by Tessa Dawn
The maid giggled, conspiratorially. “I think you should make him take you somewhere fancy, Miss Talia, definitely a five-star restaurant. Then order something really, really spicy and burp a lot. Hell, pass gas…break wind…just fart and fart and fart. Then pick your nose between courses—maybe he’ll bring you home early. Better yet, maybe he’ll call off the engagement.” Even as she laughed, her keen, watchful eyes swept over Natalia’s empty fourth finger, and they both arrived at the same conclusion: a ring.
Natalia nodded. “Shit. You think my father finally picked a date? Maybe Oskar’s taking me out to give me a ring? If so, he should be on his best behavior. Despite his arrangement with Papa, he’ll still want me to say yes to a proposal.”
Sylvia wrinkled her pert little nose and shrugged. “Possibly. At least that would make sense—why the sudden need for a private date.” She hung her head in sympathy, regathered her composure, and switched her attention back to the closet. “Come. Let’s look through your wardrobe and find a dress.” As she pranced in the direction of the enormous walk-in cabinet, she glanced over her shoulder and turned up her lip. “Just remember: spicy. Something really, really spicy, Miss Talia!”
Giggling, because she couldn’t help it, Natalia set the pillow aside. “I’ll be right there,” she called after Sylvia, waiting to reach for the silver phone until the maid had completely disappeared behind the panel.
You still there? she texted Santos.
Always, cara mia. ALWAYS.
Whoa…he was calling her darling—my dear, to be exact—in Italian, and he wrote the last word in caps—her heart skipped a funny beat. Maid is still here. I have to go. We have to find a dress for tomorrow night. She backtracked and inserted the words for an event tomorrow night, before hitting the send button.
As expected, Santos shot a question right back: What kind of event?
Natalia sighed.
Blessed Mother of Mercy, she had to be careful.
Very, very careful.
Just dinner, she typed, here at the house with some family friends, discussing some charity business, nothing criminal or too eventful. She grimaced at the lie, but it had to be told. The entire affair should last two to three hours, she added, hoping she hadn’t just made a misstep by going out of her way to downplay it.
That wasn’t on your schedule, he quickly shot back.
Natalia chewed on her fingernail, thinking… True, she finally texted. Last-minute change of plans, nothing too unusual. She held her breath and waited.
What time do the guests arrive?
She sighed. Eight. Then she quickly hit the backspace button, typed in nine instead, and pressed send.
If she knew Santos, which she obviously did not—but she had certainly garnered a feel for his possessive, protective nature: the license and entitlement he took with Natalia that she wasn’t so sure she appreciated—she could imagine him popping in at exactly eight o’clock, catching a glimpse of Oskar’s limo, and ripping the doors off the hinges.
Hell, flying through the air and chasing the vehicle, disguised as a vampire bat.
Could Santos actually do that?
Did vampires shift into bats?
Natalia had no idea, and she didn’t care to find out. As far as she was concerned, she only knew that Oskar Vadovsky and Santos Olaru were a disaster waiting to happen: two primal, alpha males, one with the soul of the devil, and one being fueled by an ancient curse, which had to make him feel somewhat desperate. In her mind’s eye, she could picture Oskar brandishing a gun or saying something vile to Santos, and then the vampire would twist Oskar’s head off his neck, put his body in the trunk, and cart Natalia away before Sunday. Or worse: Oskar might unload his weapon into Santos, eliminating all hope and possibility for the women being held in The Fortress. Either way, it was a lose-lose proposition.
And always—absolutely always—Natalia could see those stunning, otherworldly, faery-princess eyes, the ones that belonged to that four-year-old girl, and she was reminded of the high-stakes game she was forced to play, every day of her life.
She could see her father overreacting to his livelihood being threatened, to the imminent risk of incarceration, or to Natalia having been disobedient—and what would be a greater disobedience than the challenge, attention, and confrontation of another man? How would she ever explain Santos’ presence?
She could see The Fortress burning.
She could hear bullets explode in rapid fire.
