by Laura Wright
“You’ll like when we have the key.” As she quickly dried her limbs, there was another knock on the door, harder this time, more insistent.
“Get lost or get bitten!” Lucian shouted at the wood.
“Stop that now,” Bronwyn scolded as she grabbed her nightgown and pulled it over her head. She wasn’t altogether dry and the thin cotton fabric clung to every hill and valley she possessed. That would not do, she mused, grabbing a blanket off the chair near the fire and wrapping it around her shoulders.
“Stay where you are, Bron,” Lucian said darkly, straining at his chain, his eyes still locked on the door, “Cruen is trying to get to us, to you.”
Bronwyn laughed, wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, and headed for the door. “Do you really think Cruen or any of his recruits would come knocking on our door to capture us?”
She had a point. “Not unless they were incredibly stupid,” he said with deep irritation and heat.
“Or wanted to borrow a cup of sugar.” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him. Him with his sculpted chest, piercing eyes, and hard, beautiful features.
He softened a fraction and whispered, “Don’t open it.”
“You’re acting as though I’m taking away your freedom instead of trying to give it back to you,” she said, her brows lifted. “The key to your release awaits, Vampire.”
“You are the only key to my release,” she heard him whisper as she opened the door.
Her body felt heavy and inflamed by his words, but the sight that greeted her outside the wooden door cast those feelings away like a stiff breeze. No guards waited expectantly, but a veana. She was a striking veana of about Bronwyn’s height and her mother’s age, and she stood there with her hands in the pockets of her blue dress, her dark green eyes cast in the shadow of her mood, curious and concerned. She was long and willowy and had the most beautiful hair Bron had ever beheld. Hundreds of perfectly shaped ringlets fell around her face and kissed her shoulders in a color that could not be forced; it was as if the afternoon had found its most perfect shade of dappled sunlight.
“I apologize if I’m disturbing ye, lass,” she said, her voice as soft and pretty as her hundred ringlets. “Would ye be Bronwyn Kettler, then?”
Before Bron could answer, before she could even ask if the veana had come with news of the Impure guards, Lucian growled behind her and called out, “Fucking hell.”
The veana blushed, the color soaring up her high cheekbones, making her green eyes glow with fire and with fear.
“Do not step foot in this house, madam,” Lucian shouted, his tone so vicious Bronwyn wondered what in the world this veana had done to make him act so.
Tears sprang to the veana’s eyes, and she said to Bronwyn in a soft voice, “It’s good to hear his voice even if he doesna want to hear mine.”
A slow roll of understanding moved through Bron and yet she still asked, “Who are you?”
She smiled gently. “His ma.”
The opposing emotions inside of Bronwyn in that moment nearly tore her apart. She stood in the doorway, gripping the wood for support, knowing this veana was telling the truth, as only Lucian’s blood could find its way here, through the Order’s barriers and charms. She cared for Lucian more than she wanted to admit, even to herself, and the impulse to protect him against a veana whom he’d told her was unloving, uncaring, and had tossed him into a torturous school situation for her own convenience was strong. And yet this veana with her blond curls and anxious expression appeared anything but callous.
“Tell her to go,” Lucian snarled behind her. “Tell her never to come back here if she values her life.”
Bronwyn hesitated. She wasn’t sure what to do. She wanted to honor Lucian’s wishes, but she also wanted to find out the truth. Clearly Lucian’s account of the past wasn’t the complete one. This was no monster standing before her. Of course looks could be deceiving—she knew that all too well.
“Perhaps another time,” Bronwyn said to the veana. “When he’s more—”
“Perhaps never!” Lucian shouted.
The veana glanced past Bron and called out, “I only wish to see ye for a moment, Balas.”
“Balas,” he spit out.
“See if ye are well,” she continued quickly, almost desperately.
“You want to see if I am well, Mama?” he roared, the chains that held him rattling in the background as he surged forward. “Fine! Open the door, Bron. Let my mother come inside and inspect me.”
