by Tessa Dawn
Who is Kiera?
What the hell?
And how was that even possible?
She forcefully shoved the thoughts out of her mind—she could not ponder that question right now. She needed to pour 110 percent of her energy into deepening their fragile connection, taking Saxson Olaru into her body, and hopefully claiming his soul.
Kyla needed to make the vampire hers, and she needed to do it convincingly.
As he laid her down, ever so gently, on his king-sized bed, she shimmied up toward the headboard while casually glancing down…toward his groin…down toward his thighs…relieved to see the throbbing erection pressing against his jeans.
At least he found her attractive.
At least his body saw its mate.
She gasped, yet again, at his perceived length and girth, then refocused her attention on seduction. “Are you surprised that I’m ready?” she whispered in a half-teasing, half-come-hither voice, her breaths growing shallow with need.
There was nothing pretend about it.
He smiled, but he didn’t answer, and God give her strength, but when he removed his shirt, exposing that divine, rock-hard chest, she felt every nerve ending in her body come alive. When he toggled his thumb over the top button of his jeans, sliding the clasp out of the seam, she almost quivered with fear and excitement.
There was no way she could accommodate that…thickness.
Let alone withstand his immortal power.
She was not his true destiny, after all, and heaven forbid, what if he instinctively figured it out, realized that she didn’t have a womb…somehow felt her hollow center?
She gulped.
Not now, Kyla. Keep him focused on having an orgasm. You can do this. He will not try to get you pregnant—he hasn’t converted you yet—and he won’t be thinking anything…if you do your job right. He knows you’re still human; he knows that he has to be careful…
She reached for the vampire and shut her eyes.
Chapter Twenty
Saxson Olaru had used his mind to do a lot of things in the past, and as a vampire, he had a unique and intimate relationship with blood—but he had never used his mind to pump blood into his lower region before, to force a functional erection.
Great celestial deities, what was wrong with him?
On one hand, he had everything he’d ever wanted right in his arms—right beneath him, in his bed—the female he had waited several lifetimes to claim. On the other hand, something wasn’t right: not with him, not with this Blood Moon, and not with his mind, heart, or soul.
That voice…
That name…
Kiera.
It wouldn’t let him go.
Just the same, he had only one chance to get this right. Any of it. All of it. There was no do-over button; he couldn’t just rewind his actions or his decisions. If he hurt his destiny deeply; if he betrayed her fragile trust; if he invaded her mind or her memories, investigated her like a criminal, those actions might haunt him forever—and eternity was a very long time to live with someone whose heart he had broken.
Or to live in a home built on secrets and lies.
As it stood, the facts were still the facts: Kyla had the markings of Lord Cetus on her inner wrist, however odd they may have first appeared; she had been within reach at the emergence of the Cetus Blood Moon, just as divinity promised; and humans were not aware of the Curse, or its meaning—hell, they weren’t even capable of seeing the phenomenon in the sky, unless they were the chosen of the gods.
Kyla had described that crimson moon with awe.
And her dreams—all her life, she’d had those dreams about Saxson.
She’d recognized his soul.
At this juncture, Saxson was looking forward to Saturday night’s reception: Marquis already knew the deal; Nachari, the wizard, would be there; and Saxson could ask his brothers for their counsel, their opinions, their much-needed feedback. He could ask them to watch Kyla closely, to watch the two of them together. If everything was still a convoluted mess after that, he would take his concerns to Napolean—he had no other choice.
Something was definitely up…
And it wasn’t the part of him that should be.
At least not organically.
Blanketing her body with his, he took her breast into his mouth and played wicked games with his tongue and his teeth until she began to writhe beneath him. He slid his hand down her waist, making quick, playful work of removing her panties and shimmying out of his own bulky jeans, and boxers, and then he blanketed her again.
Her eyes—those dark brown, chestnut orbs—sought his with such carnal hunger that he almost gave in to the urge to take her, but something stayed his hand.
As he thrust his hips toward her pelvis, he expertly rocked to the side, brushing against her thigh instead of entering her body, even as he penetrated her mind.
He took hold of her sensory awareness; he embedded his thoughts in her mind; and he guided her—mentally—through a contrived, short-term memory where the two of them were making love.
Heat.
Passion.
Thrusting.
Tasting, touching, exploring…
Their bodies coming together in bliss.
Saxson took Kyla to the peak of arousal and sent her over the edge, even as he threw back his head, feigned his own release, and collapsed on top of her damp, quivering body, grateful that the deception had come to an end.
Only, great celestial gods in the heavens, he felt like crap for doing it.
For making her believe they had just shared such intimacy…and passion.
But something inside of him—nothing within him—would allow him to see it through.
He was not capable of making love to his destiny, and that, above and beyond everything else, cemented the fact that something was very, very wrong.
To Saxson’s way of thinking, he would use the party on Saturday to seek the counsel of other vampires, and then, if needed, he would take his concerns to Napolean. If, through all that, his brothers and his king saw nothing amiss—had no dire concerns of their own—then he would put his doubts and his concerns to rest, and spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
His immortal life depended on this mating.
Was there any such thing as being too careful?
