Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8)

by Tessa Dawn

  Now.

  End. Of. Discussion.

  Braden bent his knees, rested his elbows on both thighs, and dropped his face into his hands, and Julien could tell by the way he was taking shallow breaths that he was struggling not to cry.

  So this was a pretty powerful demon after all?

  After several moments of silence had passed, the youngster scrubbed his face with his hands, raised his head, and stared at Julien. Then he gently cleared his throat. “You…you came out here at two o’clock in the morning to tell me that?”

  Julien nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

  Braden glanced away. “Why would you do that…for me?”

  Julien searched his heart for the truth.

  He didn’t want to say, Lord Hercules told me to, but he also didn’t want to lie.

  “When I sacrificed the Dark One,” he began, in a slow, steady tone, “Lord Hercules gave me a nudge.” He leaned forward and snapped his fingers. “Look at me, son.”

  Braden looked up, and his burnt-sienna eyes were brimming with emotion.

  “In my nine hundred sixty-seven years, I’ve never known a god to do that. You are special, kid, even to the gods. Think about it: They placed you in the care of Nachari Silivasi—he isn’t even an Ancient yet, but he’s one of the most powerful wizards I’ve ever seen. And then somehow, some way, they linked you to the heart of the house of Jadon, to Napolean Mondragon himself, as if Nachari wasn’t enough. Marquis Silivasi genuinely adores you, and that prickly bastard doesn’t even have a heart, in my humble opinion.” He chuckled beneath his breath and then sighed, realizing there might have been more to Lord Hercules’ wisdom. “And I think that, maybe, Hercules knew I would understand. And I do. Maybe he knew I would care. And it’s been a long time since I’ve cared much about anything.” He paused, just long enough to let his next words sink in, to take root in his own implacable heart. “Maybe he figured we needed each other. Stranger shit has happened.”

  At this, Braden chuckled, and his dim eyes brightened. “I go back and forth, you know?” He spoke in a quiet, contemplative voice. “Between thinking I have some great purpose, that maybe the gods have singled me out—heck, I can even make female babies.” He laughed out loud. “But then, a lot of the time, I think: If your real dad didn’t want you, if your own mother doesn’t want you now, if your step-dad doesn’t see anything worth knowing, how special can you be?” He flicked his wrist, batting his fingers in a gesture that said, that was rhetorical. And then he managed to smile. “But you, J, you’re kind of a legend around here. Not just because of your tracking, but…no one really knows you or talks to you. And if you think Marquis is a prickly bastard, hell, he is the welcoming committee compared to you.” His laughter was both spontaneous and repentant, as if he was expecting to be slapped across the roof. When nothing happened, he continued: “If you really mean it, that you want me to come to your ceremonies, then yeah, that’d be cool…really cool. And I will think about what you said, ’cause you’re not the kind of dude that just goes around…having talks, and you’ve lived a long damn time.”

  Julien shook his head and chuckled.

  The kid had a way with words.

  He stood up, waited for Braden to do the same, and began to walk him to the door.

  Just before they reached the heavy panel, he stopped and cleared his throat. “Don’t ever forget that you matter.”

  Braden nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said, in a playful tone.

  Julien said it again. “You matter.”

  Braden bit his bottom lip. “Yeah, thanks.” He glanced away.

  “Braden, you matter.”

  This time, the youngster met his eyes and sniffed. “Thank you, Julien.”

  Julien inclined his head. “Be well, son. I’ll see you soon.”

  thirty-five

  Four days later

  Julien and Rebecca stood in the great room of Julien’s rustic mountain home, the fireplace blazing in the foreground, light streaming in through the partially opened stained-glass windows, Tiffany Matthews-Olaru holding their one-week-old son in her arms, the baby snugly swathed in a light-blue blanket.

  Ramsey Olaru was standing just a few feet back, behind Julien and next to Tiffany; Saxson and Santos were standing to Ramsey’s left; Nachari Silivasi and Braden Bratianu were behind Rebecca, to Tiffany’s right, and Saber Alexiares? Well, the dragon was standing at Julien’s side. After all, Julien really didn’t have any family to speak of, so Saber would take the place of a brother.