She could picture those eyes, the ones that always haunted her, closing for a final time.
And she could never, ever live with the guilt.
At least this way, if Santos decided to check up on her, he would be an hour late.
Please shoot me a list of first and last names—the guests who are coming to dinner, Santos texted. Then text me again, tomorrow night, both when the guests arrive and when they depart. If plans change again, I’d like to hear about it.
Natalia stared at the commanding message, chills running up and down her spine.
The vampire-sentinel was not playing games.
He was giving her three days before he claimed her because he understood her predicament, but he wasn’t about to back off. And challenging him now would only be foolish.
At least he hadn’t questioned her story.
Will do, she texted, keeping it short and sweet—she could come up with a list of plausible names, and she could also tread water until Sunday, continue to play her father’s game…
She could even endure Oskar Vadovsky for another three days, and then, if Santos and his fellow warriors were truly capable of doing all he’d claimed, she would at least be free to choose, going forward: free of her overwhelming responsibility to the women in The Fortress; free to run, to hide, or to try to resist. Free for the first time in as long as she could remember—her choices would finally be her own.
Well, not exactly…
She would have a whole new nightmare to contend with because, as sexy and alluring as Santos was, she had no intentions of trading one prison for another, becoming the bride of a vampire. But she would cross that bridge when she came to it.
One day.
One hour.
One minute at a time.
Right now, she needed to join Sylvia in the closet and find a dress she could wear with elbow-length gloves—something that would hide the enigmatic markings on her inner left wrist, the brand of ownership affixed by the gods, the stamp of her latest would-be captor.
Chapter Ten
2:00 AM
“Explain this shit again,” Ramsey Olaru groused, standing in the center of Santos’ living room like a menacing giant, his heavily muscled arms crossed over his iron chest. “Why that female…your destiny…Natalia Giovanni, isn’t already here in this lake house?”
Santos regarded Ramsey circumspectly, aware of Saxson’s demeanor as well—the second twin was sitting on the edge of Santos’ sofa, cracking his knuckles and popping his neck. Both males were clearly amped up and loaded for bear. “You have all the details, Ramsey,” Santos said, a hint of exasperation in his voice, “but in a nutshell, and if I must repeat it: The entire fortress is like one enormous grenade, and Natalia’s body is the safety pin. Her obedience is all that’s securing the fuse. If I pull her from the Giovanni compound, that metaphorical grenade goes boom, and everyone in it disintegrates. Clear enough?”
Ramsey harrumphed. “So it’s a metaphor, not an actual bomb?”
Santos chuckled. “Yes, brother; it’s a metaphor. No idea how Giovanni worked out the potential annihilation of the women. I only know we have to get in and out, real quick. And that means removing what could be a hundred or more women in under fifteen minutes; preparing to take out Giovanni’s goons; avoiding or neutralizing any local law enforcement or meddling humans; and getting everyone transported to someplace safe. There are a lot of unknown variables, but it should be doable—just so long as Napolean gives the thumbs-up.”
Saxson shifted nervousl
y on the sofa and exchanged a knowing glance with Ramsey, an unspoken understanding passing between the twins, before Saxson locked his hazel peepers on Santos. “Yeah, well, we just came from Napolean’s manse, and the king was explicitly clear: You are his sentinel. Natalia is your destiny. Giovanni’s business is no longer a human affair—or off limits. We have permission to take the slave trade down, to demolish that building, and to free all the women: to get your female—and your future—the hell out of that compound. As in yesterday.” Settling a bit, Saxson shrugged one shoulder. “Well, yesterday is also a metaphor, but you get the gist: Napolean agreed to our tentative plan. He believes we can get this orchestrated and ready in three days’ time. And we have the go-ahead to pull the trigger, Sunday at midnight, when most reasonable humans are sleeping. If all goes as planned, you should have your destiny home where she belongs no later than Monday morning.”
Santos didn’t realize how worried he had actually been—would the king say yes; would the king say no?—until a wave of relief swept over him. He literally felt his shoulders loosen. “Who is the king giving us for the operation?”
