Blood Vengeance

by Tessa Dawn

  “I do want this,” she said with absolute certainty. “And I freely give my consent.”

  There.

  She had said it.

  She rubbed her hands together nervously, turned toward the kitchen, and waited for Salvatore’s reply.

  *

  Salvatore stared at the ridiculous human woman in utter stupefaction.

  He could hardly believe what had just happened, the words that had left her mouth, and every muscle in his body was twitching to react: to strike, mutilate, and punish, just for the hell of it. He wanted to fly into the living room and tear her skin from her body, one bloody strip at a time, just to hear her scream. He wanted to rip out her throat with his fangs, drain her body of blood, while sucking, biting, and guzzling, just to watch her writhe. He wanted to take her back to the colony, chain her to his huge iron bed, and violate her ever-so-slowly, creatively, painfully, in order to teach her a lesson, her true position on the food chain. And then he wanted to draw out her conversion for days, perhaps weeks, just because he could. He wanted to watch her plead for mercy. He wanted her to beg the god she clearly despised for salvation, knowing all the while that it was much too late, her plea would be denied, for she no longer housed a soul.

  Salvatore practically salivated over the endless possibilities as he watched her, waiting so patiently for his reply.

  And honestly, how stupid could one person be?

  He sighed, forcing all of his instincts to heel, clamping down on the need to terrorize.

  As badly as he wanted to sacrifice the lamebrain offering before him—she did consent to relinquish her soul, after all—he knew he had to be careful. He knew he had to be smart. Right now, in this present moment, this woman could still walk in the sun, and that meant she was a valuable commodity, indeed. Very valuable. He needed to act with both wisdom and deliberation. This was not an opportunity that knocked every day.

  Salvatore shut his eyes and imagined himself wading in a calm, peaceful stream…

  Perhaps he could split the difference.

  Perhaps he could take Tawni home, back to his lair, and enjoy her later, within limits.

  Perhaps he could give her a mission to complete, a simple but effective task to demonstrate her enthusiasm, something that involved the house of Jadon, before he gifted her with immortality.

  Perhaps Tawni needed to prove that she was worthy of her torment… first.

  Yes, Salvatore mused: a simple but demonstrative task was precisely what Tawni needed.

  five

  Tiffany leaned forward in the large, overstuffed armchair, placed the back of her hand against her forehead, and tried to discern her temperature… or something like that. She was unusually hot, or was she cool, clammy, perhaps catching a cold? She shook her head to clear the cobwebs, and the room began to spin around in wild, dizzying circles. Okay, so maybe downing four drinks in a row had not been the best idea. What time was it anyway? It had to be at least one o’clock in the morning.

  Ramsey squatted down in front of her chair and stared at her intently. The ground seemed to rise up to meet his booted feet, before shifting back and forth, then settling in place. “Hey, baby girl,” he drawled in that infuriating, far-too-masculine voice, “I think you’ve had one too many. Can you stand up? Think you can walk?”

  Tiffany furrowed her brows, deeply pondering the question. She placed her forefinger on her chin, inflated her cheeks with air, and then slowly blew it out, right in Ramsey’s face. He didn’t flinch. “Hmm?” she finally asked. “What was the question?”

  His pouty lips turned up in a smile, and she leaned in closer for a better look, marveling at the sheer perfection of the lines, the way they accentuated his perfectly sculpted mouth. And then reality sank back in: Oh yeah, this wasn’t some Adonis kneeling before her in supplication. It was Ramsey Olaru, the pitchfork dude, and he was using his deep, gravelly voice to do something sinister to her. Just what, she wasn’t sure.

  “Don’t you play games with me, Farmer John.” She slurred the words, all the while pointing a stern, accusing finger in his general direction. “’Cause I need it. See it. I mean, I know what you are doing.”

  Ramsey nodded his head, leaned back on his heels, and bit the inside of his cheek, continuing to stare at her like she had cake, or frosting, or something on her nose. She knew that she didn’t.

  So, ha!

