Blood Vengeance

by Tessa Dawn

  Tiffany’s jaw literally fell open.

  Her eyes grew wide as saucers, and her heart began to race in her chest.

  What the hell was that?

  She tried to utter a protest, but her voice got lost in her throat. She wrung her hands together and stepped deliberately to the side. “Um, Ramsey.” She looked down at the ground, causing her bangs to fall into her eyes. “The last time I checked, it takes two to tango.” Her voice sounded weak and unsure.

  He smiled, a wicked, predatory grin. “Oh, we will both be fully present. You can bet the farm on that.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “That’s not what I meant.” She swallowed her trepidation and forced herself to be strong. Surely, he was just reacting to the situation, to the adrenaline and the danger—he was a vampire after all. “You said I could have at least three whole days, remember?”

  “I lied.”

  She jolted. “Whaa… no… you can’t just… ” She shut her mouth and cropped her words, not wanting to provoke him, at least not now. She decided to try another approach. “You know, you’re kind of scaring me again.” She waited with bated breath, and he smiled another wicked grin.

  “You’ll get over it.” He brushed an errant lock of hair out of her eyes, raised her chin with his hand, and then shackled both of her wrists in his fist, albeit very gently. “Tiffany, you belong to me. You are mine. And I want you—all of you—now.” He narrowed his gaze and sighed. “But I have enough class, or at least enough good judgment, not to take you in this park, in front of the entire house of Jadon. So go touch base with Brooke, spend a little time with Phoenix, and then we are going home. Together.”

  Tiffany took a startled step back. There was nothing she could say. Ramsey was pulling the rank-and-file card at his leisure—as if!—and she was utterly helpless to challenge him.

  In truth, the male was exactly what she had always believed him to be: a beast.

  A powerful, beautiful, terrifying beast.

  And he had just scared the wits out of her.

  “Don’t I get a say?” she whispered.

  He raised her left wrist to his mouth and held her gaze in a captive stare. The air around them stirred, grew several degrees warmer, and tangible electricity pulsed between them. Good heavens, was he doing this with his mind, using his powers to influence her?

  “Yes… and yes,” he rasped seductively. “I plan to use everything I have.”

  She almost bolted and ran, but she was far too captivated, ensnared in his trap, caught in his enthrallment. Tiffany Matthews was like a ball to a chain, only she was tethered to Ramsey’s soul.

  “You do get a say,” he whispered. And then he sank his fangs into her wrist, drew a minuscule sip of blood, and swirled his tongue around the twin pin-holes, savoring the flavor.

  Tiffany nearly swooned. Her heart fluttered wildly, and her stomach clenched into knots: Oh, heaven help her—he wasn’t playing fair.

  As he sealed the wound with his venom, his eyes bored into hers, and he winked like a devilish fiend. “In fact, say my name, right now,” he commanded softly.

  Tiffany inhaled sharply as her chest rose and fell in distress. Her shoulders began to tremble, and her palms grew sweaty, even as her pelvis flooded with warmth.

  That bastard. That caveman. That louse!

  That gorgeous, disgustingly masculine… god.

  She closed her eyes and shivered. “Ramsey.”

  twenty-one

  Tiffany rinsed the shampoo out of her hair and just stood beneath the spray, trying to collect her wits.

  What the hell had just happened?

  All the way home, the entire ride, she had tried to talk Ramsey out of his plan, yet he hadn’t budged an inch. The male was bound and determined to get this Blood Moon rolling, and he didn’t have a single compunction about playing fair.

  In fact, what was it he had told her when she had insisted on taking a shower, at least washing the grime from the park off her soiled body? “I wouldn’t get dressed when you’re done if I were you, not unless you want to make me undress you.”

  She adjusted the polished-chrome lever to a much hotter setting and reveled in the immediate warmth. Who the hell did Ramsey think he was? She groaned. Oh, hell, he knew exactly who—and what—he was: a supernatural being with the power to make her quake, quiver, and say his name whenever he damn well felt like it.

  Had she really done that?

  Had she actually batted her sea-green eyes, licked her quivering lips, and whispered Ramsey like some lovesick teenage dolt, just because he had commanded it? She eyed the window beyond the sunk-in jetted tub, wondering if she was small enough to shimmy out of it. How long would it take him to notice?

  And then she remembered the episode on the horse…

  Not a good idea.

  Reaching for the conditioner, she coated her hair liberally and tried to make sense of the drastic change in Ramsey’s approach: True, the scene in the park had been grisly. She could have been killed. He could have been killed. Hell, Brookie and Phoenix could have been killed, and Tiffany would have never forgiven herself for her stupidity.

  But they hadn’t been killed, none of them.

  Ramsey had done what he did best, protect the house of Jadon.

  She sighed as she reached for the soap.

  She had half a mind to sneak her cell phone and call the queen for help. But then, what would she say? Brooke, get Napolean and come here, quick. Ramsey is determined to ravage me! Yeah, that would definitely marshal the troops.

  Not.

  If anything, Napolean would give Ramsey a badge—some sort of dark, vampire, Blood-Moon-rising, way-to-go, atta-boy badge!

