He was halfway out his seat when Rachel held up a hand for silence. It came instantly.
“To mark my son’s return, I would present him with a gift.”
Rachel stepped behind Azaleigh, and drew a pale hand down her brown one. The contrast was obvious. Sunshine and winter. “It is against our laws to make blood slaves of witches, but this one has committed crime upon crime, and has willingly accepted the role over execution.”
From the stiffening of Azaleigh’s body, Victor wasn’t sure his mother told the truth.
Rachel moved forward, tugging gently at the leash as Azaleigh followed slowly. Every vampire in the room could hear the hard thud of her heart against her ribcage, and they all leered in anticipation. Witch blood slaves were rare, virtually non-existent since the treaties drawn up between Night Walkers and witches in the seventies. Stopping before Victor, his mother brushed his cheek with hers.
“For you, my son.”
She stepped back, eyes shifting from a green similar to his, to blood red. “Claim her, Victor.”
Chapter 7
Victor St. Croix was no more. That was Azaleigh’s first thought as she stared at the man who would own her. The irony—the slave and master role reversed yet again—was not lost on her. However, it was difficult to focus on that as she stood before Victor and many Night Walkers seated at the long dinner table behind him.
When she’d awoken hours ago with no pain or aches, only soft warmth that made her body tingle, she’d been surprised. Instantly, her hand had gone to her neck but the wounds had healed, leaving barely two pin-pricks. She might have thought she’d dreamed it all, but she’d still been in the stone cell, still in clothes that reeked of hard days and even harder nights. Azaleigh hadn’t had to worry, though, because a young girl, sheet-white and timid, had come to her not moments later. Without asking permission, she’d begun tugging at Azaleigh’s clothing until she was huddled in a corner, cold and naked. The girl had washed her down, the water mercifully warm, and tossed her a towel. Not minutes later, a regal blonde visited.
This was Victor’s mother. Whereas the resemblance with his father had been difficult to place at first, Azaleigh saw Victor in this woman. They had the same green eyes, nose, perhaps even lips, but Victor had inherited his father’s masculine bone structure, making for a contrast so striking, he could be nothing but beautiful.
The queen offered two options: death or life as Victor’s blood slave. It hadn’t really been a choice.
Standing feet from her, wearing a tailor-cut black jacket that clung to thick arms, and loose black slacks for his long legs, Victor was a new man. Her Victor had been tanned, and brawny, with a love for flannel shirts and ripped jeans. This person was shades paler than the healthy glow Victor had sported only days ago, and had lost some of his muscle mass. He was still big, but not as big as before. His build was more reminiscent of Dorian’s, muscular but in a lean, almost graceful manner. He looked expensive, like GQ or Esquire was missing one of their cover-guys. He matched each of the occupants around the long dinner table in grandness and style.
As she drew near, something flickered in his eyes. They were the same color as before, but flat. Dead. Azaleigh wondered if he even remembered her. If she wasn’t so against death, she might have chosen the option. The fighter in her wouldn’t let her give up, though. She had her mother to live for. Somehow, she’d get out of here, or die trying.
Victor approached her with deliberate steps, coming to a halt directly in front of her. She lifted her eyes to him, and waited. No one had told her what to expect. She wasn’t worthy of it, apparently. Fear fluttered in her heart, but she held his gaze.
His hand slid to her neck and unconsciously, Azaleigh flinched, remembering the pain of his last bite. Vampire and Night Walker, no longer her Protector.
Something flickered in his eyes—shock—before they changed, shifting from the color of leaves to sinister red. Her heart stopped, lungs constricted. She couldn’t breathe. Victor removed the collar, letting her expensive shackle fall to the floor. He tilted her head, and tears blurred her vision. There were murmurs in the background, hisses and gasps.
As his lips, cold lips, pressed to her neck, Azaleigh resisted the urge to scream. The pain came instantly, two large needles puncturing her skin, sinking deep into her flesh, but it wasn’t agony. It faded as his hand slid around her back, fingers gently splayed just above her buttocks. She found herself leaning into him, a soft moan leaving her lips as the hand at her back tightened. Under the expensive clothes, he felt cool, but with her body against his, that seemed to be changing.