  “Damn,” he grumbled. “I wish you would’ve told me you were such a lightweight, Blondie. I would’ve made you something else.”

  Now this felt like a direct assault… or an insult… something clearly nefarious. Tiffany sat up straight and tried to hold his iron stare with one of her own. “You can’t make me anything, Mr. Olaru!” There. She’d told him! She sat back in the chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and huffed. “Besides, my mother made me, not you! So, deal with that.” Although she meant every word in earnest, this somehow made her giggle.

  Ramsey averted his eyes and simply nodded, again. “All right, Blondie,” he said, his voice absent of challenge or insult—peculiar, that. “Tell you what: I think we need to find some pj’s, maybe head for the shower, and then tuck you into bed.”

  Tiffany gasped. “Don’t you dare put the shower in my bed! I know how to do it all by myself.” She stood up abruptly and almost toppled over sideways before he caught her in his arms, his large, rugged hands anchored, once again, on both sides of her waist. She knew where this was headed, right down to her… bottom!

  “Is that a fact?” he said, before she had another chance to speak. He lifted her as effortlessly as he might have hefted a sack of potatoes and then gently tossed her over his shoulders, so that she was now hanging upside down.

  “Ohhhh,” she moaned, reaching for the pockets on his blue jeans and tugging in earnest. “I think I’m gonna puke on your butt.” He quickly set her down, steadying her on her feet by her shoulders. She leaned forward and rested her head against his chest. “Oh, God… why did I drink so much?”

  “Tiffany,” he whispered, taking one hand off her shoulder to place it on her cheek. “Look at me. Maybe I can help.”

  She drew her face away from his hand and held it at an awkward angle, tilted to the side, and then she narrowed her eyes into a squint and glared at him from her peripheral vision—yet she said nothing.

  He moved both hands to the ridge of her elbows, providing moderate but surprisingly effective support, and then he frowned. “What the hell is that?” he asked, scrunching up his face in confusion.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “That look. Your face. What the hell are you doing?”

  She grit her teeth, pursed her lips, and tried to glare at him like a vampire—it seemed like the appropriate thing to do at the time—and then she snorted. “I’m giving you a warning,” she said tersely. “You. Are. Not. Going. To. Get. Away. With. This.”

  Ramsey whistled low beneath his breath, almost sounding like Nathaniel Silivasi, and then he slowly shook his head. “Wow… okay. I think we’re done for the night.” He placed one hand beneath her knees, the other around her waist, and lifted her to his chest. “C’mon, baby girl; it’s time to go night-night.” He started toward the hallway… and the bedrooms.

  “Hey! I thought I toooold youuuu—”

  “Yep, you told me, all right. C’mon, Miss Matthews.” He continued down the hall until he reached the second master bedroom, the one across from his own room, and then he used his telekinesis to open the door. “It’s time to hit the sack.”

  Tiffany tried to protest, but it wasn’t worth the energy. All she wanted was for him to stop walking, stop moving, so the room would stop spinning.

  He somehow managed to hold onto her with only one arm, while pulling back the covers with the other, and then he gently laid her down on the soft memory-foam mattress—well, as gently as Ramsey did anything. Put it this way: He didn’t throw her or drop her on her head.

  Tiffany moaned and crawled further onto the mattress, trying to quiet
her stomach. She so did not want to vomit. “Ohhh, Godddddd,” she repeated.

  “Sh, Blondie,” he said, and then she heard him walk away. All of a sudden there was water running in the en suite bath, and a few minutes later, he was back with a cool washcloth. “Roll over,” he said, waiting as she rolled gingerly onto her back.

  “There,” he grumbled. His bedside manner left a bit to be desired, but all in all, he was pretty gracious.

  He placed the cool cloth on her forehead, and she sighed. “Thank you.”

