Enthrall Me (Underbelly Chronicles Book 4)

by Tamara Hogan

  “‘Progressing well’? Shove that sarcasm up your aristocratic ass—ow ow ow ow!” She doubled over, clutching her stomach. “Fuck me, that hurts.”

  Did Wyland have some high-test muscle relaxants in his bag? Because damn.

  “Breathe through the contraction,” Claudette counseled. “Breathe.”

  Gaze locked with her mother, Scarlett started whooshing like a steam engine. Behind her, Lukas gritted his teeth, but silently supported her bulky weight.

  After the contraction was over, Wyland and Claudette exchanged a glance. “I think you’ll be more comfortable in bed, honey,” Claudette said, taking Scarlett’s hands and helping her to her feet. “I think it’s show time.”

  Wyland, Claudette, Scarlett, and Lukas disappeared behind the large, rolling partition that separated the bedroom from the rest of the living space. Though the sprawling loft was cleverly separated into purpose areas by rugs, furniture groupings, shelving units, and movable wall partitions, only the bathroom had solid walls. Sheets rustled as Claudette helped Scarlett into bed. Male voices murmured.

  She couldn’t imagine having so little privacy on a day-to-day basis, much less while in labor.

  Suddenly, a ferocious wail came from behind the partition. The windows rattled in their frames.

  “Do you have earplugs?” Jack asked. He was already wearing his own.

  “I’m set.” Opening the package Wyland had given her, she quickly fit the little silicone blobs in her ears. “Are those windows going to be okay?”

  “Bullet-proof glass,” Jack said matter-of-factly. “They might crack, but they won’t break.”

  “That’s reassuring.” Not.

  Jack looked over to the kitchen, where Sasha and Antonia still squabbled. “They’re supposed to be mixing drinks. The last time I went in, Sasha about snapped my head off.”

  On the other side of the exposed brick half-wall, Sasha swigged from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s while Antonia, holding a nearly-empty wine cooler, pointed at her accusingly. “They must be…uncomfortable.” If she felt pounded by a vicious wave of PMS, she could only imagine how the two succubi must feel.

  “I get that,” Jack said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Liquor helps takes the edge off for the incubi and succubi, but—” he raised his voice slightly “—they’re so busy fighting with each other that they’ve forgotten about everyone else.”

  “We have not,” Sasha called back, dropping ice cubes into the lowball glass she’d just filled with the Tennessee whiskey. “Don’t get your panties in a wad.”

  Before he could reply, Sasha turned from the kitchen counter carrying a beverage-laden tray, weaving slightly. “Oops!” She quickly regained her balance, then made a circuit of the room, handing the lowball glass to her father, then delivering beer bottles to Rafe and Bailey. When Sasha sauntered toward them, Jack took a deep breath and straightened to his full height, as if steeling himself—and understandably so. With all the estrogen-laced pheromones floating about the place, Sasha was sexuality personified.

  “Here’s your Coke,” Sasha murmured to him.

  “Thank you.” Rather than waiting for Sasha to hand him the red and gray can, Jack took it from the tray himself. “The other beer’s for Tia?” At Sasha’s nod, he handed her the bottle of Angry Orchard Ale.

  “And the Jack is mine.” Setting the tray down on a nearby end table, Sasha picked up the bottle. Eyeing him, she took a slow, deliberate sip.

  The wave of sexual energy nearly knocked her sideways.

  “Sasha!” Elliott snapped from across the room. “That’s enough.”

  Over on the couch, Bailey pulled a small pillbox out of her purse. Opening it, she extracted two white tablets. After tossing one in her mouth, she offered the other to Jack. He quickly took the pill, chasing it with a gulp of soda.

  Wyland popped his head around the bedroom partition. “Does anyone need muscle relaxants?”

  She almost dropped to the floor so she could kiss his feet. “Me me me,” she chanted, waving her hand. “Me.”

  “Just a moment.” He disappeared for a couple of seconds, then walked into the living room carrying his big, black satchel. She followed him to the kitchen, where he set the bag on the counter, found a water glass, filled it from the tap, and drained it.

  “How are things going in there?” she asked.

  “Better than I expected. Scarlett’s doing well.”

