by Tessa Dawn
She was a human, and he was a vampire—he could do whatever the hell he wanted!
Any way…in any position…and with any amount of force.
And then he could just scrub her memory afterward.
True, if he returned her all battered and bruised, he would have to deal with Luca Giovanni, but even that would only be a momentary inconvenience. Luca’s mind could be scrubbed like anyone else’s. Hell, if the billionaire got too out of line, Oskar could break his cocky neck.
Of course, then the house of Jaegar wouldn’t have continued and easy access to all the women they could breed with…defile…and dispose of, without having to cover their trail and clean up their own mess, so maybe she should go home in one piece.
But that was the only prerequisite.
He had played her game; he had toyed with her mind; he had allowed her a brief indulgence, mainly because he’d been bored to tears, and anticipation almost always made sex better.
But this…
Now….
Her blatant defiance?
Pshaw.
He was done.
He stood up from the table, hooked his pointer finger under the lip of his chair, and tossed it nearly five hundred feet across the river. Natalia’s face went pale, but he didn’t give her time to react. He reached across the linen tablecloth, flicked the flowers into the dirt, and snatched her by her thick, flowing hair. And then he wrenched forward for all he was worth, careful to relax his grip at the last minute so he didn’t accidentally scalp her before they could have some fun.
As if she weighed no more than a child, he hefted her feet off the ground, dragged her over the table, and then tossed her through the air onto the waiting platform and divan. “Piss on me, and I’ll break your neck,” he bellowed, allowing his full vampiric rage to echo through the pasture.
He stalked to the platform like a hungry lion, his manhood jerking angrily in his pants.
Natalia screamed for all she was worth, and Oskar flicked his fingers at her throat. “Silence!” he commanded, but the compulsion wasn’t necessary; he had stolen the sound from her throat and extinguished her piteous voice. As he climbed up the platform, advancing stealthily and slowly—there was nothing more heady than fear—Natalia’s eyes grew wide, she rolled to her side, and to her credit, she kicked off her shoes.
Kudos for that, Oskar thought. Only a dimwit would try to run in those heels.
Laughing, he marshalled his vampiric speed and headed her off at the pass. He grasped both of her elegant, slender shoulders in his powerful, brutal hands and pinned her back on the divan.
She kicked at his groin—no, she tried to stomp it into dust—and he caught her ankle with ease. “Resistance doesn’t serve you, fiancée,” he mocked. And then he braced both hands around her delicate ankle and twisted in opposite directions.
The tibia snapped, and he grimaced.
Damn…
That would be hard to explain to Luca—or to just scrub away—especially when the ankle was still broken tomorrow.
But oh well…
In for a penny, in for a pound.
He crawled over her trembling body, even as she writhed in unspeakable pain—her brow beginning to soak with sweat—and hooked a clawed fist beneath the top of her dress, ripping it all the way down her thrashing body.
And then he moaned.
Dark lords of the underworld, she was spectacular.
Perfect, unmarred skin; supple, voluptuous curves; and a quivering stomach—so flat, smooth, and taut, he could have bounced a quarter off it.
He cut the front of her bra with a talon and gorged on her pliant breasts.
And then he moved his hand lower, down to her panties, and slid two claws underneath.
She bucked like a wild bronco, and her gloved fists came right at his eyes, each desperate punch following the other in quick succession.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he reprimanded her. “What did I say about resisting?”
He caught the second fist in the palm of his hand, stared deep into her dark brown eyes, and watched her with pure, erotic pleasure as he slowly closed his fingers over her delicate bones.
All five of the digits collapsed beneath his inhuman strength, fracturing inside of the satin glove and undoubtedly leaving an unholy mess. Thank goodness the garments contained it.
