Craved: A Vampire Syndicate Paranormal Romance (The Vampire Syndicate Book 2)

by Rebecca Rivard

  I was in Zoe’s private retreat.

  Something moved in my chest. This was the Zoe I’d glimpsed two years ago. The warm, fascinating woman behind the princess mask.

  The single door on the top floor was open. But Jean-Michel stood in the doorway between me and my goal. I froze. He couldn’t see me, but some vampires can sense you in the shadows, especially if they brush against your skin.

  I peered around him. Zoe was curled up on a black-and-white couch, reading a book. She’d exchanged the white dress for a flimsy camisole and tap pants that showed off her long legs. The dim lighting emphasized her high, slanting cheekbones and dark, definite brows. Her hair fell, sleek as ebony, over one shoulder.

  She turned a page in her book. She looked so young. Sweet, almost.

  I stared at her, heart pounding. Wanting her and hating her at the same time.

  She could’ve followed me to New York. She must’ve known I couldn’t come back to Montreal, but she could’ve tried to come to me. Instead, she’d chosen to remain with her mother.

  Maybe she’d even believed that “hype” crap she’d thrown at me.

  “If you need me,” Jean-Michel said, “I’ll be in the ops room.”

  “All right,” Zoe said without looking up from her book.

  Jean-Michel started to shut the door. I shot, cat-quiet, past him into the living room, and halted, my back to the wall.

  I stared at Zoe. A heartbeat passed, then another.

  Her brow crinkled. “Who’s there?” she said and rose to her feet.

  Bad idea, coming this close. She clearly sensed someone else was in the room.

  My hands clenched and unclenched. My head said hell, no, but the rest of me wanted to touch her so bad I could almost feel her soft skin beneath my fingertips.

  But to do that, I’d have to leave the shadows, and she’d have Jean-Michel on my ass in five seconds flat. Even if she didn’t, the cams would detect me.

  Another wave of dizziness struck me. I had to get out of the chateau, ASAP.

  Reluctantly, I decided to stick to my original plan. I’d attend the Crimson Ball under cover of my glamour and explain the situation to her. Ask for her help.

  And if that didn’t work, I’d make her help me.

  At the front of the chateau, I heard the tower clock strike ten. Someone knocked on Zoe’s door.

  I ran into the bedroom, sprang onto a stone windowsill and took a flying leap through the casement window into the garden.

  “Zoe?” came a voice from above me. “I found the cutest armband on Insta…”

  5

  ZOE

  The sounds of the Crimson Ball drifted up to my bedroom. Steamy jazz from 1920s Paris mixed with the clink of glasses and the low laughter of vampires on the hunt for sex and blood.

  I grimaced. Happy birthday to me.

  I contemplated myself in the mirror. Lainey had outdone herself. I looked stunning, all long legs and mysterious hazel eyes beneath the black fringe, my only jewelry a gold arm band and the necklace Lainey had had shipped from Manhattan.

  Stunning…and untouchable in the white gown. The Ice Princess in all her glory.

  Rafe had teased me about the nickname.

  I touched up my lipstick, stepped into my high heels. Settled my mask over my upper face and gave myself a bitter smile. Zoe Tremblay was going to snag herself a mate.

  Why not? The only man I wanted would never have me.

  Not that I wanted him anyway.

  Okay, that was a lie. I did want Rafe.

  I might not trust him, but I wanted him. For those two weeks, he’d brought color and excitement to my boxed-in existence.

  Victorine’s ultimatum had forced me to take a hard look at myself. I’d been in a holding pattern for two years. Trying to find a way around the obstacles.

  Trying to find a way to Rafe.

  But it wasn’t going to happen. It was time to accept that this Romeo-and-Juliet romance wasn’t going to end any more happily than the first.

  I lifted my chin. “You’re a princess,” I told myself. “Act like one.”

  In the hall, Jean-Michel waited to escort me downstairs. At my appearance, he gave a small smile. “Très belle.”

  I shot him a startled look and murmured a thank you. It had been a long time since he’d said anything personal to me. Two years, to be exact.