  And he had earned it.

  As for Rebecca’s friends and family, his destiny had made it quite clear: The ancient ceremony of the house of Jadon was perfectly fine with her, just so long as Julien followed it up with a trip to Ohio and a small church wedding. She intended to include and appease her parents. The thought of wearing a tuxedo, if he could even find one that fit, exchanging human vows in a foreign, religious ceremony, and eating a human meal, to say nothing of some sweet, sugary cake, made Julien’s stomach queasy, but if that’s what Rebecca wanted, then that’s what Rebecca would get. He had even gone so far as to ask Saber Alexiares to be his best man—needless to say, the fairly new sentinel had objected with a string of unmentionable expletives, punctuated with a snarl, but Julien didn’t care. If he had to knock the soldier out, carry him over his shoulder, and toss him into the house of Jadon’s private plane, then so be it. He wasn’t doing a wedding alone.

  Now, as he stood before his own moss-rock fireplace, watching his sovereign king, he could hardly believe this moment was real.

  Tiffany handed the baby to Saber, and Napolean cleared his throat. The subtle lines around Napolean’s eyes were timeless maps of history, infused with hidden power, bathed in ageless wisdom, and refined with regal dignity, and his voice projected like a warm echo in a hallowed cathedral when he turned to Julien and spoke: “It is with great joy that I greet you this day, my brother, a fellow descendant of Jadon, a revered Master Warrior and expert tracker, mate to the daughter of Hercules, father to this newborn son of Libra, who balances the scales of justice in the southern skies. What name have you chosen for this male?”

  Julien glanced at the baby with pride. “Should it please you, milord, and find favor with the gods, the son of Libra is to be named Jayce Gideon Lacusta.”

  Napolean nodded thoughtfully, and then he took the child from Saber’s arms. “The name pleases me, warrior, and there is no objection from the celestial gods.”

  Rebecca breathed an audible sigh of relief, and Julien quietly chuckled—he wasn’t sure what she had expected: Jayce had been her choice, whereas Gideon had been Julien’s, chosen after Analise and Evangeline’s father. If nothing else, the patriarch’s name—and by extension, his children’s lineage—would live on.

  The sovereign king bent his head to Jayce’s wrist, and his fangs began to elongate. Julien reached out to take Rebecca’s hand. It will only take a moment, little mouse, he reassured her telepathically. As the king pierced the child’s vein and began to consume his blood, Rebecca’s face turned pale. Hang in there, Becca, Julien reiterated. It’s almost over…I swear.

  Rebecca nodded feebly, and then she cursed beneath her breath. “Son of a…vampire; how much blood does he need?”

  Napolean’s mouth quirked up in a smile. He withdrew his fangs and sealed the wound. And then he surprised them both with a wink. The baby never stirred. Raising the child to eye level so all in the room could see him, the king spoke in a robust voice. “Welcome to the house of Jadon, Jayce Gideon Lacusta. May your life be filled with peace, triumph, and purpose. May your path always be blessed.”

  He handed the boy to Saber, who kissed him on the forehead and repeated the sacred refrain. “Welcome to our family of warriors and to the brotherhood of Napolean’s inner circle, Jayce Gideon Lacusta. May your life be filled with peace, triumph, and purpose. May your path always be blessed.”

  As the eldest of the Olaru brothers, Santos took the baby next and repeated the customary we
lcome. Ramsey and Saxson followed—then Tiffany, Nachari, and Braden—the final three welcoming the child to Prince Jadon’s family. At last, the child was handed back to Julien, who tugged Rebecca beneath his arm.

  Napolean regarded them both with a smile. “By the laws which govern the house of Jadon, I accept your union as the divine will of the gods and hereby sanction your mating. Rebecca Johnston Lacusta, do you come now of your own free will to enter the house of Jadon?”

  She glanced askance at Julien, and an eternity passed through their eyes, an eon of reverie moving inaudibly between them: a lifetime of anguish and regret lived by Julien; a nightmare of terror and fear survived by Rebecca; and a chance for a new life, a new future, and a new dawn, reflected in the promise of their son. “I do,” she said softly.