“Now then,” he drawled. “You still have one healthy hand and one working foot. This will be so much more exquisite if you just lie back and enjoy it.” Her eyes nearly bulged out of her skull, and Oskar sighed, at last accepting the reality of the situation. Natalia was not going to go along with her seduction; things had gotten way out of hand; and any chance he’d had of bedding a willing, wild woman had flown out of the metaphorical window the moment he’d snatched her by the hair. “Why, Natalia?” he murmured in frustration.
When he had first procured the limousine, set up the tent, and staged the seduction, he had hoped to enjoy an eager slut: to seduce her, compel her—hell, direct her like a puppet if need be—but she had managed to short-circuit that possibility. Now, the only mutual pleasure available, the only entertainment left to be had, was sadism, pure and simple…
His dominance—her fear.
His brutality—her pain.
His release—her suffering.
She would be lucky if he had the self-control to still use the condoms.
Stradling her hips, he stared down at her delectable, albeit broken body and thought, What a tragic turn of events. Natalia Giovanni was not a piece of garbage, someone to simply use once and dispose of, and now he had no idea if he could piece her back together in order to use her more than once. “Be still,” he snarled, still hoping to salvage some future use. “I do not wish to kill you, and I do not wish to end our pairing prematurely.” He ran the backs of his fingers over her womb, languorously, and groaned. “And I do not wish to plant death in your belly—not yet, sweet Natalia. Not yet.” He rose above her and grasped her by the jaw, simply intending to command her full attention. But blasted bad luck and supernatural strength, he felt the bones in her chin collapse.
Sighing, he made a mental note to try to be gentler, to at least hold back when he shoved his erection inside her—if he destroyed her womb, there would be no offspring. And of course, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again…
He would be better at this next time.
Wincing in apology, he slid down her torso and began to slowly…carefully…remove her panties.
Chapter Sixteen
Santos Olaru stepped onto his balcony, grateful to finally be alone.
Saxson and Ramsey had left the lake house to head to Nathaniel’s estate, and Santos was struggling with a difficult call: Natalia had not texted him back, not even when he’d hit her up three more times, and while that didn’t necessarily mean anything was wrong, he wasn’t willing to take that chance.
He could play it conservative and just track the GPS on her burner, but that wouldn’t tell him much of anything. What if she’d set it down? What if she’d had to turn it off? What if the battery had burned down, and she was waiting for it to recharge, right now? Locating Natalia’s phone did not equate to locating Natalia, and it wouldn’t give Santos any more information than he already had.
He supposed he could be a bit more aggressive and actually head to the house…
He could slip into the mansion, while remaining invisible, and if everything was as it should be, he could slip right back out—she’d never even know he’d been there.
Or he could just act like a sentinel and do the damn thing he really wanted to do: track her blood, locate her exact position in the mansion, and materialize into the room. He could eyeball the guests, make sure everything was satisfactory—that things were going smoothly, as planned—then transport right back to the lake house. In other words, he could more or less stalk her like some sort of control freak, hide what he was doing, and lie about it later.
To hell with boundaries, honor, or trust.
Watch her eat dinner?
Eavesdrop on her conversations?
Follow her down the hall, if and when she excused herself to the restroom?
Damn.
Blood Moons really sucked.
Realizing that the war between his intellect and his gut was not going to cease—that trying to keep some modest distance between himself and Natalia until he could bring her home on Monday was just never going to fly with his primal instincts—Santos decided to call it a day.
So yeah, he would do the damn thing.
And he’d do it right now.
After all, he’d asked her to text, and she hadn’t complied. Trust went two ways.
Closing his eyes, he focused his awareness while conjuring an image of her throat, recalling the scent of her skin, and evoking the feel of her blood as it had snaked down his throat.
His awareness deepened.
His heart quickened.
Until he could actually hear the faint pulse of foreign platelets thrumming in his veins.
Natalia’s blood, Natalia’s anima, Natalia’s distinctive spiritual essence in the universe.
“Where are you, cara mia?” he whispered softly, sending all his senses outward in search of that pulse.
