by Tessa Dawn
Lifting his child high so that all could see the now squirming bundle, Napolean said, “Welcome to the house of Jadon, Phoenix Lane Mondragon. May your life be filled with peace, triumph, and purpose. May your path always be blessed.” He handed the child to Ramsey, who repeated the greeting before gently passing him to Saxson…then Julien…then Santos…to do the same. As the valley’s sentinels and sworn protectors of the king, the Olaru brothers had been honored with officiating the ceremony…and being the first to greet the young prince.
Once all three brothers had finished welcoming Phoenix, Santos kept the babe in his arms, and Ramsey turned once again to regard them as a couple. “By the laws which govern the house of Jadon, it is my privilege to accept your union as the divine will of the gods and hereby sanction your mating.” His soft hazel eyes—so paradoxical to his harsh, stormy manner—fixed on Brooke. “Brooke Adams Mondragon, do you come now of your own free will to enter the house of Jadon?”
For the first time since the ceremony had begun, Napolean became a bundle of nerves. He held his breath…listening…for that strong yet soothing voice: Oh gods, please let her say yes…
Brooke nodded and flashed an endearing half smile. “I do.”
Napolean slowly exhaled, and then he closed his eyes in wonderment: Was this actually real? Did this woman…and this child…really belong to him? He was startled by the depth of his emotion.
“Hold out your wrist,” Ramsey instructed.
Tentatively, Brooke did as she was asked, and to her obvious relief, the male who took her arm was Napolean, not Ramsey. As the sovereign lord of the house of Jadon, the blood of every member ran through Napolean’s veins. Having taken the essence of each soul, he could not only locate them in an emergency, but tap into the deepest recesses of their being—it was a unique, if not divine, privilege granted solely to him. And it reinforced his enormous power and responsibility over the Vampyr. Brooke was not only his mate now but a member of his species—his people. And, of course, they didn’t need to know that he had already drunk…indulgently…from her heart.
On more than one occasion.
Napolean was careful to keep his grip on Brooke’s wrist exquisitely gently, and his long, shimmering, silver-and-black locks fell over her arm fortuitously, creating a tent of privacy as he bent to pierce her delicate skin. As always, he struck swiftly and cleanly, his fangs sinking deep, as he formed a tight seal over the wound and drew three steady, but powerful drags. While the initial bite was inevitably painful, the immediate contact with his lips flooded his destiny with peace. He felt her tense…then relax. And just like that, it was over.
He effortlessly withdrew his fangs and sealed the wound with his venom, the transition between canines and incisors so smooth it could hardly be seen. When his eyes met hers, he felt a love so deep that he almost swayed where he stood.
“Congratulations,” Ramsey said, bowing deeply before stepping back.
Santos and Saxson did the same, the latter still cradling Phoenix in his arms.
Napolean kissed the underside of Brooke’s wrist, turned to face the crowd, and held up her arm for all to see. “Let all souls present recognize the mated destiny of your king, and in the presence of the celestial gods, here and forevermore pledge your fealty to your queen: Brooke Adams Mondragon.”
Brooke’s face paled as all eyes in the house of Jadon suddenly focused on her like a collective, supernatural laser. Oh. My. God, she whispered. Please tell me you’re kidding. Apparently, she was so freaked out by the moment that she didn’t even realize she was speaking telepathically—without any effort.
Napolean smiled.
You forgot to mention this part of the ceremony, Napolean, she chastised.
Shh, he responded, his deep melodic laughter echoing in her mind. Just breathe, Brooke.
Before she could freak out any further, Santos stepped forward and handed the baby to Napolean. He took his son in the palm of both hands and slowly held him up before the assembly. “Let all souls present recognize my firstborn son—the chosen and rightful heir to my throne— and in the presence of the celestial gods, from this moment unto eternity, pledge your fealty to your prince: Phoenix Lane Mondragon.”
As if the moment had been perfectly choreographed, one by one, the males in the house of Jadon descended onto their right knees, each vampire bowing his head in a continuous wave that swept from the front row to the back in perfect harmony. When the last knee had touched the ground and the last head had bowed, all right hands covered their hearts, all left hands covered the right, and a sea of identical rings, bearing the crest from the house of Jadon on them, were displayed to the king in a demonstration of devotion.
The moment was surreal.
The love. The respect. The good fortune.
And like the calming of a turbulent sea after an endless storm, a great peace settled upon Napolean…and he finally understood.
What he should have always known.