  She grit her teeth in frustration and maybe a little… arousal?

  Oh, hell.

  This was maddening.

  It was way too soon.

  “Time, baby. It’s all about time,” she mumbled, trying to mimic his voice. That deep, raspy, sultry… voice. “Aaaaarghhhh!” she moaned. Okay, okay, just breathe. Think! Think and breathe. If you can figure out what’s really going on, you can probably get him to see reason.

  Why was Ramsey acting like a caveman?

  She reached for a loofah and began to work in the soap. Ramsey was clearly rattled by the entire scene in the park. Heck, he had even treated Saber like some long-lost comrade, showing rare and demonstrative emotion. And his brothers? Holy crap! On one hand, he had tried to debrief them; on the other hand, he had looked like he wanted to crawl into their skin, stand in their shoes, and meld their souls as one. He had looked like he never wanted to be apart from them again—even they had found his behavior strange.

  And Phoenix?

  How many times did he apologize to the prince? How many times did he apologize to Brooke? Just how many times did he genuflect to Napolean?

  Ramsey did not do obeisance. He didn’t grovel, and he didn’t kiss derriere.

  Something was definitely off.

  She silenced her mind and tried to listen to her intuition—perhaps she should go back to her most recent dreams. What had Dream Weaver been trying to tell her? Was there a clue she was overlooking?

  She jolted beneath the warm spray, all at once making sense of the obvious: Duh! A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Dream Weaver had tried to warn her all along, and not about Ramsey, but about the woman, about the ferocious wolf playing the role of a timid sheep, pretending to be a victim while waiting to tear out her throat.

  And what the hey was that all about, really?

  How in the world could Tawni have become a vampire? She sure as heck wasn’t anyone’s destiny, not unless Satan had recently joined the house of Jadon. According to Ramsey, there was only one way it could have happened, only one way that coincided with the Curse. The female had to have been evil from the start. She had to have willingly relinquished her soul, given Salvatore Nistor permission to convert her. She had to have given herself to the sorcerer.

  Ew.

  Now that was just th
e nastiest thing Tiffany had ever heard.

  Salvatore Nistor?

  Really?

  She grimaced and shook her head. She was getting distracted, losing her train of thought.

  Back to Ramsey and his blind determination to take her like the spoils of war, turn her promptly into a vampire, and then lock her in her room until, oh, maybe the next century.

  What was going on with the terrifying sentinel?

  Before she could follow the thought any further, there was a light rasp on the bathroom door. “Blondie?” It was Ramsey’s gravelly voice. “Are you going to hide in there forever?”

  Tiffany held her breath, hoping he would just go away. When the knock came again, she sighed. “Give me a minute,” she called in desperation.

  “You’ve already been in there for forty-five,” he said. “I think you’ve drained both water heaters.”

  She clenched her eyes shut. You can afford it, she said to herself. “Fine,” she said to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He chuckled, deep and low beneath his breath.

  Honestly, he was such a brute.

  She reached for the faucets with an unsteady hand, each one in turn, and slowly turned the levers to off. Then she reached for a large, fluffy towel and wrapped herself up like a mummy, almost restricting her ability to move. She tiptoed to the bathroom door and pressed her ear against the panel, listening for… listening for… what? His breathing? His heartbeat? And just who was she? Wonder Woman?

  She sighed and tried to get a grip.

  Just get out of the bathroom and get dressed, she told herself. She counted to one hundred, giving him plenty of time to retreat, and then she turned the knob, very slowly, peeking around the doorframe to make sure the massive vampire was gone.

  He was.

  Thank the Lord.

  She stepped out into the guest bedroom timidly, immediately shuffling to the bedroom door to flip the lock. He wouldn’t saunter back in if she could help it, as if a measly lock could stop Ramsey Olaru. She shook her head to dismiss the thought. She doubted he would break down the door as a precursor to seduction.

  Or would he?

  She gulped and scanned the top of the bed, staring at the various piles of clothes she had preselected before her shower: What to wear?

  What to wear?

  She quickly shimmied into a pair of blue jeans, donned a form-fitting, long-sleeve turtleneck, and then covered that with a large, bulky sweater made of loosely knit wool. It was a ridiculous choice, not to mention way too hot. What was she trying to say? Back off, Buckaroo! You’ll never get through all these layers! She hurriedly stripped them off and tossed them on the floor.

  She grabbed a beautiful, floor-length nightgown next. It was made of soft green satin, a perfect complement to her eyes, and the V-neck didn’t plunge too low. She stared at herself in the full-length mirror and grimaced. Yeah, Tiff, that’s exactly what you want: Why not just scream, “Come and get me, big boy!” She ripped it off with a haste that bordered on frenetic and then reached for a pair of too-large gray sweat pants and an oversized sports tee. Yeah, that worked. Didn’t it? She eyed herself from several angles in the mirror. Frumpy. Disinterested. It kind of said, “Wouldn’t you rather paint the garage?”