The night was filled with many vibrations—birds flying overhead, water rushing through rivers, vapor rising softly in the atmosphere, though it was much too warm for rain—but none of the pulses matched the one he had latched onto until he systematically narrowed the field.
And then—just like that—there it was.
Natalia’s individual imprint.
Her pulse…
Moving from the foyer, down the cement steps, dipping into an unusually heavy car.
Traveling down the winding drive, passing through the gates of the compound, and ultimately heading down a dirt road—
Heading down a dirt road?
Son of a bitch!
Natalia had lied…
Santos channeled every ounce of intention he possessed, forcing the impressions to speed up. She was not supposed to leave that house. She’d said she was staying home.
A dirt road.
A river.
A secluded meadow…
He strained to see through Natalia’s eyes, and the first image that popped up was that of a tall, imposing man—with black-and-red banded hair—pulling her out of the limousine.
Santos gasped in shock, and then he snarled like a feral beast.
Desperate to transport into that meadow, and cursing for all he was worth, he shredded his atoms into focused quantum energy and hurled them into the cosmos.
Chapter Seventeen
Natalia groaned in inexpressible agony.
But she couldn’t scream—her throat didn’t work.
“I do not wish to kill you, and I do not wish to end our pairing prematurely.” Oskar ran the backs of his fingers languorously over her womb, and in that instant, she wished for death. He mumbled something else, and then he slowly rose above her, grasped her by the jaw, and squeezed.
She felt her jawbone crack, and the breath left her body.
She could no longer reason; she could no longer struggle.
She couldn’t even think.
The whole world was blackness, pain, and futility.
Oskar was truly a monster.
As he slid down her torso and gripped both edges of her panties, she no longer cared what he did—she just wanted the suffering to stop. Perhaps the demon would have mercy and just kill her when he was done defiling her body. Nothing in the world was what it once seemed.
Absently, and for some inexplicable reason, she thought about Santos showing up in her room later that night with an innocent deck of cards…ready and eager to play poker.
Poker.
It was much too late for that.
Oskar Vadovsky, her father’s most revered client—and a stone-cold savage—had already played the winning hand: He had wielded a royal flush, and Natalia had dealt him the cards. She had virtually given Oskar the ace, king, queen, jack, and ten of diamonds the moment she had lied to Santos.
Santos Olaru exploded into the meadow, homing in like a pigeon on Natalia’s blood.
He gathered his atoms until they coalesced around him—within him, throughout him—until they became him, and he materialized at the foot of a bed: a garish, raised platform beside an icy, snaking river.
He narrowed his feral gaze on the atrocity before him, taking in every microscopic detail in an instant, and then he raised his chin and roared.
Natalia was lying at an unnatural angle, her sleeveless black dress ripped down the center, and one leg was twisted—her ankle was broken—and one arm hung limp at her side. Her hand was masked beneath a blood-soaked glove, and even beneath the tattered satin, it was obvious to the warrior that there was nothing but an indefinable mass of ligaments, bone, and tissue…in no particular order. The hand was virtually crushed. And her beautiful face, those regal features: They stood stark against a hollow jaw. The left side was broken, her jawbone disfigured, which meant her assailant was most likely right-handed…
He turned his attention to the devil on top of her, the Dark One who was about to defile her body, and something inside of him snapped.
His crystal-blue wings shot out of his back, his fangs descended from the roof of his mouth, and his claws extended to lethal lengths as he descended upon the son of Jaegar, wrenched both arms around his shoulders, and flipped them both over backward, somersaulting off the bed.
His teeth sank deep into the Dark One’s throat, and he ripped out a chunk of raw meat as they landed. While the Dark One struggled to regain his bearings, his silk black pants hanging down to his knees, Santos took advantage of the vulnerable moment and blasted him with a fisted, right uppercut. The Dark One’s jaw exploded. “How do you like it, bastard!” Santos snarled, and then he immediately struck at the heart.
