguised menace.
The veana looked confused, the skin between her brows wrinkling. “Who do you seek, Son of the Breeding Male?”
Oh joy. He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. “Are we really going to play this game? Because if we are then I’m going to need one of those BarcaLounger recliners and a snack.”
“We play at nothing,” she said quickly, seriously.
“And by snack I mean blood; preferably from a female and over ninety-eight degrees.”
Her lip curled with distaste. “It is you who have sought us this eve, Lucian Roman. We felt your presence in the Hollow, pulled you in, and brought you here before us.”
This bunch of relics was working his last goddamn nerve. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Lucian said, heading to the table like they couldn’t incinerate him with just a thought. “I just came from a wall with your scrawl on it. Bronwyn Kettler and the sun. Ring a bell?”
The veana turned to the others at her table. “Did one of you call for Lucian Roman?”
Beyond irritated now, Lucian’s gaze shot to his father, who, like the others, shook his head in response.
“We sent no message, Son of the Breeding Male,” she said, her tone rife with confusion and concern as she turned back to face him. “Bronwyn Kettler has mated. We all witnessed this mating. She is no longer a concern of ours.”
A low growl started in Lucian’s throat. He had no idea what was going on here, but he didn’t like it. “The Order cannot open their mouths without deception bleeding out.”
A paven beside the white-haired veana hissed. “This censure is uncalled for.”
“Lucian, Son of the Breeding Male.” It was Titus now, his hood unmoving, his voice an even thread of calm and reason. “We have made no call to you.”
Jacked up on both irritation and—fuck it—a pretty heavy dose of concern for Bronwyn now, Lucian sneered at his father, and was about to open his mouth and say something ugly and obvious when the paven spoke inside his mind.
“Do not reveal my identity. I beg you.”
“Beg all you want, Daddy,” he mused, lifting his upper lip as he stared at that hood. “This is about Bronwyn now. Your secret is not mine. Your life, your future—none of it is—”
His thoughts, his ire, his near reveal of the paven who had given him life, were interrupted by the white-haired veana. This time her voice demonstrated its own version of irritation. “There is another who has the power to call upon you still.”
As the low rumble of concerned chitchat ebbed up and down the long wood table, Lucian felt the pulse of understanding jar his mind. This game was a sick one, a cruel one—and clearly it wasn’t stopping here.
“Cruen,” he said, his pupils dilating, his skin retracting over his bones—ready for flight, ready for fight.
The veana nodded, her eyes glazed with the anger of one who thought that up until a moment ago they had all the control.
Welcome to my world, Veana. Feels pretty shitty, don’t it?
“So,” Lucian began, having a seat on the Order’s illustrious wood table. He ignored the quick intakes of breath from either side of the veana. “Why would that menace to our breed have a need to call upon me?”
“It seems he has a special interest in you,” she said evenly, though beneath her cool exterior there was more than a sliver of unrest. “We didn’t know it when there was the original call on the Roman brothers. We think Cruen may be trying to draw you in, draw you to him—wherever it is he hides from us, from justice.” She lifted one pale eyebrow. “Did you know that Cruen was the one who created the Breeding Male program?”
Lucian’s gaze shot to Titus.
“Yes, I knew.”
“His main goal was to morph you,” the female continued, “to send you into Breeding Male status.”
“There is another place for us to speak of this, my son.”
Lucian could barely contain his anger, his questions, could barely keep his fangs from extending. Betrayal—ever present when it came to this paven who sired him—surged through his blood. Had his father known about Cruen’s intentions and given Lucian no warning? Piece-of-shit bastard…Using his mental gifts to get inside Lucian’s head, planting ideas and maybe even a little bit of softness in there while he was at it. And now the old paven expected Lucian to keep Titus’s secrets?
The growl that left his throat was meant for the lot of them. They were all fucking with him—it was their greatest pleasure to fuck with the Roman brothers.
“Wasn’t that the Order’s goal?” he said, his tone accusing and ugly as he jumped off the table and headed down the row to stand in front of Titus—who incidentally refused to look at him. “Getting me morphed, sending me into Breeding Male status?”
“No,” the veana confirmed more passionately than she no doubt intended. “We only wanted Dare found and destroyed. Cruen wanted the Romans premorphed. He wanted to see which one of you might have the gene.”
The intensity of Lucian’s ire at that moment threatened to tear his sanity apart. These self-righteous wannabe gods created monsters like him, like his father, and reveled in their abilities, then acted offended and disgusted when the animals didn’t heel the way they wanted them to. And now they pretended to care about his pale ass, pretended they hadn’t fated him to an existence where he was either utterly alone or lost inside the mind and body of a beast in heat…Because—let’s get serious here—those were his only options as he was allowed no true mate in his future.
Well, screw the Order. Screw dear ol’ Daddy. He needed to get off this plane—find that ancient bastard and get the girl back where she belonged.