Saxson stood up and sauntered to Ramsey’s side in a spontaneous, if not unconscious, show of solidarity. “Saber and Julien are a no-go,” he said, his hand slicing back and forth, left and right, beneath his chin in a familiar not gonna happen gesture. “With all the shit going down between Keitaro, Zayda, and Xavier Matista—the fact that the Ancient Master Warrior has recently upped the ante, trying to bait the son of a jackal into a confrontation—the king wants at least one sentinel, as well as the tracker, close to home. You know: just in case a wild pack of mangy wolves shows up in Dark Moon Vale.”
Ramsey snickered, a hint of longing in his eyes. There was nothing the warrior loved more than a brutal, bloody, fist-to-fist—or trident-to-torso—battle, and Santos genuinely hoped nothing would go down while the warrior was stuck at the Giovanni compound.
His thoughts shifted seamlessly to Xavier Matista and the probability that something might happen before Sunday: A few hours after interviewing Zayda, before he had headed to the Serenity Salon & Spa to meet Natalia, Santos had called Keitaro Silivasi back on his cell phone to follow up on a few more questions…get a little more information, without Zayda present. His first inquiry had been fairly straightforward: Whatever happened to Zayda’s mother? Was there a significant likelihood that she was still at the compound? In other words, at some juncture, could the lycans get to Xia and use her as leverage against Zayda and Keitaro?
According to Keitaro, the female was presumed to be dead.
Like Zayda, Xia Patrone had started out in the eastern wing as a low-end prostitute, before she had been moved to what Zayda called “Death Row,” the southern quadrant where the women were sold to be slaughtered. Unlike Zayda, who had also begun in the east and been moved to the south, there hadn’t been anyone to rescue her, and she had never returned to The Fortress.
Satisfied with the answer, Santos had asked the next question: What did Keitaro plan to do if Xavier never took the bait, if the lycan never responded to the provocative missives?
This time, Keitaro had expressed a high degree of confidence—just so long as Xavier was getting the messages, the plan was going to work. He’d explained that Deanna Dubois-Silivasi, Nachari’s mate, had recently drawn an incredibly detailed sketch of Xia Patrone, using a photographic snapshot from Zayda’s early memories—Nachari had retrieved the information from Zayda’s mind so effortlessly, she had never known he was in her head—and Keitaro was just itching to send the drawing, along with his next missive, to Xavier.
The father and son duo were through with leaving hints.
They had grown weary of trying to goad the lycan out of hiding with superficial taunts and innuendos—they were going to tell Xavier exactly who Zayda really was: his biological daughter.
So yeah, there was a high likelihood that Xavier would take the bait and something would happen, sooner than later. In light of the fact that Keitaro had also apprised Napolean of this new information, the king’s judgment made a lot of sense. Of course he would want at least one sentinel, as well as Julien, to stay close to home.
“By the same token”—Saxson’s voice pierced the silence, interrupting Santos’ musings— “Keitaro obviously stays in the vale, but so does Marquis Silivasi. Again, the king wants to make sure Keitaro has some family close by to watch his six. He did give us Nathaniel and Nachari—never know when a wizard or a panther might come in handy—and he also gave us Kagen. So at least there’s that.”
“Since we’re only dealing with humans,” Ramsey chimed in, “Napolean also thought it would be a good opportunity to bring in the younger generation, allow a couple neophytes to get their feet wet on the operation. Braden Bratianu and his friend Blade Rynich will be riding shotgun, just in case we need the extra hands…or fangs.” He chuckled, deep in his throat, and the sound was far more menacing than humorous. “All in all, the king figures the eight of us can handle it: you, me, Saxson, Nathaniel, Nachari, Kagen, and the two fledglings.”
Santos did the math in his head.