Bronwyn eyed the veana seriously, knowing that this was a volatile situation and would no doubt turn uglier if she took another step farther. “I think another time would be better, don’t you—,” she began.
But Lucian cut her off. “Let her inside, goddamn it!” he snarled. “Let her see the monster she created!”
The chains of his birth held him captive in both body and blood, and as the veana walked through the door and entered the cottage his world went from warm and pleasant and safe to all darkness, all brutal despair. Her eyes were heavy with sadness and guilt and, God help him, love, as she closed the distance between them, but all Lucian could feel was the weight of the credenti on her, of the community that had both seen his entrance into the world and had found a way to make him unwelcome and abhorrent in it every day afterward.
Shit. He wanted to look away, look down as she stopped in front of him, her gaze roaming over him, her hands twitching at her sides. It was the balas inside him that felt the shame, the wee one who had learned very early on who he was, who he had come from and who had knowingly brought him into the world.
But the paven he had become, the pureblood Breeding Male that he was now, refused to drop his gaze.
“Is this a proud moment for you, Mama?” he asked, his fangs descending over his lower lip as he stretched out his arms and let her take a good look at what she’d wrought on the world.
Her gaze started at his shackles and traveled the length of him. Horror, sadness, fear, regret all glistened in her evergreen eyes, and she shook her head. “I am not proud of this, surely.” Her eyes lifted to meet his own. “But of ye.”
He laughed, though buried deep within himself was an adolescent wish for her arms around him. “Don’t pretend you care,” he uttered.
“I pretend nothing, Balas,” she said fiercely.
He inclined his head, spoke through gritted teeth, “I am no balas. Not anymore.”
“Stop, Lucian.” Behind his mother, Bronwyn closed the door. She came to stand beside his mother and spoke clearly and gently. “Can I get you something? To drink? A chair?”
“She’s not staying,” Lucian stated flatly. “She’s seen her little circus freak and now she can go.”
Bronwyn turned to him then, her eyes as fierce as his own. “You need to calm down before you say something you’ll regret.”
“Not possible.”
“Or do something you’ll regret.” She lifted her brows. “Like implode.”
Lucian growled at her and turned, headed for the wall. He wasn’t going to sit around and watch her entertain his mother with tea and tales.
“What is your name?” Bronwyn asked.
“I was born Maidan, but I have been called Mai for nearly as long,” she said, her tone relaxing a hair. “And ye are Bronwyn Kettler.”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like a right good Scottish name. Where do ye hail from, lass?”
“Boston,” Bronwyn said. “But I am part Scot.”
He could practically hear his mother smile. She would not make an ally here, not from her—not from his Bron.
“And a very pretty Scot ye are,” she said, a touch of the sadness leaving her tone. “Our Luca has brilliant taste, does he not?”
“There is no ‘our,’” Lucian said, whirling around, his ire once against provoked. “There is no conversation with my veana—you will be no friend to her. You need to leave now before the Breeding Male returns.” His brow arched. “Or perhaps that is why you ca
me. Too witness my descent into madness. Did the Order contact you directly, let you know your piece-of-shit balas has returned with the disease you forced upon him?”
“Lucian!” Bronwyn said, shocked.
“’Tis all right, lass.” His mother kept her eyes down as she walked to the door and opened it wide. “I know ye wish me not to bother ye again, and I’ll try to honor ye, but it willna be easy. I do love ye, Balas.”
The blood inside Lucian began to churn, the blood of her, the blood of Bronwyn, the blood of his father. His veins felt tight and constricted, as if all the oxygen were being sucked out by a force he couldn’t see or control. Then everything hit at once, the hunger, the lust, the anger, the pain, and as his mother walked out his door into the day, his head fell back and he let loose the mournful wail of a paven who truly had no life, no love, and no chance for either in his future.
Maine was fucking cold.
Witch’s tit kind of cold.
