Mated to Two Beasts

by T. S. Ryder

  A fire surged within him. He wanted to take her right then and there. He wanted to push her down into the grass, enter her and bite her, draining the beauty and have her all at the same time. But there was something he needed to do first. He tightened his grip on his sword and moved around the kneeling woman, leaving her be.

  Alastair snarled at the sniveling man. The nomad turned and ran, but he was far too slow. Alastair was on him in a moment. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and plunged his sword into his chest. The nomad cried out and went weak. Alistair pulled his sword free and the man fell to a heap at his feet.

  “Weak men are not permitted in Varlyn,” he said as he spat on the body. He turned around and saw the beautiful woman was still kneeling. She stared at him, her mouth hanging open as her eyes darted between Alastair and the dead man.

  Looking down at the corpse he could see the similarities. The nose and the hair color were the same. This must have been her father.

  “What is your name, nomad?” the Prince asked her, blood dripping down his sword. Her father’s blood.

  She paused for a moment, staring at him in confusion. “Avery Lathe, My Lord,” she finally said.

  “Stand,” he ordered.

  She rose to her feet and he was able to take her all in. Her thin nomad rags flapped in the wind as her long hair danced on her shoulders. She was like something out a dream, a perfect gift from the Gods left just for him. Caravans burned around him as his men called to each other, but all Alistair could focus on was her.

  He took a step towards Avery, expecting her to run away, but she didn’t move. She remained frozen in the spot staring up at him. He took another step. He moved slowly—as if she were a frightened animal that might run at any sudden movement. The moon lit up her soft features and he could not stop staring at the perfect curve of her cheek. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands all over her soft flesh. He needed to feel her in his arms.

  “Shall I take her to join the rest of the women, My Lord?” one of his men asked. It was like being awakened from a dream. He had been so focused on the creature in front of him that he had missed the end of the battle.

  “No,” he said to his soldier. “She is mine, let no one touch her. Take her to my tent.”

  She looked up at him startled. Her eyes went wide and her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but the soldier took her by the upper arm and pulled her away before she could speak.

  Chapter Two

  “No,” Avery heard the vampire warrior say. “She is mine. Let no one touch her.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” the soldier said as he pulled her away from the blood-stained corpse of her father. She wanted to say something to the vampire warrior but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She felt numb and empty. Only a few moments prior she had been scrounging together a dinner for her ungrateful father. Now he was gone and she was a captive of this vampire, out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  She glanced back to make sure her father was really dead. His corpse offered no resistance as the vampire soldiers grabbed his wrists and ankles and hefted him toward a pile of bodies. He was truly dead. He was gone for good. She had watched the life drain out of him. He would never hit her again.

  Feeling numb and confused, she offered no resistance as the soldier led her through the burning remains of her camp. She could hear other women wailing and weeping for their lost husbands and sons. They were loud, tortured sobs carried to her by the wind. Avery imagined the tortured lamentations could be heard for miles.

  Avery was grateful she was not with the other women. She didn’t want to have to pretend to mourn for her father. She felt no sadness at his passing, only relief. If he was gone, that meant he would never raise his hand to her again. She would never have to cook or clean for him again.

  I’m glad he’s dead, the thought made her stop in her tracks. The guard prodded her in the back. She stumbled for a moment and then resumed walking. She should have felt afraid. All around her, vampires were ripping apart their caravans. Women were screaming and crying, but she only felt a detached numbness. She had no say in what would happen to her now. She could only march forward and do as she was told.

  The chilly night air combed through her hair. The camp was growing quiet and anyone who might have put up a fight was dead or gone. Avery wondered where her brother was at that moment, how long it would take for the news to reach him. He had gone ahead to scout the nomads route to the next town, he was miles away. A dark part of her wished he had been here for the vampire’s slaughter. He was as bad as her father, worse maybe since he was still out there somewhere.