With him, a voice deep inside his blood uttered maliciously. And just to make things real nice and brutal, the ancient veana with the white hair and clear, gentle voice said it—the thing that was meant to kill his insides and make him beg.
“There is one other thing, Son of the Breeding Male,” she began tentatively. “We have reason to believe Cruen may have an antidote for the Breeding Male gene, something that could possibly turn off the need to breed.”
Lucian didn’t move. In fact, nothing inside him moved—not his blood, his skin, his muscles, not even a twitch as he processed the words thrust upon him. Words that had to be a lie, a manipulation…
His gaze burned into the unseen face below the hood, his father. He waited—waited for confirmation, something inside his mind. But nothing came.
He chuckled, dark and sick. He was a descendant of cowardice. Shit, that was unfortunate.
“How convenient this all is,” he said, walking toward the veana. “And how timely.”
“Perhaps if you help us,” the veana began, her Order status forcing her to use the serendipitous moment to her advantage.
But Lucian wasn’t biting. Hell, he wasn’t even hungry anymore. Time was being wasted…If Cruen truly had Bronwyn, they were in some serious trouble—she was in some serious trouble. He needed to jump on that, not sit here and lap up juicy bits of possibility. Life didn’t run that way for him. No hope, no girl—no happy ending for Lucian Roman.
“Gotta go, boys and girls,” he said, backing up from the table.
“If you bring Cruen to us,” she continued as he moved back, “we will force him to halt the Breeding Male gene inside you.”
Shaking his head, Lucian laughed with centuries of bitterness. “Go fuck yourselves. All of you.”
“Lucian.”
Not a chance, Pop.
“Go! Now!”
The alarmed tone inside his head had Lucian stuttering with sudden panic. What the hell was going on?
“You must go! He knows. God, he wanted you here—wanted you to come here.”
Lucian stared at the male in the robe.
“It is the one place he can latch on to you. I should have realized…I cannot send you back myself—”
For the sixth time that day, Lucian was yanked away, flashed out of one reality and deposited into another. But this time, he was on his own and where he landed looked nothing like the Hollow of Shadows, SoHo, or France—and everything like his jail.
His eyes sliced over the endless scene of blue.
Oh shit.
And her jail…
“Don’t come anywhere near me, Lucian Roman,” she called out, terror in her voice, in her eyes.
7
She wanted to feel no fear. She wanted to pretend that what she’d heard, and understood, and had been threatened with, was all a lie—a sick joke by a sick Beast. But as Lucian appeared out of nowhere at the water’s edge, his eyes finding her in an instant, she buried that hope deep within herself. She was no automaton, no female warrior ready to take on her enemy. She was just a simple veana, a veana who was deeply and profoundly afraid of being taken against her will.
Especially by this paven.
This beautiful, terrifying angel of blood who had given her strength once upon a time when she’d needed it, and had given her shit many a time when she hadn’t wanted it. This one who had ruled her thoughts, her dreams, and her fantasies every night for months. She didn’t want to ever be afraid of him.
Her lip quivered and she bit it. Hard. What would happen now? Would he swim out to her as the animal that her abductor had claimed he was? And if he did, would she have the guts to fight him completely? Would she have the heart to be sickened by him and what he wanted from her?
He moved then. Stepped into the water, lifted his hands expectantly, and called out across the calm sea, “Having a swim, Princess?”
The dark humor that resided in his tone—that always resided in his tone—made her release the breath she was holding in her lungs. There was no feral animal there—not yet anyway. It was him—the him she knew, the one who taunted and teased her.
“Come out of there, Veana,” he called, louder this time. “We have no time for bathing.”
“No,” she called back. “Can’t.”
He tilted his head in curiosity. “Why the hell not?”
She hated to say it—say it out loud, admit it. But what was the choice? “I have no clothes on.”
He made a grunting sound, deep in his throat. “Sure hope not. You’re in the water.”
“I’m in the water because I have no clothes on, Lucian,” she shouted.
His pale brows shot upward. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “So just stay there. We can talk this way.”
“No. Hell no.” He pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto the sand. “I’m not going to caw back and forth like two parrots.”
“Wait…”
He pulled off his pants.
“Stop!”
Oh my God, what was he doing? She shifted on the large rock that held her weight and kept her comfortably above the water, and tried desperately not to stare at his long, lean frame as it became more and more exposed. Her eyes darted from him, from skin, hard muscle to the hill beyond, the palms and the endless stretch of beach.
“If the princess won’t come to the asshole,” he called, “then the asshole will have to come to the princess.”
She backed up a step. “Don’t you dare get in this water.”
He grinned as he walked straight into the sea toward her, only his bottom half covered. “Don’t be shy, Princess. I’ve seen you all wet before. Remember?”