After stuffing the driver’s pockets with cash, Alexander jumped inside the sleek black town car that hovered in the circular driveway and grabbed the seat opposite Nicky. Sara remained in the front, her weapon at the ready in case the male driver decided to get greedy. All three of them had just received the brush-off from the senator’s staff, and Alex hadn’t thought it wise to get physical with that many witnesses inside the politician’s home. They were able to get one piece of needed information, though—Dillon was on detail with the senator.
Now, all they needed to do was find the man.
Alexander scented the human woman before she even had a stiletto inside the car.
He nodded to Nicky, who moved in, close to the door, ready for the woman to step all the way inside. She barely had her ass to the leather before the door slammed shut and the car took off.
Mrs. Senator gasped and dropped back against the seat, looking like she’d just shit an icicle. Her chest rising and lowering at a clipped pace, she looked from Alexander to Nicholas, then to the driver and Sara, her knuckles white as she clutched her purse to her chest.
“Please don’t scream,” Alexander said easily. “The driver’s paid not to hear you, and I will be far friendlier if you remain calm.”
“What do you want?” she asked, pure terror in her tone as her gaze caught and held on Alexander’s facial brands. “If it’s money, my husband won’t pay. Can’t. Negotiating with kidnappers or terrorists isn’t done in American political families these days, or haven’t you heard?”
Nicholas chuckled softly. “We’re not here to terrorize or kidnap you.”
“Then what do you want?” she demanded, her pulse pounding against the vein in her throat.
“Information,” Alexander said simply, watching her press herself back into the seat as far as she could go. He was across from her, knees splayed, arms resting on the back of the seat with absolutely no interest in making her feel comfortable in his presence. “Where’s your husband tonight?”
She swallowed hard, shook her head. “I have no idea.”
“You’re wasting our time,” Nicholas said, leaning toward her. “Please don’t do that. We have a tendency to get irritated rather quickly.”
“I rarely know where my husband is these days,” she said disdainfully. “He was picked up at the airport by his bodyguard—”
“His female bodyguard, right?” Alexander interrupted sharply.
Her expression changed dramatically. From one brand of fear to another. “Yes. Why?”
“She is the one we seek,” Nicky said, as the world rushed by outside the window. “What airport? Public or private airstrip?”
The woman didn’t answer him. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her face was a mask of concern. Far more concern than she’d shown when they’d asked for the location of her husband, Alexander mused drily.
“What do you want with Dillon?” she demanded. “How do you know her?”
“She’s a friend,” Alexander said, feeling Sara’s growing anxiety in the front seat. “We need to speak with her immediately. We can’t get ahold of her. Haven’t for quite some time, and we’re…concerned.”
Going for the sympathy card was the right move, Alexander realized as Mrs. Senator leaned forward, her hand to her neck.
“You think she’s in danger?” the woman said, fear threading in her voice. “She’s so strong, so tough. He wouldn’t hurt her; he—”
“What?” Alexander said, cutting her off. “He? Who is ‘he’?”
Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She glanced down, at her left hand—at the band of diamonds encircling her finger.
“Are we talking about your husband?” Alexander pushed, his skin tightening. “Why the hell would he hurt his bodyguard?”
She shifted in her seat, bit her heavily painted lower lip.
Alexander leaned forward and snarled, “Speak, woman.”
She gasped and the words came out in a rush. “It’s nothing. My husband had someone watching me—watching us. But it’s impossible. I’m sure she’s fine. She can’t be hurt. Not with what…she…is.” Her eyes flipped up, locked with Alexander’s.
Fuck me! Alexander growled inwardly. And he heard Sara and Nicholas tossing off a few choice curses as well as they got wise to what the woman was saying. Unbelievable…Dillon had told this woman what she was. Stupid veana! Shit. How could that horny little vampire be so fucking foolish?
His eyes narrowed on the woman in front of him. “Your husband’s cell number. Now.”
She rattled off the number, and as she did Alexander eyed Nicholas.
“Take the memory from her—all of it.”
Nicholas nodded.