That on that fateful day so many centuries ago, his father had commanded him to run because he loved him. Because nothing mattered more to Sebastian than saving his son—and the legacy that would live on through his line. Perhaps Napolean could have confronted Prince Jaegar on that frightful day—and died along with his father—but then none of this would have happened. And his father’s death would have been in vain.
Napolean swallowed hard.
Struggling to maintain his composure, he searched for his voice, but he couldn’t find it…
Twenty-eight hundred years.
He had waited an eternity to make peace with his father’s death.
He looked down at his son. He had waited an eternity for this child—for Sebastian’s grandson.
He offered his hand to Brooke and felt both amazed and honored when she took it: Where had this blessing come from? When had all of this happened?
It had been worth all of the ceaseless doubts…both dying and suffering possession…living so many endless centuries alone…to finally find her.
He had waited an eternity for this woman.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, not caring if the whole house of Jadon heard him say it.
Brooke squeezed his hand, and one look in her stunning eyes told him all he needed to know: His destiny saw…and felt…all the same things.
They were home.
Napolean cleared his throat. He raised his hand and slowly waved an arm over the crowd, releasing the kneeling spectators. “Be at ease,” he said.
The males stood, visibly relaxed, and waited to hear more from their king.
Napolean cleared his throat again, this time adding a calming breath to the mix. He nodded his appreciation to his males and their destinies alike. “Know this, all who are present: This day, my heart is fuller than I ever thought possible. There is not a soul in this hall that I do not live for, nor a soul in this hall that I would not die for. Serving you is my greatest honor, and living amongst you has been a constant privilege. We have suffered much over the years, but we have learned much as well. We have grown much.” He turned to Brooke. “And we have loved much.” Telepathically, he added. My queen, would you like to say anything to your people?
Brooke looked hesitant.
She leaned in close to him, seeking the shelter of his body, and then instinctively, she reached out for their son and gathered him close in her arms. Brushing her lips softly over Phoenix’s brow, she gazed up at Napolean and nodded.
This was the Brooke he knew.
The woman who would make a magnificent, gracious queen. The savvy intellectual who didn’t hesitate to compete in an industry full of corporate sharks. Napolean beamed with pride.
Brooke took a graceful step forward, and then she smiled cautiously. “I’m standing in a room full of vampires,” she began, deliberately projecting her voice, “married to a guy I didn’t even know existed a couple of weeks ago, holding a baby I never thought I’d have—and truly have no idea how to care for…yet.” She laughed, and the sound infused the a
ir around them with joy as the audience joined her. “Hell, I even have fangs.”
This time, Napolean laughed.
“But the truth is, despite all of my career goals—all I have worked to achieve in the past, and all I imagined for the future—all my life, I’ve only wanted one thing…”
When she paused to brush away a tear, Napolean had to resist the impulse to sweep her into his arms, fly them both back to the manse, and make love to her until her tears were but a memory.
He listened, instead.
“All my life, all I’ve ever wanted—yet never dared to hope for—is a family. Someplace to belong. Someplace where I was loved and truly wanted.” She raised her chin and stiffened her back, clearly determined to get the words out. “I have all of that and so much more now.”
When she glanced at Napolean and smiled, his heart warmed with gratitude and awe. And he knew that she actually got it: The house of Jadon was her family now. The males did not serve out of some shallow sense of obligation, ceremony, or pretense, and they did not make empty promises. Theirs were a species bound by honor, loyalty, and family, and they would freely give Brooke their allegiance out of a true generosity of heart.
This family would never intentionally hurt or betray her.
And gods save any other who did.
Brooke blinked rapidly, still struggling to hold her tears at bay. “You know, from the outside looking in, people might think I’ve experienced a nightmare: that a very, very scary man forced his way into my world and uprooted my life.” She glanced at Napolean and chuckled. “But they would be so very wrong. The truth is: while it may have been rough getting here, I’ve awakened to a dream. The most incredible man in the world came into my life and gave it back to me.” Turning to face him, her eyes softened, and she whispered, “You have awakened me to a happiness I never dreamed possible, Napolean. You have helped me make sense of the past and given me an incredible future to look forward to.” Blushing, she smiled and bit her bottom lip.
And Napolean’s heart soared.
“Napolean,” she whispered, “I love you, too.”
Epilogue
Nachari Silivasi gripped the iron stakes on either side of his hands and shouted his pain as the harsh lash bit into his skin again and again. And again.
He would not beg.
He would not give them the satisfaction.
His body shook against the hard granite beneath him, and his back arched in unnatural contortions as his spilled blood pooled beneath his naked belly. It felt warm against the otherwise cool stone.
It had been three long months.