  With her vampire guard close, Avery left the burning remnants of her caravan behind and arrived at the small vampire camp. Squires were racing about, setting up tents and building fires. They were orderly and efficient, a far cry from her haphazard nomad life.

  Avery was led into the finest tent of them all. It was made of a white canvas material and inside there was a large wooden table covered in scrolls and maps. There was a thick carpet under her feet and several thick blankets piled in the corner for a bed. Candles were lit all around the room casting a soft light. Surrounded by such splendor, she felt dirty and insignificant. This tent was far finer than anything she had ever lived in and she wasn’t sure what to do with herself once she was inside it.

  “You will wait here. If you leave this tent you will be found and strung up. Your body left to the crows. Do you understand?” the guard asked in Varlyn.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered with a nod. He glanced around the room, as if he were taking note of everything in case anything went missing. He gave her one last glare and then turned on his heel and marched outside. The tent flaps closed behind him, but before they did Avery glimpsed two guards standing at the entrance.

  She was trapped. Anything might happen to her now. Her hands shook as she nervously moved around the large tent. On the back wall, painted in a vibrant red was the seal of the King of Varlyn, Granzen Thorne. It made sense, the vampire warriors who had descended on her camp were no amateurs. They were well-trained warriors, sent by the King.

  She stared up at the seal, the image of a spike piercing a heart, blood dripping down the side. The Vampire King of Varlyn was the strongest leader and wealthiest Lord in all of the Severed Lands.

  Avery traced a finger down her neck. She could feel her own pounding heart. That was what the vampire warrior wanted, no doubt. To drink from her, drain her. But most likely he wouldn’t kill her. The vampires weren’t stupid, if they killed every human they drank from they would quickly kill the entire populace and then starve themselves. It was against the law for a vampire in Varlyn to kill a human by draining their blood.

  She heard movement at the door. Spinning around, she saw the vampire who had killed her father. He had just entered the tent. Without being told, she knelt down and lowered her eyes.

  He said nothing. She watched his shiny boots as he trod over the carpet and past her. She glanced up at him and then quickly looked away. He was handsome, tall and muscular with a chiseled jaw, strong cheekbones and a pair of large, dark eyes. He was a commanding presence, one that made her feel meek and small merely from being near him. His hair was dark and cut short, his exposed arms were covered in tattoos, spiral designs that moved up and down his arms.

  “I am Prince Alastair Thorne,” he began, “Crown Prince and heir to the crown of Varlyn, Commander of the Ten Legions, Knight of the First Order, Lord of the Fire Islands, Protector of the Sands, Grand Master of the Northern Sea.”

  Her eyes went wide as she stifled a gasp. Alastair Thorne, the Crown Prince of Varlyn. When old Grazen died, this vampire would be King. Uncontrollably, she began to shake from head to toe. He was so powerful, so strong, she was nothing to him, just a poor nomad who only knew how to hide and steal. She had never been so close to a person of such importance.

  “Stand,” he ordered. Avery complied, rising to her feet, but keeping her head down. He reached for her
and she forced herself to not pull away. His cold hand caressed her cheek and then reached for her chin, tilting her head up to look at him.

  He turned her head this way and that, looking at her in the soft light of the candles. A tingle raced up her back and she shuddered in his grip. His cold hand cupped her cheek and he traced his thumb over her supple lips. His grip was firm but gentle and she couldn’t help the quiet gasp that slid through her lips when he touched them.

  She let out a shaky breath and then finally looked him in the eye. He was staring at her intensely, his eyes boring into hers. He moved, leaning down to give her a chaste kiss. She kept her eyes open, unsure of what to do. All she could think about was the fact that this was the Crown Prince of Varlyn. He lived in a castle with hundreds of servants. He was powerful and he had chosen her. A strange feeling bloomed in her chest and it took her a moment to recognize it as pride. Of all the women in the camp, he had wanted her.

