by Tessa Dawn
Brooke laughed then, an insincere sound. “Oh yeah, I can really see that working. Hey Tiff, meet my new boyfriend…the vampire king. Wanna hang out on Friday? Maybe we could go to a blood-bank or something.” The moment the words left her mouth, her countenance changed. She grew tentative and afraid—like someone who had inadvertently opened the doors to a cage containing a dangerous tiger.
Napolean frowned and waited for her to see that he wasn’t a rabid animal…or even an unstable vampire. In her presence, he was just a helpless male, unable to make her understand how much he could give…if she would only let him. He felt his frown deepen along the corners of his mouth. “Boyfriend?” he scoffed. There was a hint of irritation in his voice.
“It was just a word,” she explained, sounding frustrated. She started to roll her eyes and gasped when he suddenly appeared at her side—facing her and close enough that their arms were touching. “What are you doing?”
He leaned in and lifted her chin. “Look at me, Brooke.”
She tried to meet his gaze, but she couldn’t hold it for more than a second. “What?”
“I am many things,” he murmured, “but I am not a boy.”
She shook her head as if to dismiss his words…her casual use of that word.
His hand tightened, though not enough to cause her pain. “I am centuries old. I have seen things you cannot conceive of and survived things you will never encounter. I carry a weight beyond your imagination, the lives of hundreds of men—families—in my care; their duties, fears, hopes…souls. I protect the humans of this valley from a power that could annihilate them at the mere whim of my warriors, and I seek a balance for this earth—for your kind—so that the extinction of your species does not become inevitable as a result of my own.” He brushed his hand softly along her cheek. “I have not yet earned your respect…or your love…but I am not a boy, nor is any of this a game.”
To his great surprise, she squared her shoulders and raised her chin, and then she stared him straight in the eyes and began to speak in her own, no-nonsense tone. “All right then, milord. Isn’t that what you’re called?”
Napolean winced, but he didn’t answer. Gods, the woman was tough.
“Then let’s be completely honest with each other. If you are all these things…” She paused. “Since you are all these things, then what do you want with me? If I cannot imagine or fathom…or understand your world, then how can I fit into it?”
Napolean shook his head and briefly shut his eyes; when he opened them, he knew they were beginning to glow—though not with anger—with power. “The gods are never wrong; you fit me, Brooke. Of this fact, I have no doubt.”
“No!” She waved a desperate hand. “I don’t!” Her hands rested on her hips. “You lead warriors every day. I…I create marketing campaigns to sell…soap…and underwear…and…pizza! Hell, paper products sometimes! I know nothing about leadership and honor and fighting darkness.”
Napolean whistled low and smooth.
“What is that for?” she asked defiantly.
He measured his words carefully. “Do you think, by now, that I have not glimpsed your memories? Asked my men to provide me with information about your background and your life?”
Her eyes grew wide, and she looked offended.
He shook his head. “Brooke, you must come to understand—I am not just any male, and you are not just any female. The things we do must always be in the best interest of many. I am not afforded the time another warrior might be afforded to court you, to learn all about you. There is too much at stake with our…mating. Too much low-hanging fruit for my enemies. I will always protect you, and I always will protect the house of Jadon—at the expense of etiquette.”
Brooke stiffened and took another step back, her foot resting in a patch of soggy grass at the edge of the pond, only inches away from the swirling water. “I—”
“You are twenty-nine years old. You have been with your company for less than two years, yet you are the senior most account rep in PRIMAR. Over fifty percent of the company’s revenue within the past year has been earned on your accounts, your original ideas, and your innovative campaigns—for which the company has registered patents. You’ve carried your department and fostered the relationships that have kept PRIMAR’s clients satisfied—and still doing business with the company, I might add. You came to this conference already outperforming all of your competition in order to present a new, revolutionary concept in marketing—a simple but brilliant approach that would triple the corporation’s bottom line in less than five years.” He stepped back and tried to keep his voice even. “And all of this, you have done under the constant strain of sexual harassment and the ignorant—inexcusable—dismissal of your brilliance simply because you are female.” He growled low in his throat then, trying to contain his disgust. “Yet you stuck with it out of sheer determination, knowing that it would one day pay off.” His eyes drifted to her full bottom lip, the curious look of surprise on her face. “You know a great deal about leadership, Brooke.”
He turned away then, hoping to hide his anger from her view. “And you know a great deal about honor and fighting darkness.”
Brooke swallowed a lump in her throat, and he could sense a rise in her anxiety, as if she knew exactly where he was going next.
“How old were you, Brooke?” he asked her directly. The subject was too important to treat with any less significance. “When you fought that monster?”
“What monster?”
“You know what monster.”
She paled. “Don’t, Napolean.”
“Your stepfather. How old were you?”
Brooke shook her head. She started to step back, but there was nowhere to go. Stuck, she looked up at him and, for the first time, appeared helpless. “Please…don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he whispered, his voice as solemn as the subject demanded. “Don’t remind you that you were a six-year-old girl”—he gritted his teeth, grinded his molars—“locked in a cabin with a forty-two-year-old man, a monster as dark as the night and far more evil?” She tried to turn away, but he reached out and held her gaze with his hand resting beneath her chin. “You fought like a warrior, Brooke, and you outsmarted him; you outlasted him. You walked away alive.”