  “And Lukas?”

  “He’s in pain, but not in active labor.”

  “That’s a relief.” Up close, she could see the toll Scarlett’s labor was taking on Wyland. His temples were damp with sweat, and his ponytail was slightly askew. There were stress lines bracketing the sides of his mouth, and his cheekbones were too prominent. She wheeled to the refrigerator, took out a bag of blood, and set it on the counter.

  He skimmed her up and down. “How are things going out here?”

  “The Sebastianis are getting drunk.” She rubbed her fist low on her abdomen. “I prefer the muscle relaxants.”

  Opening the bag with a practiced flick, he rooted around and withdrew a sheet of blister-packed tablets. “How much have you had to drink?”

  She held her nearly full beer bottle up to the light. “First bottle. Just a sip or two.”

  “Any chronic health conditions? Prescription medications?”

  “Nothing but birth control,” she answered cheerfully. “I’m healthy as a horse.”

  “Apparently so.” He eyed her again, then removed two tablets from the blister pack. “Take one now, and the other if you need it.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then picked up the bag of blood and the satchel. “Go easy on the beer,” he advised. “And have some blood yourself.”

  “Will do.”

  The hours passed with a steady rotation of booze, beer, sodas, and snacks. Calamity jumped on the table and helped himself to some of the spinach dip, but no one scolded him. Chico came upstairs to check in, but left very quickly. Time became fluid as Scarlett labored, cursing like a sailor. Singing, yelling, grunting… words and phrases dissolved into a swirl of tones and sound. At times, the room seemed to pulse around them. She didn’t see Wyland again, but she could hear him—hear his calm voice, his confident instructions.

  Suddenly, her uterus wrenched.

  “Here she comes, honey,” Claudette said from the other side of the partition. “Here she comes. Push! Oh, look at all that red hair...” When she added her powerful voice to her daughter’s, the floor seemed to undulate.

  The windows cracked.

  With a final, dissonant shriek, little Coco Annika Fontaine was sung into the world. After a pause, her angry, newborn squalls joined her mother and grandmother in a trio as old as time.

  And then, blessed silence. As she removed her earplugs, she blinked back tears.

  “The kid’s already got us wrapped around her little finger,” Sasha muttered, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “I’ll get the champagne.”

  Jack followed to help.

  Suddenly she yearned for her camera—the good one, down in her car. She’d take some candid shots, develop the pictures herself, and make a scrapbook as a baby gift. Walking over to the window, she nudged the curtain aside. Through the fractured glass, dawn pinkened the sky, but she had more than enough time to run down to the parking lot, retrieve her camera, and get back to the safety of the building before the sun broke over the horizon.

  She dropped the curtain and found Bailey, once again curled up with Rafe on the couch. “I’m going down to the car to get my camera. I’ll be right back.” At Bailey’s nod, Tia slipped away from the celebration, closing the door as champagne corks popped.

  Chapter Fifteen

  From his parking spot on Washington Avenue, Dominic had a clear sightline on the beige brick building that housed Sebastiani Security. On the other side of Hennepin, the Guthrie Theatre stood with its chest proudly out-thrust, but here, a mere five or six blocks down the street, dr
ug dealers were plying their trade, and Sex World did brisk business.

  In a back-handed way, Lukas Sebastiani had been smart to build his business here, because the security cameras glaring down from every light pole in the parking lot seemed prudent rather than pathological. Right now, the lot was full, but no one had come in or out of the building for hours. Tia Quinn’s Civic was parked closer to the building than he liked, with the driver’s door facing the entrance.

  Now was the time. Fate wouldn’t give him a better chance to steal the garage door opener he’d seen her use to enter the mysterious storage facility down the road from Vamp Central.

  He tied the bandanna around his head, covering his face, then pulled on the stocking cap and leather work gloves. Sliding the crowbar into the side pocket of his baggy jeans, he got out of the car and shrank into the shadows.

  It didn’t take long to reach Tia’s car. He dropped to a crouch at the Civic’s passenger side, using the car’s body to hide from the view of anyone who might pass through Sebastiani Security’s well-lit lobby. There. The garage door openers—there were two—were clipped to the driver’s side visor, but they’d be easy enough to reach. He pulled the crowbar out of his pocket, gripped it like a baseball bat, and swung for the fence.