  Our friendship had been another casualty of my “little rebellion,” as Victorine called it. Jean-Michel had barely escaped being staked. Instead, my mother had ordered me to snap silver manacles around his wrists and chain him to the basement wall outside my rooms in the Old Town Mansion. She’d kept him there for a month, slowly starving, where I saw him whenever I entered or left my rooms.

  Near the end of the thirty days, Jean-Michel had appeared more animal than human. Body hollowed out by hunger. Face a flesh-covered skull topped by matted brown hair. Irises rimmed a brilliant, mad blue. Lips drawn back to show sharp fangs.

  He didn’t speak the entire time. No recriminations. But no forgiveness, either.

  He simply watched me pass by.

  Victorine couldn’t have punished me more if she’d chained me to the wall instead of him.

  “You are ready?” At my nod, Jean-Michel donned a mask and headed down the spiral staircase before me.

  The ballroom was nearly full. Candles were everywhere, hundreds of them, a Crimson Ball tradition. They flickered in the chandeliers, in votives on the black-clothed tables, in the opulent flower arrangements. The dim light softened the vampires’ cold eyes, gave their smiles a deceptive warmth.

  The thralls certainly seemed taken in by it. They clung to the vampires, starry-eyed through their masks. Rubies and emeralds and diamonds glittered—on the women’s throats and wrists, and in the males’ earlobes. The blood-bonded thralls wore a gold chain around their wrists.

  Nearby, Lainey flirted with Olivier, a high-ranking soldier. She’d negotiated attendance at the ball as part of her contract before heading home tomorrow. I suspected her next post would be #hotsexwithavampire.

  The band swung into a tango. The males pulled their partners close, steering them through the sensual moves, dipping them backward over one arm and nuzzling their necks in an intimate, wolfish dance that was as close to intercourse as you could get with your clothes on.

  I’d never met a vampire who didn’t love to tango, me included.

  Étan appeared, blond and beautiful in a tux and a black half-mask. The vulture tattoo of a Tremblay enforcer peaked out of the collar of his starched white tuxedo shirt.

  He jerked his chin at Jean-Michel, and the guard fell back a few steps.

  “Zoe.” Étan took in my skimpy dress with a possessiveness that made my stomach hollow out. “May I be the first to wish you a very happy birthday?”

  Play the game.

  I was so close to being appointed Victorine’s lieutenant. The youngest syndicate lieutenant in the world. I’d have real power, not just power in name only.

  If mating with Étan was part of the deal, would it be so bad?

  I plastered on a smile and prepared to make my mother happy.

  6

  RAFE

  The Tremblay Chateau loomed above me, ribbons of mist slithering around its thick greystone walls. Candles flickered in its narrow medieval windows. Music and laughter spilled into the night. In the garden, thralls in bronze cages danced half-naked for the vampire guests’ pleasure.

  I smoothed down my tux, adjusted my bowtie. A black velvet half-mask covered my features.

  A whole week I’d been close to Zoe Tremblay without being able to touch her. Tonight, that would change. My mouth curved in a sharp-toothed smile.

  As I moved forward, my glamour wavered. I pumped more magic into it.

  I should’ve been afraid. I was nearly out of energy now. If the glamour slipped, the mask wouldn’t hide me—too many people here knew my face. The Tremblay enforcers would be on me like dogs on raw meat.

  But instead
, the danger had me revved.

  I adjusted my mask and jogged up the mist-enshrouded steps into the heart of the Tremblay Coven.

  The first floor had been transformed into a vampire’s lush, opulent speakeasy. Candles burned in the foyer’s crystal chandelier. Towering black vases of narrow red tulips rose like blood-tipped spears from the marble floor.

  The ballroom’s double doors stood open. More candles flickered on the tables and in wall sconces. Vampires danced cheek-to-cheek with thralls—the males in tuxes, the females in tight, barely-there red dresses. The scent of all that warm human flesh kicked my blood hunger into high gear.

  My stomach contracted. My fangs pricked against my gums.

  “Your invitation, M’sieur?” A hard-faced Tremblay soldier in a black uniform held out a hand.