Tears began to stream down her face, and her narrow shoulders trembled.
“And honor?” he continued. “You knew your mother was not as strong as you. You knew she could not face the truth your testimony would expose in that courtroom, a mirror which would reflect her own weakness for all the world to see, yet you knew it was right. And you did it anyway. You sacrificed the security of family and the hope of reconciliation to do what was honorable, and you sat in a room full of leering adults and showed enormous courage through a six-day trial.” He stopped and sighed. “You were beyond brave, Brooke. You were heroic.”
Brooke could clearly take no more. Desperate to get away, she forgot her perch and stepped backward, falling off balance into the pool. Before a shriek could leave her throat, Napolean had her in his arms, the two of them floating just above the water, drifting ever so slowly back toward solid ground.
Involuntarily, Brooke grasped for his shoulders, and then let out a series of plaintive sobs. “How could you know that?” She averted her eyes and shook her head. “You invaded my most intimate memories?”
“No,” Napolean insisted. “The night we met in the cab…your fear…you were broadcasting your past, Brooke. You are my destiny. How could I not hear such anguish?”
Her chest shook beneath the weight of the recollection. Desperate, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and continued to cling to his shoulders, though they were now standing on solid ground.
“Courage and leadership,” Napolean said, “they are not about brute strength—or even being a superior species. They are about standing when everyone else is sitting. Facing adversity when others would choose to run away. Charging confidently into battle so those who come behind you belie
ve victory is possible.”
Her tears rolled silently down her cheeks, her head rested on his shoulder, and she leaned against him, whimpering softly, as if seeking his comfort.
“How long did he spend in prison, Brooke?” Napolean asked. He had not retrieved that memory, not wanting to take more than she had broadcast, but the knowledge of what she had been through cut him like a knife. “How long?”
She shook her head, rubbing her nose against his arm. “Let’s just say, it wasn’t worth it—the trial. There was no justice.”
“How long?”
She looked up then and met his eyes. “Two and a half years.”
Napolean stood deathly still, allowing her words to sink in before drawing her tightly against him and holding her in a firm, unyielding embrace. And then he whispered in her ear, low and lethal, “I am justice, Brooke. For you, there will always be justice.”
She froze against him. “What did you say?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
She let out a deep sigh. “Yes, it does. What did that mean?” The words were mumbled into his chest. “What are you saying, Napolean?”
“I am saying that the one who harmed you no longer walks among the living.”
She gasped but didn’t speak, and he knew that she was finally listening…
“Hear me, Brooke,” he purred, his voice a sultry promise of his commitment to their union. “You must understand who—and what—you are destined to mate. I am the sovereign king of an ancient race, begotten of gods and man. I—am—justice.”
Brooke Adams felt the reverberation of Napolean’s words deep in her soul, and the power of his revelation somehow awakened another memory.
A vision?
A dream?
A make-believe childhood friend conjured up by a little girl in a time of desperation.
“Oh my God!” Brooke suddenly gasped, pushing back against Napolean’s chest so she could look at him.
“What?” Napolean asked, sounding all at once concerned. “What is it?”
She shook her head in disbelief. “You. It was you!” She looked up into his eyes and stared at him, really stared at him, as if for the first time, wanting—no needing—to take in every microscopic detail of his handsome face. Unwittingly, she reached up and touched his hair. She rubbed it lightly between her thumb and forefinger to test the texture, and then she gently let it go. “Were you there with me?”
Napolean shook his head. “I’m sorry…I honestly don’t know what you’re referring to.”
Brooke looked off into the distance, yet she remained oblivious to the scenery before her: What she saw was not in the canyon but somewhere much, much farther away—a memory from the past.
“When I was a child”—she swallowed hard—“in the cabin with my stepfather, I imagined so many things…whatever I had to in order to get through it. Survive.”
Napolean reached for her hand and held it firmly in his own, and for the first time, his touch didn’t startle her.
She didn’t pull away.
She heard a hollow sound as if from a distance, a miserable croon like the murmur of a child, and realized that it had come from her own throat. She steadied herself, needing to get through this. “Sometimes, late at night, he would corner me. You know, want to touch me…” She struggled to maintain her focus, and his eyes dimmed as if he were struggling, too—desperate to contain some deeply primal emotion.
“And?” He spoke through gritted teeth.
She swallowed. “And I would imagine that I was someone else—someone really strong that he could never hurt. A boy. No, that’s not true. A man.” She looked down at the ground, feeling that familiar ache of shame. “I was less vulnerable that way…at least in my mind.”
Napolean nodded. “Of course.” The kindness in his eyes was unfathomable.
She whispered then, knowing it was the only way to get out what she needed to tell him: “My name was…Napoleon.” Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice became stronger. “Like the two-time emperor of France—you know, the military commander. We had just learned about him in my first-grade social studies class, and in my imagination, he was this formidable personality.” She blinked rapidly, sending several wayward drops down her cheeks. “I can’t believe I forgot…all these years. It was such a big part of how I made it through.”