Victor released her suddenly, his tongue a quick but thorough caress over her neck as he stepped back, hand still holding her. He spoke but she didn’t hear the words. Her eyelids flickered as she fell back, and someone caught her. Not Victor. He was still standing in front of her.
“Take her to my room, Garland. And give her something to drink.”
Garland? Victor’s image faded in and out and before long, she felt something soft beneath her body.
“Drink,” a gruff voice ordered. She was too tired. She wanted to rest. Azaleigh shook her head. Steely fingers gripped her chin, pulling down. “Drink!” Reflexively, her lips parted.
Cold liquid trickled into her mouth, down her throat. She sputtered, and finally, did as he’d commanded. It was sweet and tasted of sugar, syrupy sugar. Azaleigh blinked. Above her was a large man with an impassive face, and hard onyx eyes. When she could take no more of the sweet concoction, she pushed the cup away. He didn’t force her to drink more, but left her alone. Azaleigh slept.
***
From the moment he’d spied her, Victor had wanted to be alone with Azaleigh. It took two more hours, much to his irritation, to achieve his wish.
When he finally entered his room, he found her curled onto her side in the middle of his bed, the red gown a sharp contrast to his black sheets. His heart fluttered stupidly and he stroked her face. The bite he’d given her was healing, but the red mark on her neck made him feel like a monster even as his cock grew swollen at the memory of her taste. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d taken her blood, but tonight, he’d savored it. She might smell like sunshine and sugar, taste of toffees and baked sweets, but Azaleigh’s blood was sinful. Sweet but tangy, like fine, aged port. He could have drained her if he hadn’t remembered it was Azaleigh.
Moving to the other side of the room, Victor undressed, and ran a hand through his hair. Was she afraid of his new look? Was that why her heart had raced? Why she seemed ready to recoil at his touch?
Clad in boxer-briefs, he approached the bed again. The gown, while beautiful, looked uncomfortable. With quick, precise movements, he stripped her, leaving her in her panties and pulling the covers over her goose-pimpled body. The central air in the house was always on sixty degrees or lower, and while he didn’t feel it, she would.
Dawn was approaching. He could feel it in the tiredness of his body. As a Protector, he’d always had an internal clock as to when the dawn or dusk would come, but it had never made him bone-weary before. All of his senses were heightened. He could hear the servants scurrying down the hall to their cots on the basement floor, the guards—Protectors created by witches to serve his people during the daylight hours when they were at their weakest, alongside human ex-Special Forces operatives—lumbering about as they waited for the day.
Azaleigh moaned next to him, rolling closer to his body even as the comforter cocooned her. Her lip trembled, and because he couldn’t resist, Victor kissed her. Brown eyes peeled open and she blinked at him.
“Victor,” she murmured, pulling back. As her wits returned, she straightened and pushed herself up. The covers fell to her waist revealing perfect, dark-tipped breasts, and she instantly pulled it back up. “Victor!”
“I won’t hurt you, Azaleigh.” Even to Victor, his voice didn’t sound convincing. Lust rode him hard. He’d fed one appetite, but the other was not sated. As she’d slept, he’d
wanted her. Now, with her eyes on him, and her body heaving, he itched to touch her.
“Are you going to keep me here?” She sounded unsure, fearful.
“I’ll find a way to get you back to Hallows Brook. You can go to New York from there.”
“Is there still a Hallows Brook?” Her voice was hard, her eyes frigid.
Clenching his jaw, he nodded. “Yes. There wasn’t a massacre. There haven’t been massacres in decades. That isn’t how we do things anymore.”
“We? Anymore?” she huffed and shook her head. “What about my dream?”
“Not all dreams come to pass. Some are possibilities, others past events.” Victor clenched his jaw as he remembered Antoinette’s words.
“A vampire Protector,” Azaleigh scoffed, and shook her head. “What was she thinking?”