Kyla wrapped her arms around his shoulders and sighed in post-coital bliss, and Saxson returned the sentiment with a devilish, ingratiating smile. “Was that what you wanted, my love?”
Damn, he was a bastard! he thought.
She licked her bottom lip and giggled. “Yes,” she breathed with satisfaction. “Only, I may need to experience that again…and again…and again.”
He chuckled in a deep, raspy growl. “I aim to please, angel.” He brushed her hair behind her ear and planted a soft, languorous kiss on her mouth. “Mm. You taste like heaven.”
Son of a bitch—he was soulless.
Kiera Sparrow rested her forearm over her eyes, trying to staunch her tears as she lay in bed that night, feeling like the world was closing in on her—like she was doomed, no matter what.
She had done everything her captors had asked of her.
She had played her violin like her very life depended on the effort, taking inner solace only during those rare, grace-filled moments when she got lost in “Song from a Secret Garden.”
The rest of the time had been hell.
She had showered and bathed when they allowed it, eaten their bland, lumpy food, and bent over backward to please, appease, and submit to Xavier Matista, just to show him that she wasn’t a threat.
And she had gambled everything—placed all her eggs in one volatile basket—on escaping Saturday night, shimmying out a five-story window, despite her debilitating fear of heights.
She wanted to live.
She was much too young…
And she was doing everything she could think of to survive.
“Try to reach Saxson. Your bond is strong. He ma
y be your only hope.”
Her tears began to drench her forearm, and she had to choke back her sobs. She had tried so many times that night—like a lost, blithering fool, she had tried!
She had visualized a blank canvas, trying to conjure an image of her words in dark, bold caps. She had led the exercise with deep breathing, trying to achieve some elusive, metaphysical state of being. She had repeated the refrain like a mantra, hoping to send it into the ether, with sound. And she had pictured a single golden cord extending from her third eye—she didn’t even know what that was!—to Saxson’s, some fairy-tale, mythical vampire, as she sent her plea through the line: “Saxson, can you hear me? It’s Kiera. I need help. I’m being held captive in a five-story warehouse by vampire-hunters, and I think you’re my only hope.”
Nothing.
No reply, no sensations, no vision or intuition.
Nothing but silence answered back.
And now, as she thought about those words—that celestial, cosmic force she had encountered in the bathroom—what little hope she’d had slipped away: If Saxson was her only hope, then were her plans to escape doomed to fail?
Her sobs grew more desperate, and she knew she couldn’t contain them any longer.
The pain.
The fear.
The horror.
The angst.
She rolled over onto her stomach, burrowed her face in the pillow, and wept like her body might come apart.
Saxson!
It’s Kiera…
Why can’t you hear me!
Chapter Twenty-One
Saturday Morning: 10:00
Braden Bratianu stood on the main level of the four-story brownstone and reached behind the large leather sectional to hang the last dangling piece of the golden Welcome Home banner. He took a few steps back and eyed the shiny letters to make sure they were centered with the Raleigh coffee table.
Glancing up at the fourteen-foot ceiling, he snickered at the myriad of gold, silver, and ivory balloons, a few of them gravitating randomly toward the contemporary Asian clock above the fireplace mantel. Then he eyed the elegant, mobile, black-and-stainless-steel bar that Nachari had erected for the occasion, stocked with vintage, expensive spirits. A broad smile curved along his lips: Whereas humans catered their parties with cake, finger-foods, and punch, it appeared vampires outfitted their get-togethers with blue-label scotch, 1800s chateaus, and decadent French cognacs, all arranged next to priceless crystal decanters, Waterford glasses, and sleek, paper-thin flutes. He could only hope Nachari would allow him to sample the spirits.
Reaching into the back pocket of his pressed black jeans, he retrieved his cell phone and re-read the text from his mother—she had sent him a message just before boarding the house of Jadon’s private plane on a remote tarmac in Hawaii. “I’m so very excited to see you, son! Can’t wait to get there! Save lots of hugs and kisses for myself, Dario, and Conrad! Love you, Mom.”
He scrunched up his face and closed the screen. He could save lots of hugs and kisses for his mom—that seemed pretty normal—but for Dario and Conrad? Um, he was no longer fifteen years old. And that just wasn’t manly.
He absently wondered what Conrad looked like.
His little brother would be twelve years old now; he had to have shot up by several inches; and more than likely, he still had Dario’s dirty-blond hair and gunmetal eyes, the peepers a few shades darker than his father’s pale grays; and a skinny, but muscular, frame.
Braden had to admit, he was anxious to see him.
He was anxious to see them all.
More than that, he was eager to introduce them to Kristina—his intended. He laughed at the sound of those words: It was what it was. On top of that, he had a special gift custom-made for the redhead: a glossy five-by-seven card with the words Thank you for always having my back embossed on the front, and Passion, death and foreboding are not quite as frightening with you here to help me breathe engraved in the interior. The card was attached to a velvet-lined box that contained a gorgeous friendship bracelet: a sleek, platinum band attached to a thin platinum chain, peppered with onyx and rubies—gemstones he had made by himself.