Her face went pink and she lifted her chin. “If you’re referring to your nightly stalking routine, then you should be ashamed to even mention it.”
“Hey. Not my fault. You take a paven’s blood, you get his prowl.”
“I was ill, starving,” she said stiffly. “It was one moment in time, and you did offer it to me. Let’s never forget that.”
“I don’t,” he uttered, just a few feet away now.
She put out a hand to stop him before he got close enough to touch her. Before he got close enough to touch. “That’s far enough.”
His pale brown eyes looked clear. Cocky—but clear. “Nothing to fear from me, Princess. You’re a mated veana now. Your body belongs to another. As does your skin, your unbeating heart, your pu—”
“Stop that,” she warned him, trying desperately not to stare at the smooth crests and valleys of his wide, muscular chest.
He inclined his head. “My apologies. I am a self-confessed heathen. But my point is, your body will only want to give to him. And his mark, his scent, will turn me off—so there’s nothing to worry about here—between us.”
Inside of that moment, Bronwyn felt the breath leave her body and shoot off into the perfect sunset. He had no idea why they were here—or why she had been placed here, nude and scared. Just as he had no idea that the mark on her hand was made, not out of true love, but out of ink and deception.
He was staring at that mark now, his jaw tight. “Nice brand.”
She swallowed tightly. “I think so.”
“I met the paven, by the way,” Lucian said, water lapping at his neck, his hard jaw. “Seems like a huge dick.”
She lifted a brow and quickly jumped to Syn’s defense. “Haven’t seen it yet, but I’ll let you know.”
Lucian’s lip curled.
She shook her head. “This is foolish. This back and forth. We have a serious problem here.”
“I’d say it’s more of a predicament.”
“Come on, Lucian. This is far more than a predicament.”
His shoulders seemed to grow broader, more powerful under his self-assured gaze. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Really? How?” She’d been desperately trying to find a way out for hours. And her only solution so far was to hide in the water.
“At some point, someone will show up—maybe even my half brother,” he added with a sneer, “and tell us what they want.”
“Wait. What?” She stared hard at him. “You knew,” she accused him fiercely, her stomach clenching as her mind processed. “You knew that that monster was the one who abducted me?” She released a shaky breath. “Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with—”
“Hey!” he interrupted her sternly. “Don’t even go there, Veana. This kind of thing ain’t my style.” His gaze flickered with heat. “No matter how into you I may be—or have been,” he corrected himself. “I don’t take what doesn’t belong to me.”
She wondered if he really believed that. She sure as hell didn’t. Lucian Roman had absolutely no moral compass or code. He was a heathen of the first order, and a paven who took whatever he wanted without a thought to consequences. It was unfortunately one of the many things she found attractive about him.
“But you knew about Nicholas’s twin,” she said, pushing that last thought aside.
“Only after your male friend said you were abducted by Nicky.” He cocked his head to the side,
the ends of his white hair licking the water’s surface. “Didn’t take long after that for me to realize the gemino was at work.”
Hours of fear and wondering when Lucian was going to show up, and how he was going to act when he did, erupted inside her. “He took my clothes.”
All humor and easy manner evaporated from him. “What?”
“The gemino,” she said. “That’s why I’m out here…like this. Stripped them right off my body with his magic,” she continued with passion.
Lucian growled. “I’ll kill him.”
Her gaze faltered. “I stood there naked before him while he told me to prepare myself. Told me you were coming for me. That you were coming to…” She stopped. She couldn’t go on, couldn’t say it. Not to his face. No matter how familiar he felt in that moment, in that unfamiliar situation and landscape, the words would not leave her mouth.
Momentarily stunned, Lucian just stared at her. She’d seen him angry, disgusted, arrogant, but she’d never seen him horrified. She’d never seen him with even a trace of fear in his eyes. Until now.
“Lucian?” she began.
“I’ll get us out of here,” he said quickly, his eyes darkening as the skin around his muscles tightened with strain.
Bronwyn bit her lip. “And then…”
“And then I’ll slit the throats of everyone responsible for putting you in my path.” He lowered his chin and said slowly and blackly, “Stay in the water.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find a way out of here.” With that, he turned and dove under the water. With great speed and precision, he swam toward the shore.
Two hours later, after investigating every inch of the “island” and finding nothing but vegetation and more water, Lucian stood on the sand, his chest exposed to the warmth of the false setting sun, his white hair shifting in the manufactured breeze, and faced reality. He could no longer act cavalier and brazenly confident about his ability to get them off this plane.
This was Cruen’s doing—this exquisite prison. It was obvious and purposeful and undeniably worrisome, and as night slowly descended around him, and Bronwyn continued to exist in the sea alone, stand on her rocky perch under the water, Lucian fought for calm inside himself. He was growing weary from hunger, and the scent of her—even with the mark upon her hand and the sizable distance between them—was demanding entrance inside his nostrils.