Feeling anger overtake him, Victor answered. “Leverage, revenge. Antoinette used me as a pawn. The Night Walkers didn’t attack Hallows Brook because I was there. My father waited for her to make demands, but there were none. He tried to bargain with her, but she was immune. Antoinette St. Croix was a cold-hearted bitch.”
Azaleigh didn’t respond, even when Victor glared at her, daring her to defend the dead woman.
“She only wanted to protect the town.” She kept her voice leveled, almost soft. “That was her job, Victor. She was the Guardian.”
A snarl ripped free of his chest. “She was a monster who took forty years from me.”
Azaleigh didn’t speak for a long time, and he looked over to find her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry, Victor. She shouldn’t have used you like that, but I think she did it for the townspeople.”
“Would you have done it?” he demanded, curious to know how different Azaleigh was from Antoinette. He’d told her once she reminded him of the deceased woman. Their auras were the same, he’d said.
“No.” Azaleigh shook her head as if to reaffirm it. “I would have found another way.”
A breath he didn’t know he was holding left his lips. Unconsciously, his eyes fluttered down her body to the falling covers. The tops of her breasts were again in view. He flipped onto his side instantly, pushing the image away. “Go to sleep, Azaleigh.”
She didn’t move, and he waited.
“Are you really going to take me back to Hallows Brook?”
“Yes. As soon as I can. This wasn’t your fault, but my parents needed someone to blame.”
“You don’t blame me?” She sounded uncertain, like she half expected him to.
“No.”
A feather-like touched settled on his shoulder, and he rolled to his side, facing her. She was peering curiously at him. “I have to get out of here, Victor. Soon.”
Even as his eyes narrowed, Victor nodded. He’d already told her he would get her away as soon as he could.
“I won’t be anyone’s slave, blood or otherwise.” Her voice was forceful, her eyes hard again. She seemed to be waiting for him to contradict her, but he only nodded.
“I told you, I’ll take you back to Hallows Brook as soon—”
“You’re not listening to me!” she hissed, gripping the sheet almost to her neck now and looking on the verge of hysteria. “I don’t care if you’re vampires or werewolves or whatever the hell you are, I’m no one’s slave. My ancestors already fought for freedom Victor, and I’m not going to stay here and pretend to be okay with reliving something that shouldn’t exist.”
Once she’d mentioned her ancestors, Victor understood. He’d been blind to it before, because his culture was based on a very strict class system, not race. Quickly, before she could recoil, he caught her shoulder. “Night Walkers don’t operate in that way. We don’t have race-based slavery. Most blood slaves serve willingly for a few years and are compensated by their Masters when they leave.” Her eyes sought askance in his, and he allowed her to see the truth. Blood slaves were at the beck and call of their Masters and some were crueler than others, but in modern day, they were treated more fairly.
Azaleigh nodded once. “You said soon. You’ll take me back to Hallows Brook soon?”
Victor nodded, feeling a slow breath escape his body. She seemed mellower now that he’d explained the meaning of blood slave.
“As soon as I can get you out of here without my parents objecting.”
She swallowed hard, and her eyelids fell, black lashes fanning her cheekbones.
“Sleep, Azaleigh. You must be tired.”
He made a move to turn away from her but Azaleigh’s hand on his face halted him. Her eyes seemed to bore through him, past skin, flesh, and bone, and into his very soul. “You look different.”
There was another emotion in her eyes now. Uncertainty still lingered, but was that regret?
“I know.”
Her fingers traced his cheek, and forehead. “You’ve gotten so pale, and cool to touch.” A sad smile touched her lips. “You lost your tan.”
Victor could only nod. At the moment, he didn’t care about the tan. Did she know what she was doing to him? Couldn’t she see the need in his eyes, the strain against his underwear?
“Can you still walk in the sun?”
The question doused some of his fire. It was one he’d asked himself before. When he’d been a Protector, he’d been able to walk in the sun without bursting into flame. His eyes had been sensitive, and he’d used protective sunglasses, but that was it. He doubted he could do it now.