  The window’s safety glass fractured but didn’t break. After a second, shorter swing, the glass finally shattered, sending small shards crumbling onto the passenger seat. He snaked an arm through the broken window, found the interior car door handle, and yanked.

  After brushing most of the glass onto the floor, he edged his way inside, keeping his body low until he lay with his upper body resting on the passenger seat. Carefully avoiding everything in the console—a half-empty bottle of water, a small notebook, a couple of cheap pens, and an open bag of Skittles—he slid one of the garage door openers off the driver’s visor, then stuffed it in his pocket. As he reached for the other, he heard—felt—an ominous ka-thunk.

  The automatic door locks.

  “Hey!” Tia Quinn wrenched open the driver’s side door. “Don’t you dare take that camera.”

  He hadn’t even noticed a fucking camera, but to disguise what he was really there to steal, he grabbed the strap.

  She was stronger than she looked. As they played a vicious game of tug-of-war, a mighty tug jerked him into the driver’s seat. She swiped at the bandanna covering his face.

  No. He threw up his arm to block her, clipping her face with his elbow. He heard a sickening crack.

  “Shit,” she gasped, clapping both hands over her nose. The momentum knocked her backward, her head hitting the open car door with a hollow thunk. She fell, hitting the pavement hard, the camera bag still looped around her arm.

  The blood flowing from her nose and temple was all that moved.

  “Shit.” This wasn’t what he’d planned. Panicking, he scrambled out of the car. There was still no activity in Sebastiani Security’s lobby. Over at the Washington Avenue stoplight, a semi downshifted, then glided to a stop. Down the street, a food truck opened its awning, ready to serve breakfast.

  The city was waking up. She…wasn’t.

  He had no choice; he had to get out of here.

  Quickly walking away, he abandoned Tia Quinn to the sun.

  Leaving Scarlett and Coco snuggling, and an exhausted Lukas sleeping like the dead, Wyland escaped to the blessedly empty bathroom. He desperately needed a couple of minutes to himself—some silence—and this room had the only solid walls and door in the place. Leaning against the sink, he rolled his head, trying to loosen stiff neck muscles, then turned on the water faucet. There were two hand-sized bruises developing on his forearm. With Claudette handling the business end of the birth—Scarlett had come through labor like a champ—caring for Lukas had fallen to him.

  The big man had a hell of a grip.

  He took off his shirt, grabbed a washcloth from the stack, and turned on the hot water. Using some liquid soap he found in the shower enclosure, he freshened up, running the cloth over his face, neck, chest and underarms, then he put the shirt back on again. The abbreviated bath would have to do until he and Tia got back home.

  He could really use some blood.

  When he came out of the bathroom, Bailey handed him a glass.

  “Thank you.” He sipped the rich, red nectar. Where was Tia? She’d promised to hand him his first glass of champagne. Jack and Rafe chatted in the kitchen. Sasha and Antonia were stretched out on the couch, either sleeping or passed out. Elliott and Claudette were in the bedroom, holding their granddaughter. “How is everyone doing?” Had Tia gone downstairs? Gone home? Maybe the second-hand pain had gotten to be too much for her to handle after all.

  Shit, he should have checked on her.

  “The Sebastianis drowned themselves in liquor, but the pheromone intoxication meds Jack and I took worked like a charm.” She smirked. “Once again, the supposedly weak, puny humans are in better shape than the paranormals are.”

  Sebastiani Labs had developed the experimental medication so Jack Kirkland, the first human they’d told about their existence, could keep a clear head working with so many incubi and succubi. “How’s your stomach?” Barely six months ago, trying to control her attraction to Rafe, Bailey had taken so much of the medication that she’d needed surgery for a perforated ulcer.

  “It’s fine.” Bailey gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow. “Hey, watch out.”

  “Hmm?”

  “The window.”

  The curtains were closed, but bright sunlight framed the window. Where was his brain?

  Elliott, bleary-eyed but sober, came out of the bedroom and kissed him on both cheeks. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for being here, for—” his voice cracked “—taking care of my family.”

  “Scarlett and Claudette did all the work.”