The son of Jaegar caught the sentinel’s fist, his mind and his instincts coming back on board. He spit out a set of bloody teeth, released his fangs, and smiled. As their eyes remained locked in unspoken, mortal combat, the Dark One used his magic to elevate his pants; fasten the bottom two buttons with a dexterous twist of his fingers; and release Santos’ hand, gliding backward, ever so slightly, out of the vampire’s reach.
And that’s when Santos recognized his face.
Oskar Vadovsky, Chair of the Dark Ones’ Council, preeminent statesman in the house of Jaegar.
A pregnant moment settled between them, and then the two supernatural beings virtually exploded in anger and old-fashioned savagery: fist to fist; uppercut to jab; weaving, bobbing, punching and counter-punching; blood and spittle and flesh flying freely.
The supernatural boxing gave way to bloodthirsty combat: throat-punching, eye-gouging, elbow strikes to the back of the head. Santos nicked Oskar’s jugular and broke his left arm. Oskar retaliated in kind by scoring Santos’ carotid artery and gouging his left cornea with a razor-sharp claw. Each male applied venom to heal his own wounds even as he kept coming, attacking…striking…never ceasing.
The blood was copious.
The wounds were gory.
The snarls, grunts, and rumbles called down thunder, lightning, and hail on the clearing, but the two rage-filled vampires kept going. They were like a deadly, supernatural sand storm in the Egyptian portion of the Sahara Desert: frenzied, brutal, and unrelenting. And if they didn’t stop soon, Mother Nature would eclipse the carnage with her own special brand of destruction.
Impervious to the violent weather all around him, Oskar leaped from the meadow, landed in the river, and hefted a heavy boulder, the size of a small car, at Santos Olaru’s head. The sentinel ducked, fell to one knee, and crossed both forearms above his head, bracing for the impact. The boulder struck his radius, and both arms fractured, but Santos seemed impervious to the pain. He shook it off, darted sideways, and wrenched a twenty-foot ponde
rosa pine out of the ground like a mere flimsy tent stake. He hurled it at breakneck speed, aiming at the center of Oskar’s face, and hissed in pleasure when the Dark One’s regal nose imploded.
Oskar shook his head like a water-soaked canine, ran his tongue over his fangs, and stalked toward Santos, knees bent, feet shuffling sideways, his center of gravity low to the ground.
Santos fell into a defensive posture, both arms up, ready and waiting.
Oskar pounced, and the two traded snap kicks, roundhouses, and targeted strikes, utilizing the fronts and backs of their fists, the tips of their fingers, and the outside edges of closed—and clawed—hands. At last, Oskar Vadovsky retreated, once again. The head of the dark council was visibly winded, no match for the godlike sentinel’s stamina.
Santos licked his lips and measured the bastard’s labored breathing.
If he could just shut out the pain—and he would do more than that for Natalia—he could wear the Dark One down, wait for an opportune moment, and then snap Oskar’s head off his thick, demonic shoulders. May the celestial gods be merciful—the battle had just turned in Santos’ favor.
Chapter Eighteen
Oskar Vadovsky was well and truly stunned.
His head was splitting; his muscles ached; and every bone in his body, those that were broken and those that were only bruised, hurt down to his dark, malevolent marrow.
What. The. Hell. Was. Happening.
Oskar was an ancient vampire, and his powers were immense—legendary among the house of Jaegar. No one would dare take him on. They couldn’t possibly win. Yet, Santos Olaru was getting the best of him. Oskar was tiring, weakening, running out of steam, and he had lost far, far too much blood.
He couldn’t fend off the markedly stronger sentinel much longer.
The inglorious son of a hyena was like a battering ram—he just kept coming and coming…and coming.
His blows landed with the force of a freight train; his lightning-quick strikes were precise and exact. His skill, determination, and lethal intention were overwhelming, and ultimately, it would be Oskar’s demise if something didn’t give. If Oskar kept this up, if he continued to go toe-to-toe with this crazed, bestial bastard, this might very well be his last night of life.