  I swallowed and retracted my fangs under cover of removing the invitation from my breast pocket. The soldier examined the engraved card, then compared it to the list on his phone as his assistant patted me down for weapons.

  “He’s clear,” said the assistant.

  The soldier frowned at his phone and glanced again at me.

  The seconds ticked by. I waited, outwardly at ease, even a little bored, but ready to run like hell.

  If only I had a switchblade… But they would’ve just taken it from me anyway.

  The soldier spoke. “Qui n’avance pas…” He stopped, cocked a brow.

  Both men looked at me.

  My heart thumped. My mouth dried.

  It had to be a code. The final test.

  I should’ve guessed the invitation alone wouldn’t be enough to get me in. I thought I knew the correct response, but I’d have only one chance to get it right.

  “Recule,” I returned calmly, as if I had every right to be there.

  “Qui n’avance pas, recule.” It was an old French proverb: Who does not move forward, recedes.

  A curt nod. “Entrez.” The soldier waved a hand at the double doors.

  I released a slow breath. Thank you, Mom.

  By some strange coincidence, my New Orleans born-and-bred mother had loved that particular proverb. Her French grandmother had cross-stitched it on white linen, and my mother had had it framed and hung in our parlor. It meant something like: If you don’t keep trying new things, you’ll go backward instead.

  Behind me, the soldier tested a new arrival with a different proverb, one I’d never heard in my life.

  I smothered a smirk. Up yours, Victorine. I’m here, and the fun is about to begin.

  In the ballroom, my gaze zeroed in on the Tremblay Prima, holding court in a blood-red dress, her hair coiled into a sleek black twist. Diamonds the size of a thumbnail glittered against the smooth white skin of her throat.

  The devil in me wanted to saunter closer and do something outrageous, like ask her to dance. If it hadn’t been for Zaq, I might’ve.

  Instead, I turned and lost myself in the crowd.

  A server in a lacy red mask appeared with a tray of blood-wine. “Something to drink, m’sieur?” she asked in French.

  The ruby-colored liquid shimmered darkly in the dim light. I took a glass and gulped it down. The fresh blood mixed into the wine hit my stomach like a contained explosion. Warmth spread through my veins, soaking into my parched cells, feeding my magic.

  “More?” the server asked.

  I nodded and accepted a second glass. This time, I forced myself to take measured sips as I scanned the crowd from behind my mask. Searching for my prey.

  I scented Zoe before I saw her, a springlike green spice that made my lungs squeeze and my stomach lurch.

  Unlike the guests, Zoe had made little effort to conceal her identity. Her mask was a strip of black that barely covered her eyes, and the silky white slip-thingy she wore showed all but a few crucial inches of her smooth golden limbs.

  Virginal white. The color of innocence and ice.

  My mouth curled. The woman sure could rock that touch-me-not look.

  I knew different. I’d seen her mouth kiss-swollen, hair mussed from my fingers, creamy breasts bared as I’d tugged her dress down to her waist…

  In the candlelit ballroom, the seductive sheen of her vampire skin was more noticeable. Beneath the thin strip of her mask, her hazel eyes were long lidded, inscrutable, her mouth a shiny apple-red. Her blue-black hair fell in a glistening wave around her shoulders and she wore a simple gold band high on her left arm. More gold was draped in sexy strands around her throat.

  My groin tightened. Gods, I wanted her…almost as much as I hated her.

  She seemed unaware of the bodyguard hovering nearby. Jean-Michel, the dark-haired Frenchman who was the closest thing she had to a father-figure.

  No, her smile was for the lean blond asshat looking down the front of her white slip-thingy. Étan, Victorine’s current lieutenant and former lover. He’d taken a special pleasure in working me over.

  He angled his body closer to Zoe’s and fingered a lock of her hair.

  A possessive fury surged up my spine, spearing into my brain.

  No man but me could stand that close to Zoe. Touch her. Have her.

  Jean-Michel’s head swung toward me. A vampire couldn’t read my emotions like they could a human’s, but my muscles had tightened, my stance shifting to the balls of my feet as I prepared to launch myself at the blond douchebag.