For the first time since she had met him, the king of the vampire appeared speechless. In fact, he stood as still as a statue, his eyes boring into hers as if he were viewing her very soul, and in that frozen moment, he appeared every bit a Greek god, the full embodiment of power and strength—of absolute, unequivocal dignity—as if he were a figure in a museum preserved from antiquity. And his magnificence was alarming.
Brooke glanced at the strong hand gripping her own with such compassion and intensity and felt suddenly self-conscious, like she couldn’t bear his touch. She gently tugged against him, forcing him to let go. “In my head”—she tapped her forefinger against her temple—“I carried this mighty sword—the Sword of Andromeda—and I would imagine myself stabbing my stepfather through the heart over and over, cutting off his hands, and—”
“What did you say?” Napolean’s voice was barely audible, and his eyes were practically burning with intensity, the center of his pupils reflecting a deep, crimson red, that she was oddly drawn to despite their feral appearance. “Your make-believe sword—what did you call it?” he repeated.
She cleared her throat, trying to concentrate. “Andromeda.”
His eyes were positively luminescent now; and if she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn that the temperature around them rose a couple degrees, as if the universe had turned on an invisible heater. The leaves in the trees began to slowly rustle around them, and nearby birds left their perches in swaying branches. Not knowing if this was good or bad, she softened her voice. “Maybe I should stop—”
“No,” he argued, “please…tell me.” His voice played like a lyrical instrument over her ears. “You called your sword Andromeda…” His tone urged her to continue.
She nodded. “Yes…Andromeda…and you know what was the craziest thing?”
He shook his head. “No, what?”
She started to answer but suddenly lost her train of thought. For some inexplicable reason, she just couldn’t stop staring at those eyes.
“What was the craziest thing?”
God, he truly was magnificent.
“Brooke?”
Her heart raced in her chest as she continued to stare at Napolean. This man—no, this vampire—had kidnapped her, thrown her into a world so frightening and bizarre that her mind still failed to grasp the breadth of it, and refused to let her go. Every survival instinct she had insisted that she resist him—implored her to somehow, someway, escape him, and she was biding her time until she could do just that—but right here and now, in this pregnant moment, he was the strongest and the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was as if he had unwittingly cast a spell over her.
“Brooke!”
His dark, haunting eyes were like two piercing lasers—adorned with thick, dark lashes, softly rounded in the subtle shape of almonds. Why hadn’t she noticed this before?
“Draga mea, can you hear me?”
His perfect, angular jaw was harsh with iron determination yet softened by an unnaturally smooth complexion. Heaven help her, he was…breathtaking.
“Where did you go?”
His wizened brow was faintly creased, yet the lines only enhanced an already strikingly handsome face. Like catching an unexpected vision of the sun setting over the horizon in a purple sky, her eyes simply could not turn away.
“Brooke…”
She heard her name as if from a great distance and forced herself back into the moment. The conversation? What had she been saying? Oh yeah…the crazy thing was… “The crazy thing was, he would stop.”
Napolean blinked, and his dark brows rose in a subtle question. “Your s
tepfather?”
She clenched her eyes shut and nodded. “Yes. I would imagine swinging that powerful sword over and over in my mind until it felt like there was a blaze of fire around us, and he would slowly back away—almost like he was afraid—until he was no longer…touching me.”
Napolean swallowed hard, and his jaw unclenched. “Then he never actually—”
“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “But it wasn’t for a lack of trying.”
He reached out ever so tenderly and cupped her face in his hands. All at once, it felt as if the same warm breeze wafted over her, and her skin, beneath the pads of his fingers, tingled with electric energy. He smiled at her, and the adoration—the conviction—in those hypnotic eyes was unmistakable: In his mind, he believed she was already his. He pulled his hands away from her face, leaving her feeling momentarily bereft, and then he took her forearm in his left hand and quietly traced the lines etched into her wrist with his right forefinger. “Do you see these markings?” he asked.
She looked at the odd tattoo, for lack of a better word, the strange configuration of lines and patterns that had appeared on her wrist the night Napolean had taken her…the night the moon had turned the color of blood. It was a distinct engraving of a woman facing head down at an angle with her left arm outstretched and her right arm bent about ninety degrees. She appeared to be floating in the sky.
Brooke nodded. “Yes, I see them.” Then she remembered what Napolean had told her: It was a sign from the gods—the same image that had appeared in the stars when he had found her. “It represents a vampire’s…ruling constellation,” she murmured, remembering the numerous histories she had read in his library.
He smiled then. “Yes, Brooke. Your grasp of so much information—so quickly—is amazing. But this”—he pointed at the unique image stamped in her arm—“is so much more.”
She shook her head, not understanding.
Napolean rubbed his thumb reverently over the outline of the woman. “This is the goddess Andromeda. She is my reigning constellation, and it is under her protection and her Blood Moon that our souls have been brought together. She is the one who chose you…for me.”