  “Hold out your wrist,” Napolean beckoned, and this time Rebecca stepped forward with easy grace, bravely extending her arm.

  Napolean took it with exquisite gentleness. He pierced her vein neatly, and she didn’t flinch. As he formed a firm, airtight seal over the twin fissures, she continued to stare at Julien, and his heart practically swelled in his chest. When, at last, Napolean removed his fangs and sealed the wound, there was no one else in the room.

  Julien could not take his eyes off Rebecca.

  “Congratulations,” Napolean said to the both of them, but his words faded off into the distance.

  Thank you. Julien mouthed the words.

  “For what?” Rebecca whispered.

  “For giving me back my soul, my father, and my future,” he breathed.

  Rebecca brushed a tear from her eye and stepped into his arms. And then, much like that day in the clinic, he grasped her by the waist, pulled her tightly against him, and fixed his lips to hers, kissing her with every ounce of passion, love, and fever he had ever possessed.

  Despite the watchful audience, Rebecca returned the kiss. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, slid her knee along his thigh, and grasped his head by a fistful of hair, moaning into his mouth.

  “Really?” Saxson said out loud. “We’re gonna do this again…with a larger audience this time?”

  Julien growled and lifted his mate, cradling her to his chest, as he stepped past the king, headed toward the hallway, and made a beeline for the bedroom. The last thing he heard was Nachari Silivasi’s deep, melodic voice as the Master Wizard cleared his throat: “Yeah, all right, J! We’ll just let ourselves out. Don’t worry about your guests.”

  Braden Bratianu laughed.

  Then Tiffany Matthews Olaru apparently regarded Ramsey: “Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Hot Pants! Someone has to stay here and watch the baby while the two of them…reaffirm their vows.”

  Rebecca giggled like a schoolgirl as Julien laid her gently on the bed and flashed a wicked, lascivious smile. “Did that embarrass you?” he asked, peeling off his shirt.

  She bit her bottom lip and shimmied out of her skirt. “Oh, hell, they’ve seen it all before. At least Saxson has.”

  Julien gazed at her suddenly exposed flesh, at the soft pink lace on the edges of her panties, and groaned. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed heavily, releasing the fly of his slacks.

  She scooted back on the bed, unbuttoned the first three buttons of her blouse, and bit her bottom lip seductively. “I think you’re going to have to do the rest. So yeah, I guess I’m a little embarrassed—or shy—after all.”

  “Oh, șoarec micuț, never…ever…with me.” He climbed onto the mattress like a large jungle cat, making his way toward the headboard in a slow, lazy crawl and reaching for her shirt. Slowly, carefully, and with reverence—all the while maintaining eye contact—he began to unbutton the rest of her blouse.

  Rebecca shivered at his touch.

  She marveled at the rock-hard definition in his chest. And she stirred at the thought of his amazing warrior’s body soon blanketing hers. “Wait,” she said softly, grasping for his wrists before he could slide the silky material off her shoulders. “Did you mean what you said…the other day?”

  “What did I say, Becca?” His voice was thick with need, and the vibration gave her the chills.

  She gulped and stared at his mouth: those thick, perfect, artistically defined lips, and almost lost her train of thought. “The other night, before I had Jayce, you said you were falling in love with me.”

  His mouth turned up in an adoring smile, and his brows furrowed, just a fraction. “Mmm,” he groaned, and then he licked those lips. “I’m afraid that’s no longer true. I’ve already fallen, little mouse: deeply, passionately, eternally.”

  Rebecca froze at his words, but only for an instant.

  “You mean that?” she asked, her voice laced with wonder.

  “I do,” he vowed.

  Reaching for the neckline of her blouse, she slid the garment off her shoulders, then glanced down, toward his pants. “Then that’s all I needed to know,” she whispered. Arching her back and straining her neck to kiss him with abandon, she first breathed into his mouth: “I love you, too, Julien: always, forever, until the end of time.”

  He bit down on her lip, gently this time, ever so careful not to draw blood. And then he claimed her words, her heart, and their future with a mindless, passionate kiss, his powerful hands making their way along her feminine curves with hunger.