  He grunted something unintelligible, and she assumed he probably nodded, but her eyes were closed and she had no intentions of opening them again, not until, maybe, the next century. Perhaps he could convert her and get on with the whole nasty business of the Curse while she slept, blissfully unaware. The thought drifted off into the same fog as her mind, completely enveloping her consciousness and ushering her into an alternate, hazy plane. Several minutes passed by, and she could have sworn she heard something, someone, making another trip to the bathroom and running the faucet again. She no longer remembered exactly where she was or who, precisely, she was with. And for some reason, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was sleep: blessed, peaceful sleep.

  The washcloth was placed on her forehead again, and she welcomed it. When she felt her legs elevate above the bed, her pants slide over her hips, and her blouse slip off her arms, she thought she should probably say something, maybe protest, but it was far too much effort to try. Instead, she wriggled out of the garments and luxuriated in the most glorious sensation in the world: crisp, clean sheets enfolding her body, being tucked up to her chin, and a soft but heavy blanket enveloping her in its comforting warmth. “Mmm,” she murmured. And then she turned onto her side. “Ramsey,” she said absently, wondering if it was the brutish Master Warrior who was actually tucking her in.

  “Yeah, babe?” The deep, silken voice seemed to drift from the ether. Perhaps Ramsey was somewhere else. Perhaps he was somewhere using his supernatural powers to communicate like a vampire—could they actually do that? She thought she mumbled a reply, but maybe it was just a dream.

  When the mattress depressed beside her, a large hand supporting the weight of an even larger body as it bent over her languid frame, she burrowed deeper into the pillow, placed her arm beneath her head, and nestled against the crook of her elbow.

  A pliant but firm set of lips brushed her cheeks, and then the weight was gone.

  “Sleep with the angels, baby girl,” she heard from that same, foggy distance. She raised her knee to get even more comfortable and slid her free hand under the pillow.

  Sleep with the angels?

  Nah, that was definitely not Ramsey Olaru.

  six

  The next day

  Fortunately for Tiffany, Ramsey had some important business in town the next day, and he had agreed to drop her off on the top floor of DMV Prime, at the executive suite of offices, so she could gather some of her things and make a few calls while he met with his associate in the lobby.

  Needless to say, her head was pounding—she had already taken two aspirin, consumed sixteen ounces of water, and downed two cups of coffee, just for good measure—and to say she felt embarrassed by the turn of events would have been an understatement. Tiffany had never been a heavyweight drinker, but still, last night had been pathetic. She wasn’t sure if Ramsey had mixed actual poison in those drinks, or if the stress of the whole situation had compromised her judgment. Either way, it didn’t really matter. She had made an utter fool of herself; she had awakened wearing nothing but her panties and underwear; and Ramsey wasn’t saying much of anything about it, which was actually preferred as far as Tiffany was concerned. She figured he was either trying to be a gentleman, sparing her some major embarrassment, or in the worst-case scenario, he was a complete lecherous predator, and if that were the case, she would soon find out… in about forty-eight hours.

  She rolled her eyes. Somehow, she knew that the latter scenario was not the case. What had he said? I’m a lot of harsh things, little lady, definitely rough around the edges, but I’m not an animal. And I’m not a rapist. She shuffled a few papers around on her desk and turned her attention back to the matter at hand and Ramsey’s explanation for coming into town: He had to meet with an associate.

  Associate, her behind!

  Ramsey was meeting with Julien Lacusta, the valley’s most gifted tracker, and from what she had overheard, it had something to do with a potential teenage Dark One. Someone was going around the valley killing little kittens and birds and draining them of blood, and Saxson, Ramsey’s twin, wanted Julien to make sure the Dark Ones’ hunting packs weren’t feeding too close to home.

  Whatever that meant.

  Ah well, at least it was an opportunity: a temporary respite if nothing else, a chance for Tiffany to organize and gather her work, collect her wits, and try to call Brooke in private.

  The two hadn’t spoken since the night before, the night Tiffany had tried to make a run for it on Prince Phoenix’s 250,000-dollar horse, and she was pretty sure the royal family was not all that pleased with her at the moment, let alone impressed with her powers of reasoning.

  Hell.

  Who were they to judge?

  Even the king had nearly killed Ramsey once for insolence, insubordination, and just plain ol’ badness. Surely, they could understand Tiffany’s angst.