  Bailey passed out flutes of Dom Perignon. Jack and Rafe came out of the kitchen, joining them.

  “I’d like to make a toast.” Elliott raised his glass. “To the Ladies Fontaine. To Claudette, to Scarlett, and to Coco, my precious first grandchild.” He paused, blinking away tears. “And to our beloved Annika, ever with us in name and spirit.”

  Wyland’s throat tightened. Annika’s senseless death still stung.

  “And to Wyland, the rock upon which we stand. Salut, my friend.”

  Jack and Rafe raised their glasses. “To Wyland.”

  “Salut,” Bailey echoed.

  When he managed to speak, his voice sounded like a rough gravel road. “To the Fontaines.” He took a quick sip of champagne, more for form’s sake than anything else. “When did Tia leave?” He should call Thane to make sure she’d arrived safely home. Even with muscle relaxants on board, she probably felt as physically beat up as he did.

  “She didn’t,” Bailey said. “Leave, that is. She went downstairs to get her camera from her car.”

  He glanced at the window, at the bright light framing the borders. Warning bells started clanging. “How long ago?”

  Bailey looked puzzled. “She should be back by now.”

  “How long ago?” he snapped.

  “About an hour?”

  He strode to the door, trying to stay calm. Tia was probably downstairs, in the building, talking with Chico or another Sebastiani Security worker. Perfectly safe.

  But maybe not.

  As he twisted the doorknob, Bailey caught his shirt from behind. “Wait. The sun—”

  He jerked out of her grasp.

  “Damn it, wait for some help.”

  “Get it. I’m heading down.” He raced to the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time. When he reached the first floor lobby door, he hit the crash bar on the run. “Oh god.”

  She was outside, crumpled on the pavement next to her car.

  Covered with blood.

  And the sun…oh god, the sun…

  He started for the door, but someone stronger than Bailey grabbed him from behind.

  “You’ll fry,” Jack snapped. “Wait here.
Get ready to treat her.”

  Wyland wrenched his arms away. Jack was right; he knew Jack was right, but—

  The stairwell door crashed open again, and Bailey and Rafe hurried into the lobby. Rafe carried a colorful quilt.

  “Wyland, we’ve got this.” Jack was already half out the door. “Rafe, follow me.”

  Standing safe and worthless behind the lobby’s UV-treated windows, he watched Jack and Rafe cover the ten or so yards separating the building from Tia’s parked car. Rafe held up the quilt, blocking the worst of the sun’s burning rays, while Jack performed a quick head, neck, and back assessment. “Hurry, hurry…” he muttered. Jack’s actions were absolutely necessary—moving her prematurely could result in permanent injuries—but the sun…

  So much blood…

  “We’re taking her to the treatment room, right?” Bailey asked, propping the heavy steel door leading to Sebastiani Security’s working area with her body.

  He nodded. “How’s your break room’s blood supply?” Until he could assess her injuries, he had no idea how much blood Tia would need to jump-start her recovery.

  Bailey winced. “You just drank the last bag in the building. Blood bank is delivering later this morning.”

  No blood?

  The door alarm suddenly shrieked. Red lights flashed. After a couple of seconds, heavy boots pounded down the hall. “Finally,” Bailey muttered.

  “What the hell, Bailey,” Chico complained as he reached the door. “You know better than to prop the security door—”

  “Tia’s hurt. Get the gurney from the treatment room—”

  “We won’t need it,” Wyland told them, watching Jack scoop Tia off the pavement and run toward the building.

  He held the door open, ignoring the sting of the sun. Tia’s body sagged in Jack’s arms; she appeared to be unconscious. Head wound, left temple. Stitches, possible concussion. Nasal fracture. Between the head wound and the broken nose, her face was so covered with blood he couldn’t assess her burns.

  “Unconscious,” Jack confirmed, carrying Tia into the shadowed safety of the lobby and through the propped security door. “Broken nose, gash on her temple, a knot on the back of her skull. Looks like first and second degree burns.” Jack strode into the treatment room, gently laying Tia on the exam table as Bailey flicked on the overhead lights. “There’s blood on her driver’s door, and the passenger window’s broken. Looks like she interrupted a burglary in progress.”