  While she had been thinking, her body had moved on its own. She leaned closer to him, deepening their kiss as she closed her eyes. She allowed her lips to part and then his tongue was sliding into her mouth, dancing with hers. His arms wrapped around her and pulled her close, holding her tightly against him as he kissed Avery with a passion she had never experienced before. She felt like she was floating, forgetting who he was and where they were. All that was left was his strong hands on her.

  He broke the kiss and looked down at her. His hands were clutching her hips, digging into her flesh. Her heart pounded and her mouth was hanging open. Was he going to kiss her again? Did she want him to?

  He took her chin in his cold hand and tilted her head to the side. She felt his warm breath on her neck. A quiver went down her spine, all the way from her head to her toes. He must have felt it for he tightened his grip on her, his hand going around her back to pull her even closer.

  He kissed her sensitive skin before licking it and then she could feel his fangs as he pierced her flesh. She let out a quiet cry, but it was quickly silenced. He sucked on her neck and she could feel the blood leave her as he began to eagerly drink it down.

  Chapter Three

  The taste of her skin was tantalizing. She was soft and warm and every time he touched her, he could feel the blood travelling through her veins. It was waiting for him just under her skin. She gasped, her head fell back and her heart rate sped up. Alastair held her even tighter. His hands dug into her hips, he couldn’t hold himself back.

  She was falling for him, putting up no fight or resistance whatsoever. Her heart was thundering in her chest. He could feel every beat, every pulse of blood as it coursed the length of her body. He wanted her.

  Pulling his lips back Alastair instinctively found the artery in her neck. His fangs bared, he quickly pierced her skin and then the vein. He moaned as the warm, fresh blood poured from her and into him. God, she was delicious. He never tasted anything so sweet.

  For a split second after his fangs pierced her, she tensed and then her body went slack and he was supporting her with his strong arms. He knew his saliva would release a numbing agent when he was feeding. It flowed into her, draining her strength and her urge to fight, making her pliable. He bit harder into her and she gave out a long sigh and clutched his arms.

  He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t get enough of her. Her pounding heart was pumping blood directly down his throat. Her blood was feeding him and refreshing him as it returned the strength he had lost in the battle. He drank and drank and always there was more. The metal tang of blood in his mouth was intoxicating.

  She was weak in his arms, no longer standing on her own two feet, but instead held up by him. Her heartbeat was slowing. He let out a low growl and pulled her up and closer as the flow of blood began to slow.

  He opened his eyes and suddenly pulled away. Removing his fangs from her neck was the hardest thing he had ever done, but he forced himself to stop drinking from her. And he stopped just in the nick of time.

  Avery’s face was pale and her eyes were half-open. She was taking haggard gasps and struggling to stay standing. He had been too rough with her, taken too much of her essence. He had lost himself in her, almost killing her in the process.

  Alastair cursed his own impatience. He carried her over to the bed in the corner and gently laid her down. Her hair fanned out around her head as she settled for a moment and then quickly slipped into sleep. Brushing the hair from her forehead he felt how cold she was. He brought a blanket up and wrapped it around her, tucking her in.

  She appeared to be half-dead. Pale and still, with only the slightest movement in the rising and falling of her chest. He would have to get her some food, soon. Putting two fingers to her neck he felt for her pulse, it was weak but steady. He would need to be more careful in the future. He wasn’t done with this nomad yet. He had barely tasted her and there was still so much for him to discover.

  Leaving a guard to watch her, Alistair stepped out into the darkness. A pit had been dug for the male nomads and one by one their bodies were dropped in while their women looked on and wept. He could see bite marks on most of the pale necks of the females, but other than that, they looked well. His men had been more disciplined than he.

  Alastair walked towards the women and gestured for his men to join him. The women of the caravan looked at him with disgust through their red eyes. Some spit on the ground in front of him or cursed him in their native tongue. The mourning of woman are the song of victory, his father had once said.