“I’ll get a location.”
Nicholas moved toward the woman, his fangs extending. “Won’t hurt a bit, female. In fact, after what you just told us, you may even enjoy it.”
22
Bronwyn closed the door with more force than was necessary, the action indicative of her mood. Nostrils flaring, she turned to face the albino paven, her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with you?”
Pacing the floor, his shackles clanking angrily, Lucian spat out, “I don’t know, Princess. Perhaps I’m just an asshole. Is that what you wish to hear?”
“Yes,” she said, her gaze following him, watching as the skin on his naked chest pulled against the hard muscle. “And arrogant and foolish and cruel and—”
“When you’re done running down the list of my less esteemed qualities”—his head turned and his eyes lanced through her, rabid with heat—“I need you.”
A momentary wave of fear rushed at her. Was it back—the claws of the Breeding Male? Or was this something else? Desire? Anger?
“Your blood,” he said, stopping and reaching out for her. “I need it.” He growled low and irritated. “She riled me up.”
Bronwyn took a deep breath, attempting to channel some patience. No, this wasn’t the Breeding Male. She saw the control in his eyes. This was about his mother, his anger, his resentment. This was about Bronwyn giving him comfort, drowning the memories of his past with her blood.
“No,” she said evenly, calmly. “Not yet.”
He looked shocked and displeased. “What do you mean, not yet?” he ground out. “I need you, Princess.”
“Tough shit, Paven.”
Lucian’s brows shot up.
She pointed a finger at him. “I have something to say to you first.”
“Can you say it in my arms?” he said, his eyes softening with a gentle lust. “Lying beneath me? With your blood fusing to mine?”
She released a loud, frustrated groan. “You lied, Lucian. You lied. To me—to all of us.”
Her words killed the lust in his eyes and he walked forward, as far as his chain would allow. Bronwyn didn’t move, though her insides clenched, waited. He stopped a foot away from her, his chin tilted up. She could feel his tension, his trauma. It was as if the sun had suddenly gone running to the clouds for shelter, leaving only gray streams of light to enter th
e cottage windows.
“All of us?” he ground out, his lips lifting into a daring sneer.
“I’m assuming your brothers think you had a horrible mother and balas—”
“Don’t assume, Princess,” he growled. “As I said, I’m the ass here.”
“I don’t get it.” She shook her head. “Why would you do it?”
In that moment, his gaze moved over her face, her chin, her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth. He looked almost capable of confiding in her. Almost. Then he uttered, “My business is my own.”
“Wrong answer if you want my blood.”
His fangs descended and he cursed. “I have a horrible mother, Princess. Whether you want to believe it or not.”
“That veana”—she pointed to the door—“who was here a moment ago didn’t seem all that horrible to me.”
“Your opinion,” he returned.
“In fact, she seemed rather lovely.”
He snorted.
“She seemed kind, and nice, and grieved over your—”
“That’s enough.”
“She seemed like a mother.”
“She’s a whore!”
Bronwyn gasped. Truly gasped, because she couldn’t have heard him correctly—she prayed she hadn’t heard him correctly. She knew Lucian was capable of saying all kinds of things, the worst of the worst, but this—this was about his mother. A body, a soul who had given him life. She never thought he’d go that far. She never thought the paven she had come to care about so deeply would go that far.
She stared at him, her eyes wide, praying he’d take it back so she wouldn’t have to stop caring about him as she did. But he just returned her stare, defiant as the first day she met him, looking down at her from the library balcony in SoHo. “That is…God, Lucian…How could you even say something like that?”
“Because it is truth,” he answered, passion in his tone now—the passion of one who hates. Perhaps he didn’t like what he was saying, but he sure as hell believed it. “She lay with the Breeding Male. My father, the animal, the monster, the rapist.”
“So did many,” Bronwyn countered fiercely, ire replacing any thread of melancholy as she thought of her sister—her poor sister. “They had no choice. My sister had no choice. Would you call her a whore?”