  Zoe’s mouth hardened into a thin-lipped facsimile of a real smile. She pulled away from Étan, forcing him to release her and saving me from myself.

  Rein it in, you ass. Or you’ll blow your cover.

  I tore my gaze away, forced my shoulders to ease.

  “Will that be all, M’sieur?” The server in the short skirt again. She’d set down her tray on a nearby table. She moved closer and trailed a finger down my lapel.

  Definitely a thrall.

  Hunger’s bony fingers clutched my belly. I eyed the woman’s throat. It was long and soft and tanned, with two healed-over puncture wounds.

  She tilted her head to one side, indicating her willingness to be fed from. The hot tangle of emotions emanating from her—attraction, lust, excitement—said she’d be agreeable to sex as well.

  Hunger thrummed in my veins. The two blood-wines had helped, but it was like eating a handful of nuts when your starving body cried out for a full meal.

  I needed blood. Especially fresh human blood.

  Feed. Feed. Feed.

  My fangs elongated. The effort of powering my glamour had taken its toll. My control was in tatters.

  I glanced at Zoe and retracted my fangs. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to feed from another woman when she was this close.

  “Some other time,” I muttered and turned away.

  Jean-Michel was still eyeing me. The music changed to a fox-trot.

  I caught the thrall’s hand. “Dance with me.”

  The thralls at vampire balls traditionally took anonymous names so they could pretend to hide behind their masks. Of course, any but a newly made vampire recognized their thralls by a combination of scent and emotion.

  “Call me Silver Rose,” said the thrall dancing with me.

  I learned she was from Quebec City, but she’d moved to Montreal for the clubs.

  “And the vampires,” she added with a suggestive rub of her breasts against my tux.

  I smiled down at her, only half-listening. Zoe was dancing now, too, this time with a dark-haired vampire.

  Silver Rose caught the direction of my glance. “I heard the princess is choosing a mate tonight.”

  My grip tightened on her. “Princess Zoe?”

  The thrall’s throat worked. She tried to pull back, but I kept her close.

  “Answer me.”

  A quick, nervous nod. “You didn’t know? Everybody’s talking about it.”

  I forced my fingers to loosen. “I heard something,” I lied. “I didn’t know it was set for tonight.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  A black fury blanked out my vision.
Zoe was taking a mate? Over my dead body.

  I gave myself a shake, reminding myself why I was here—to find out what the Tremblays knew about Zaq’s kidnapping. Not for a do-over with Zoe.

  Around me, the crowd had grown larger, louder. The air conditioning pumped out icy air, but it struggled with the heat of so many human bodies. The emotions of a hundred horny thralls scraped at my skin.

  Silver Rose pressed her lips to my jaw. “You seem on edge. I could help you with that.”

  I focused on the thrall. Maybe she was right. I wasn’t doing Zaquiel any good in this state. Hell, I could barely form a coherent thought beneath the steady drum of the blood hunger.

  Feed. Feed. Feed.

  My nape tingled. My head swung around.

  Zoe was dancing with Étan now. She stared at me over his shoulder, forehead puckered.

  Like she could see through my glamour.

  7

  ZOE

  Rafe Kral was here. In the chateau.

  My slow-beating heart jolted into a faster, almost-human rhythm.

  I dragged my gaze away from him and forced myself to focus on Étan.

  It couldn’t be. I must be imagining it.

  I chanced another look.

  He’d made an attempt at a glamour. His hair was longer and streaked blond, and his face different enough—shorter nose, weaker chin, thinner lips—that your gaze slid past him. But it was him all right.

  How in the Lady’s name had he gotten through security? Even if he’d somehow forged an invitation and managed to finesse the password, the men at the door should’ve seen through the glamour. It was like a gauzy veil laid over his sculpted, Greek-god features.

  Yet no one but me seemed to see through it. Victorine was cheek-to-cheek with her current favorite thrall. Lainey was being fed chocolate-covered strawberries by Olivier, unaware that #darkangel was dancing a few yards away from her.