  She sighed.

  She stuffed another group of files in her bright blue backpack, grabbed her rolodex and the charger for her laptop, and sank down into the plush leather chair behind her smooth mahogany desk, wondering when she would see it again. And what would her life be like then?

  She blinked away the inner turmoil before her eyes could fill with tears, and then she drew her cell phone out of her purse and hit the pre-programmed button for Brooke.

  The phone rang four times before the beautiful, brunette queen of the house of Jadon answered. “Tiff, is that you?” Brooke sounded positively tormented.

  “It’s me,” Tiffany said, getting the perfunctory greeting out of the way.

  “Oh gods,” Brooke exhaled, not bothering to hide her concern. “It’s so nice to hear your voice.”

  “Yeah, yours, too.”

  There was an awkward pause before the queen finally asked, “So… how’s it going?”

  Tiffany sighed. “How do you think?”

  “That well, huh?”

  “Just peachy,” Tiffany said. “Last night he made me alcoholic beverages, and I had four in a row.”

  Brooke gasped, and Tiffany could almost see her recoil in her mind’s eye. “Ramsey got you drunk?”

  Now this made Tiffany laugh, inside. If Brooke only knew; Tiffany had gotten herself drunk. “Completely blitzed,” she said, “and then he threw me on the floor and ravaged me against my will.” She didn’t know why she said it; it just seemed like a clever way to break the ice.

  Brooke inhaled sharply. “No! No? He didn’t.” She took the phone away from her ear. “Napolean!”

  “I’m kidding!” Tiffany rushed the words. “Just kidding.” Sort of. Oh hell, that was all she needed: Napolean to confront Ramsey, and Ramsey to confront her. And what was with this run-and-tell-hubby-stuff anyway? What was the king going to do about it? “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Not funny,” Brooke said wearily. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry.” And then, in the background: “No, sweetie. Everything’s fine. Really. It was just a miscommunication. Yes, I’m sure. Thanks anyway. Love you.”

  Yikes, Tiffany thought. Really dodged a bullet there, especially if Brooke was throwing in ‘I love you,’ just for good measure. “You know better than to even hint that you’re upset about something to that vampire,” Tiffany said, preaching. “You have to stop doing that, Brooke. Seriously. If we’re going to talk, you can’t do that.”

  “If we’re going to talk?” Brooke echoed.

  “When we talk,” Tiffany reassured her.

  “And you have
to stop making up such horrible stories about Ramsey. I mean, I know he’s a bit harsh, but Tiff, that was quite unsettling.”

  Tiffany grew quiet.

  A bit harsh?

  “Tiff?”

  She rubbed her face in her hands and tried to force some fake cheer into her heart. Couldn’t do it.

  “Tiff?”

  “I’m here.”

  Brooke sighed. “Oh, Tiff, I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything to Napolean just now. I overreacted… especially when I know you so well.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, whenever you lead with snarky jokes and inappropriate humor, it means you’re dangling on the edge. You’re not okay, are you?”

  “I can’t go there right now, Brooke. I honestly can’t.” She fought to keep her voice steady, and Brooke waited about two or three seconds before regrouping.

  “Okay… so… where would you like to go, then? You lead, and I’ll follow.”

  Tiffany managed a faint smile, truly appreciating her friend’s words. “Are we okay?” she asked sheepishly.

  “You mean you and me?” Brooke asked. “Always, in my mind, but you tell me. The last time I saw you, I know you were rattled. We both were. And I know you felt like I should’ve given you my keys, and maybe I should have—I don’t know—but like I said, we were both so rattled.” Brooke took a deep breath, like she was trying to avoid mixing up the order of her words. “And I’m sure you aren’t happy that I told Napolean about your wrist, that you were Ramsey’s destiny, but Tiffany, you have to understand: I was truly concerned for your safety. And Ramsey? He wasn’t going to be denied—”

  “Brooke—”

  “Not by me. Not by Napolean. And not by the laws—”