  She sighed, feeling tears well up in her eyes. What in the world was she supposed to do? What in the world was she supposed to wear? She tried on three more outfits, each one more ridiculous than the last—a red dress, too street-walker; a pair of jean overalls, too redneck; and a thick pair of flannel pajamas covered in little blue bunny rabbits, too childish. She ripped off the pj’s and tossed them across the room in a fury. Standing there in her soft yet elegant matching panties and bra, she stared into the mirror and frowned. Good grief, she was a hot mess. Her harshly layered hair had dried without the benefit of a blow dryer—or a brush—and it was sticking up in all directions like it wanted to flee her head. She didn’t have an ounce of makeup on, and her eyes looked tired, at least to her. Her pale skin was somewhat mottled from dragging so many layers of fabric over it, time and time again, and she hadn’t bothered to put on any lotion or perfume. As if that mattered.

  Just then, she heard someone stir behind her.

  She heard a distinctly male sound, a vampire clearing his throat, and she spun around to face the empty, adjacent corner.

  “Ramsey?”

  *

  Tiffany gasped as Ramsey slowly shimmered into view.

  Had he been standing there all along, watching her from the shadows while remaining invisible?

  Oh dear celestial gods, please tell me he hasn’t been here this entire time. Please tell me he hasn’t traded sentinel for stalker.

  He eyed the unholy mess covering just about every square inch of the carpet, even as he sauntered toward her, crossing the room in three long, predatory strides. “Sorry,” he whispered, his eyes distinctly unapologetic, “I couldn’t help myself.”

  She cringed and bit her lower lip, backing up until the bend in her knees hit the edge of an oversized armchair, and her rump fell into the plush, downy cushion. She snatched a convenient afghan off the back of the chair and draped it over her body, tugged it up to her neck, huddling protectively beneath it. “I can’t believe you were watching me this entire time.”

  He knelt before her as she sat on the edge of the chair, his strong, muscular body resting comfortably on one knee, his left elbow propped against his raised thigh. With his free hand, he reached out to thumb a wild lock of her hair. “I can’t believe that you tried on all those clothes, that you put yourself through that many paces, or that any woman alive could possibly be this beautiful.” His eyes met hers, and the liquid hazel pools practically seeped into her soul. “What were you thinking, Blondie?”

  Tiffany swallowed her trepidation and tried to regulate her breathing. “What was I thinking? What were you thinking, watching me like that?”

  He frowned, and his naturally sculpted brows furrowed ever so slightly, enhancing his flawless features like an exquisite frame. “At first,” he said, his voice utterly lacking guile, “I thought, Gods, she’s cute. Then I thought, She doesn’t need to be this afraid. Then I thought, Oh yeah, she should wear that”—he chuckled—“and now, right now, I’m thinking, I came way too close to losing this woman.” He cupped her face in his hands, more gently than a body had a right to, and whispered, “I’m thinking, Gods, she really doesn’t know… she doesn’t understand… and I don’t know how to tell her.” A thick lock of his chin-length hair fell into his eyes as he pressed his forehead to hers.

  Tiffany stared at him through lowered lashes. It was hard to hold his gaze. “What don’t I know?” she whispered, realizing her mouth was trembling.

  He brushed a finger over her quaking bottom lip. “That I would never, ever hurt you.” And then he kissed her. Just like that: soft but firm; commanding but subtle; sweet but seductive. And he watched her like a hawk.

  She exhaled slowly, still feeling the electric sensation of his gorgeous lips on hers. “What don’t I understand?” Her voice was way too throaty.

  Oh, hell…

  He pulled back, just barely, and ran his rugged hands along the outline of her shoulders, around the curve of her arms, and down to her waist, lowering the blanket ever so slightly to the bend of her elbows, the frayed ends balancing perilously along the swell of her breasts. “That I only want to worship you.” He appraised her openly from head to toe, and his piercing gaze grew dark with… reverence?

  She gulped, acutely aware that she was shivering. “Uh, um, what do you want to tell me?” She sat there, frozen like a statue, hanging on his every word despite her misgivings.

  His eyes bored into hers. “That it’s okay.” He bent forward and pressed a gentle kiss against the hollow of her throat. “It’s okay,” he repeated in a harsh whisper, this time kissing his way along her neck to the lobe of her ear, where he did… something… sinfully unnatural.

  A kiss.

  A nibble.<
br />
  A stroke of his tongue.

  Her spine literally tingled.

  He buried his face in the curve between her neck and shoulder, using that thick bottom lip like an artist’s brush to paint an erotic stroke of contrast across her skin: blazing fire chilled by arctic ice.

  Tiffany drew back. “It’s just… ” She swallowed hard. “The thing is… ” Her eyes darted this way and that, fixing on everything but him. “I’m just not ready, Ramsey.”

  He took her hands in his and smiled, and heaven help her, but in that frozen moment, he was the single most beautiful anything she had ever seen.

  “That’s my job, Blondie,” he rasped.

  She inhaled sharply, but he didn’t stop.

  He grasped the lingering hem of the afghan and slowly inched it down from the swell of her breasts to the flat of her stomach, practically groaning at the sight of her lace-covered breasts. He placed both palms along her sides, his fingers finding a natural station in the grooves of her ribs, as he swept his thumbs beneath the base of her bra, removed the front clasp with uncanny ease, and gently began to tantalize her peaks.