  “Your men are gone. Your possessions are mine,” Alastair said. “We keep no slaves in Varlyn, but we are always in need of human servants. Women with skills, those who can sew and cook should say so and you will be put to work. If you choose not to stay with us, then you may leave.”

  “On our own?” one older woman demanded, “with no money or men to protect us? That’s a death sentence.”

  In a moment, his steward, Sir Reese, was on her. He hit her across the face with the back of his hand. The slap echoed around them and she fell back with a loud cry onto to the dry grass. The other women gathered around her in a circle, putting their arms over her as if they could offer any resistance to his great fighters.

  “You will speak to the Crown Prince with the respect his position demands,” the steward yelled as the women cowered.

  “Stay or go,” Alastair said, “It means nothing to me. I am in need of a woman who can cook and clean. I will neither harm nor touch whoever chooses to come with me. I will pay them well and keep them safe. I leave it to you, Sir Reese.”

  He turned to his steward and said quietly, “The human woman in my tent needs to be fed something to return her strength to her. Find a good cook among them.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Reese said with a nod as he turned to the group of women, some of them who looked hopefully up at him.

  Overnight his men worked on the camp. They kept the best of the caravans and burned the rest. The women who decided to stay were put into one cart. Sir Reese chose a young girl named Theresa to take care of Avery. She fed the pale woman freshly cooked rabbit and a large glass of water. By morning, Avery’s color had almost completely returned. There was a pink flush to her cheeks and chest, as she remained asleep in Alastair’s bed. He was constantly turning around and staring at her as he attempted to work. He found resisting the urge to touch her was a constant struggle.

  “What’s happening?” she mumbled as Alastair pulled her to her feet. She was still half-asleep and groggy, her eyes barely open. The pale sun was just appearing over the mountains.

  “My men and I are done here, now we return to the Red Castle on the Sea,” Alastair said to her. He held her against him to help her walk. Her heart was thumping in her chest and the sound reverberated through his body. He leaned down and smelled her hair, resisting the urge to kiss the crown of her head. Every time he was close to her body he felt a primal drive to remove her clothes piece by piece, but he restrained himself. He needed to let her recover fully.

  “Now
we shall travel to the coast and board our ships. We will be in Varlyn within a week,” he smiled as he put her in a bed in the back of the best caravan. He made sure she was comfortable before closing the door and mounting his horse.

  He rode out in front of the caravan, leading the way. He would have rather ridden with Avery, but Alastair wasn’t an old man. He wasn’t going to ride in a caravan with the women. It would make him look weak. Still, his resolve was not so strong. He could not stop his eyes from travelling to the caravan where Avery slept. He imagined her sleeping form—naked on the furs. The thought forced him to adjust himself on his saddle.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He longed to feel the steady drumbeat of her heart and to bask in the warmth of her body. He wanted to watch her breathe and trace his fingers along her cheek and collarbone.

  His first and only night with her, Alastair had lost control. He had come so close to killing her. Only foolish vampires killed humans when they drank from them. It was better to keep them alive, leaving open the option to come back for more. But she had tasted too good. She felt so right in his arms. Waiting was a torture, but he knew she wouldn’t survive if he fed from her now.

  He wanted to stop the caravan and go to her. There were a hundred warriors and dozens of captives as well as the wagons trailing behind him filled with bounty. He would have brought it all to a screeching halt for just a few drops of the woman waiting for him. That was what a foolish, prideful Lord would have done. But Alastair was smarter and better disciplined than that.

  On this expedition, he had captured gold, gems and weapons. He had secured the disputed borders and killed the nomads who had been stealing from local villages. Peace had been restored. But in his heart, he knew that none of that compared to his new human captive. Avery was the real prize. Alastair couldn’t wait to show her his splendid palace with its gorgeous rooms. He would have a dressmaker come and make anything she wanted. He would drape her in gold and jewels solely for the pleasure of removing them. He would have her whenever he wanted.