Well, with the help of a few Ancient Warriors at the Dark Moon Mineral Plant.
But why split hairs on the details?
Kristina would love the bracelet; she would probably get along with his parents—at least, if she could forgive them for their perceived neglect—and they would definitely adore Kristina.
Who knew?
Maybe by the end of the night, all would be right with the world.
Kiera Sparrow shuffled to the door of her bedroom—correction: her captor’s bedroom—and stared at the bronze, oil-rubbed knob, deciding whether to open it. She had just taken a shower, donned a pair of Owen’s gray sweats, a plain Haines T-shirt, and a pair of men’s gray socks, and she felt revived enough—desperate enough—to contemplate a short encounter:
On one hand, she was starving. Owen hadn’t brought her any dinner last night, and he sure as hell hadn’t brought her any breakfast. She would need all her strength to punch out that window, remove the loosened bolts, and shimmy down the side of the building. But on the other hand, did she really want to bother Owen Green, give him a reason—any reason—to torment her further?
She sighed and backed away from the door, trying to gather her courage.
Damnit, Kiera, she told herself. You can’t go a day and a half without eating. Besides, he isn’t going to touch you—at least, he won’t physically assault you—Xavier won’t let him. It’s forbidden. She could only hope that the frightening Head Hunter’s directives were still being followed.
She took a few steps forward, gently palmed the door knob, and silently twisted it to the right, until she felt the latch slip free. Owen no longer locked it during the day, at least not all the time—apparently, he figured there was nowhere she could go—and she pushed it a couple inches open. Pressing her forehead to the frame, she peered out into the open floorplan…
And stifled a gasp.
Owen was standing in the middle of the warehouse apartment, next to Travis. They had moved the sofa to the side of one wall, and they were outfitting a stainless-steel table in its place, in the center of the freakin’ living room.
It looked like something one might find in an industrial kitchen.
Or worse, in a morgue.
In the top two corners, they had attached two lengths of chain with loops on the ends, connected to handcuffs. And toward the bottom, they had installed two leather straps, the perfect size to clasp ankles. Beside the morbid table was a plain wooden stand, and what sat atop the platform made Kiera stagger sideways: an ancient clay basin with a bloodred cross dyed into the stone; a crude, serrated dagger with something inscribed in the cross-guard—she couldn’t read it from the bedroom—and a sacramental bowl filled with plain, clear liquid—could it possibly be holy water?—next to a box of latex gloves.
Oh, hell no!
Kiera yanked the door shut and spun on her heels to run.
She couldn’t wait until nightfall.
Whatever they were planning for their macabre party, she had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach—she was the guest of honor. A pair of heavy footfalls stomped across the warehouse, and Kiera’s heart seized in her chest, her feet frozen in place, as Owen Green threw the bedroom door open and stormed into the room. He must have seen her through the alcove.
“Get your violin!” he barked. “We need some music while we decorate.”
Kiera gulped. She eyed the distance between herself and Owen, trying to remember what was on the other side of the door: a marble-topped pedestal table with a heavy brass statue atop, the figurine of a hunter. She could tuck the violin beneath her left arm, leave the bow dangling in her left fingers, and snatch the statue with her free right hand, then swing it like a baseball bat at Owen’s skull. She would have to drop the violin—who cared—and keep right on swinging the statue, over and over, until there
was nothing but brain and blood and tissue left. But then there was the problem of Travis—he was standing next to the table with the wicked-looking dagger on top, and he would doubtlessly come to Owen’s defense.
Still, the tuning fork could be used as a stiletto, but how hard would she have to thrust it to impale a grown man’s breastplate? Before she could conjure up a better plan, Owen reached into the waistband of his pants and retrieved a forty-five-caliber handgun. He pointed it right at her, and his light-green eyes grew murky. “I’ve had enough of the princess-violinist act, and Xavier’s not here to save you.” He smirked, and the visage was pure evil. “Don’t get me wrong; I would never disobey my Head Hunter, but the thing of it is, Miss Sparrow, I finally have his permission…” His pointy tongue snaked across his lower lip, making his features appear demonic. “Xavier’s done with you, sweet princess. He’s finally had his fill, and that means we can do whatever we want.” He glanced over his shoulder at the stainless-steel table and rubbed the barrel of the gun against his groin—was he crazy? “Oh, and we want—but not just me, all of us—believe me, we intend to take turns.” He laughed then, as if anything he had just said was funny. “But luckily for you, it’s not yet time—you have a few more hours to wait.”
His sex jerked in his pants, and Keira felt like she might throw up.
“Until then, you’re gonna play that fiddle. And by fiddle, I mean just that. None of that stuck-up Bach and Beethoven shit; we wanna hear something more…unique. In fact, why don’t you try your hand at ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’—think you can pull that off?” He raised the barrel of the gun, pointed it at her head…then her heart…then her gut. “Something tells me you’re gonna try…real hard.” He cackled at the double-entendre in the last two gravelly words.
Real hard.
They were planning to rape her—all of them—the entire vampire-hunting group.
And then they were going to torture her—God only knew how—and kill her, and Xavier was not going to stop them.