Assuming Zayda was correct—there were between twenty and twenty-five guards patrolling the halls of The Fortress—that would leave around three humans for each vampire. Assuming Luca’s personal entourage of bodyguards jumped into the fray, the moment the shit got real, that might add another five to ten humans to the mix. Say a few cops made an appearance, and a couple of nosy neighbors reared their heads, each vampire might have to contend with four to five Homo sapiens, not too hard for a supernatural species. Worst case scenario: The women might panic, try to struggle or resist their rescuers—place themselves in danger during the height of the confrontation. Then things could get a little hairy, but that would be a good assignment for Braden and Blade, control and contain the captives.
“Ramsey,” Santos said, “I may need you to run point on this in terms of devising specific strategy, assigning individual roles, and finalizing the execution.” He sauntered over to the glass-and-steel coffee table, dropped into a squat, and pointed toward a half-dozen scattered papers, all blueprints of Luca’s compound and The Fortress. “I’m feeling the need to go back and forth as often as possible between now and Sunday, to keep an eye on Natalia. She’s gotta be freaking out, and her energy is all over the map: She’s curious, terrified, and skittish as hell, vacillating between fight and flight, but her father has her so trained to be obedient that I can’t completely trust what she says and does. At least not yet. The attraction is there, and the pull between our souls is strong—but the female lives in survival mode, looking out for number one. And frankly, texting via a burner phone is not a solid enough connection. I would prefer to be hands-on. Not to mention, having the hidden phone leaves her exposed to her father and his henchmen. What if she gets caught?” He sighed, turning his attention to more concrete matters—there were always a host of what-ifs, and worry for the sake of worry was never helpful or constructive.
“Tomorrow night,” Santos continued, “she has to entertain some guests at the compound around nine o’clock. It’s supposed to be a routine dinner, some friends of the Giovanni family, but something’s not right with the vibe.” He shrugged to indicate he had no idea what was off. “So I’ll definitely be MIA at some point after sundown, and likely a few times each day, between now and Sunday. Point is: I’m all in on the rescue of the women and taking down The Fortress. The sooner we get this shit handled, the better—the sooner I can bring my destiny home. But I don’t want to run point on the operation; I need to be free to come and go.”
Ramsey retrieved a small monogramed silver case from his right hip pocket, opened the thin container, and stuffed a toothpick between his lips. Rather than balancing it between his teeth or adjusting it here and there with his tongue, he chewed on the end out of nervous energy. After a minute or two had passed, he grunted in agreement and flicked the toothpick into the trash. “Not a problem, Santos. Do what you need to do.
Honestly, I prefer it that way, anyhow.”
“As do I,” Saxson agreed. “The next twenty-nine days are going to be one crazy ride—a topsy-turvy, supernatural roller coaster—and you can’t foresee the twists and turns, no matter how hard you try. You’re just gonna have to play it by ear.” He smoothed his hand through his light ash hair, running it all the way down the back of his neck. “Claiming your destiny; converting her to vampire, and bringing her into the house of Jadon is a monumental task, all on its own. If you can make inroads with Natalia, begin to win her trust, then that’s where you need to focus your attention. Just so long as you have a chance to meet up with the team before Sunday and go over the final details of the mission, I say handle your business, however you please.”
Santos felt a sudden surge of emotion swell in his chest, and it honestly surprised him how much he appreciated his brothers in that moment.
Of course, they understood…
Why wouldn’t they?
They had both claimed destinies of their own.
But it was more than the understanding that caused his chest to constrict; it was the unspoken current running beneath the whole conversation: In addition to understanding what a dangerous, high-stakes game a Blood Moon really was, Ramsey and Saxson were stepping up to the plate, trying to stand in the gap for their older brother.
And while that shouldn’t have come as a surprise—the Olarus had always been an unbreakable triad—it was just that Santos was seeing the twins in a whole new light, like their roles had suddenly been reversed. For centuries, Santos had taken care of his family—he had looked after his “baby brothers” and stepped into the role of guardian, following their parents’ tragic deaths. As the firstborn son of Santiago Olaru—and a twin to a dark soul who had been sacrificed at birth—Santos was already a solitary figure, so it had just seemed natural for the vampire to step up and take the mantle, move into the role of protector-provider.