  His mouth was like fire as he scorched her from head to toe.

  His hands were like twin prayers as he worshiped at the temple of her body.

  And his hips, his thighs, that part of him that made him distinctly male was like Blood Ecstasy to her new Vampyr senses: filling her, consuming her, drenching her…in rapture.

  Rebecca had never been more alive.

  Rebecca had never been more in love.

  Julien’s șoarec micuț had never been more…complete.

  Epilogue

  One week later

  Saxson Olaru sidled up to the bar in Denver’s infamous LoDo, a native, urban term for lower downtown, and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

  It was a losing proposition.

  At six-foot-two, he had soft hazel eyes, the color of swirling caramel, and light-ash hair that was neat on the sides, wavy and wispy at the front, tapering softly down a strong, masculine neck. The eye immediately caught a strong, angled jaw and chin beneath a perfectly groomed, silken goatee and features so pristine, so precisely sculpted, that his high cheekbones looked as if they’d been carved out of marble: In other words, Saxson Olaru usually caught every eye in the room. He dripped sensuality, oozed masculinity, and practically radiated primal confidence. He was the muscular epitome of power, lethality, and grace; and women were drawn to him like moths to a flame. As for men? Well, they felt his presence like a blast of virility and dominance sweeping through the room—a twister devastating everything in its wake.

  Intimidating was a mild word for Saxson.

  But yeah, his goal was to remain inconspicuous.

  Good luck with that.

  He ordered a second shot of Elijah Craig Single Barrel whiskey from the female bartender, gave her a gentle but effective mental command to go about her business—since she happened to be staring at him like a dolt with her mouth hanging open and drool rapidly pooling along the corners of her mouth, about to leak onto her chin—and turned to glance at the seemingly average businessman wearing an overly expensive tie with an extremely cheap suit, in the farthest corner booth of the bar.

  Anthony Beckman.

  Kate Beckman’s ex-husband.

  The one who had broken her jaw and was this close to molesting their three-year-old daughter during one of his court-approved visits.

  What the hell…

  Saxson repressed a growl: Anthony was one of the human males on Rebecca Johnston Lacusta’s hit list, and he was only too happy to take him out.

  Okay, so it wasn’t supposed to be a hit list.

  At least not necessarily…

  But try explaining that to Nathaniel Silivasi. The Ancient Master Warrio
r had already removed Ely Thomas’ fingers for breaking Nancy’s arms; dismembered Rollo Jones for causing Sheila to have two miscarriages—and no, Rollo didn’t live through the ordeal—and gouged out Hugo Gonazles’ eyes for refusing to leave Teresa alone. Apparently, Nathaniel figured that would put a dent in Hugo’s stalking.

  The “list” was supposed to be at least somewhat benign: The warriors were supposed to scrub their brains, implant new suggestions on how to live a kinder life, insure that these miscreants would never threaten a woman again, and Saxson supposed that Nathaniel had met that criteria…in his own creative way.

  After all, three down; two to go.

  As it stood, Nathaniel was off stalking Julius Schaffer, Patricia Sykes’ one-time, one-date NFL player, and Saxson was hunting in LoDo, handling Anthony Beckman, or at least he was about to…

  Problem was: Saxson had already searched Anthony’s soul, and it was nothing but black, murky sludge. The man was as evil as evil came and as sociopathic as a serial killer. He possessed zero capacity for remorse or empathy, and he would never, ever stop terrorizing Kate. It was stamped all over his demented brain, and that meant only one thing—

  This one had to be put down.

  For good.

  Saxson tossed back the second shot of whiskey, slammed the glass on the bar, and made his way toward the back of the room, trying to saunter past the booth as seamlessly as possible. There was no need to create a scene. No need to grab the bully by the scruff of the collar and drag him out of the establishment in order to…handle the business…in a dark, secluded alley. The way Saxson saw it, he could simply snap the idiot’s neck in the space of a heartbeat, leave him propped up like a drunkard, still sitting in the booth, and close his eyelids, if necessary, with the sweep of his hand, make it look like he’d simply passed out.