“I don’t think so.”
“You loved the sun.”
He had. The first time he’d seen it, Victor had been intrigued, probably because some part of his subconscious recognized he’d spent decades staring at the moon and wondering how different it would be on the other side.
Victor caught her hand, brought it to his nose, and inhaled. “You smell like sunshine.”
As she leaned close to inhale, the comforter dropped. “You still smell of the Earth, and something else, something dark and...wild.”
Her nose was practically buried in his hair now, her breasts inches from his face. Victor could scent her arousal, wafting under his nose, tempting him.
“Azaleigh,” he warned, his voice a gravelly moan.
“I thought I’d die, Victor.”
The confession, soft and emotional, made his heart slam against his chest. “When? Did someone threaten you?”
“No. No threats.” She kept her face against his hair as if she didn’t want him to see her. “I didn’t know what to expect. You’re a Night Walker, the enemy, and I’m at your mercy.”
“You thought I’d hurt you?”
She swallowed audibly. “Maybe not intentionally.”
He gently pushed her away so he could look at her. Azaleigh’s eyes were misted, but a little grimace played around her lips.
“What does that mean?”
Hesitation clouded her features, but he demanded to know. “The first time you...bit me, you ripped my neck.”
Victor didn’t remember much of it, but he could imagine. Moving close to her, he rested his head on her belly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was dying…my instincts kicked in. It won’t happen again.”
Soft fingers stroked his hair, combing through the silken locks in a calming manner, and he sighed. Looking up, he realized how close he was to her breasts. Azaleigh peered at him with curious eyes, as if waiting to see his reaction. Reaching up, Victor licked at an exposed nipple, pulling it into his mouth. Azaleigh cried out and palmed his scalp. His fangs exploded into his mouth, and he forcibly retracted them, not wanting to hurt her.
Blood and sex. His body craved both, even though he’d sated the first already. He wanted her blood, her sex.
When he pulled away, Azaleigh’s eyes were glazed over. He moved to the other, sucking and teasing the hardening nub of flesh as she mewled and moaned under him. Victor tore the covers from her body and settled over her. Gasps left her lips and she smoothed her hands down his back.
“You’re so cold,�
�� she whispered with a soft smile.
“Make me burn.” His lips caught hers in a kiss so thorough, he came close to orgasm. Her too, it seemed, because she bucked against him impatiently. His tongue slid from her mouth and down her body, swirling in the sweet dip of her navel before he came to the bare skin of her mound.
Victor lifted a brow. He’d been expecting his landing strip.
“Blame the girl with the razor,” Azaleigh muttered. “She didn’t listen to me.”
She was making a joke of it, but Victor still felt anger cloud his mind. Why had anyone touched her there? Come dusk, he’d have to set down rules. Blood slave or not, Azaleigh was his and there would be no touching her, even for grooming, unless she requested it.
He licked her slow, tasting the salty-sweet, warm skin before moving down. His witch was already parting her thighs, her slit so wet Victor growled. He locked his arms around her legs and feasted. When her body had been wrung through twice, her limbs shaking as she weakly called his name, he crawled up, licking at her breasts as he passed them, and kissed her soft lips. Her hands instantly curled around his back, one moving down to urge him forward.
“You’re so impatient,” he chastised, sliding along her slippery heat. Azaleigh whimpered and huffed, alternating between glaring at him and staring yearningly into his face.
“If you weren’t so hot, I wouldn’t be impatient,” she half-growled.
On a chuckle, Victor reminded her, “You said I was cold.”
“I gave you enough heat to melt,” she retorted quickly, gripping his hips and lifting hers. “Victor!”
He didn’t need any more encouragement. Teasing Azaleigh had been the equivalent of teasing himself: torture. He pushed deep in one stroke, hearing her long moan even through his animalistic roar. His fangs protruded, and he was helpless to pull them back. Afraid to scare her, he lowered his head to the down pillow, thrusting into her tight heat, wondering why he’d made her that promise to take her back to Hallows Brook. How was he going to live without this? Without her?
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