Three long months since he had descended into the Valley of Death and Shadows—and entered hell—in order to save the Vampyr king of the house of Jadon from a dark possession.
It had been three agonizing months since he had seen his brothers.
The lash struck again, catching him off guard on a violent exhale, and he almost passed out. His amulet, the one Shelby had given him, was cutting into his skin—it always did when they laid him face-down against the stone for his lashings—but he didn’t dare take it off. Once, a minion of the dark lord had tried to wrench it from his neck, and it had burned the demon’s hand like a hot branding iron.
As the lash struck lower this time, falling somewhere between his upper thighs and his buttocks, he heard himself whimper, and he cursed his momentary weakness. If only he could die. If only his brothers would renege on their promise to continue providing life support to his body until he returned. If only he could be free.
If Nachari could have laughed at the irony—which he couldn’t—he would have: In their desire to keep him alive, to hold him to the earth, his brothers were keeping him instead in a vampiric version of purgatory. As long as his earthly body remained safe and healthy, awaiting his spirit’s return to Dark Moon Vale, he could not fully die. Once dead, his corporeal body, which was holding his soul at bay, and his ethereal soul, which was projecting a corporeal form in order to sustain the endless torture, would merge. He would be one entity in one place, and the Dark Lord Ademordna could no longer enslave him.
Granted, he would be dead, never to return to his precious valley in the Rocky Mountains, never to see his Romanian homeland one last time, never to meet his destiny, but he would at least be at peace—for the dark lord who had taken him into the Valley of Death and Shadows could not hold him as one integrated being. His eternal soul would find its solace in the Valley of Spirit and Light where it belonged. With Shelby.
As the next stroke of the lash fell into the same exact groove as the previous one, Nachari inadvertently bit his tongue: Great celestial gods, how much more could he endure? Day after endless day. Knowing his body would regenerate again and again only to prepare him for more torture.
Unable to withstand another moment of his torment, Nachari chose to take the only way out available to him…however temporary. Indeed, it was an escape he had taken one hundred times before. He threw back his head, his glorious mane of thick, raven hair spilling around his face and shoulders in wild waves of blood-crusted locks, and slammed his forehead against the stone.
The pain was indescribably profound.
Literally and figuratively stunning.
And then—mercifully—he collapsed against the stone, and the entire underworld went black.
Deanna Dubois knelt on her living room floor in deep concentration, rocking back and forth on her heels as she stared at the new set of drawings in front of her. She sighed in frustration and more than a little trepidation. The only reason she could call these drawings new was because she had drawn them last night—as opposed to the night before…
Or the night before that.
There was nothing new about her disturbing, ever-growing obsession.
She twirled a thick lock of ash-brown hair around her finger, noticing a particularly stark amber highlight, before turning back to the paintings.
Dear God, what was wrong with her?
She needed help.
And it was getting harder and harder to deny it.
She reached for the thin, light-weight computer beside her, drew it on top of her lap, and used the mouse to enlarge the webpage she had opened—and left open—almost two weeks ago: Psychiatric Clinics in New Orleans.
Just pick one, Deanna, she told herself. You need help!
She glanced once again at the pictures before her and tried to see them in a new light, maybe, with an eye for self-analysis—it was time for some serious introspection. Setting the laptop aside, she laid the drawings out in order—sort of like a progressively animated comic strip—and then sat back and studied them.
On the far left was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, a tall, incredibly well-built Adonis with deep green eyes and a face so utterly perfect she wasn’t sure God could actually create such a being—let alone endow her with the ability to draw it. His hair was unnaturally thick and silky, and there was a strange air of confidence swirling around him even in the drawing—not quite arrogance, but definitely pride—a regal-like quality. He was simply breathtaking. Actually, more than that: He was arresting…almost disturbing in his appeal.
The next sequence of drawings was more benign, and she drew them the same every time: pine trees, rock outcroppings, skies filled with dark, mottled clouds, and endless miles of forest. Nothing especially interesting or disturbing there. They reminded her of pictures she had seen of Colorado.
She turned to the next drawing, the one immediately to the right of the last forest picture, and she shivered. In this frame, the ground had opened up beneath the handsome man, and he was falling into a dark, endless hole…being sucked into some evil netherworld. The hands that were reaching up to grab him were skeletal and demonic; and, of course, this is where the metaphorical comic strip began to deteriorate and her own mental health came into question: In the subsequent set of photos—the largest sequence that she drew night after night—the ungodly beautiful male was depicted in all kinds of horrifi
c scenarios and positions being tortured.
And by tortured, she meant hideously tormented in ways that no stable human being could possibly come up with—let alone draw in such brutal detail—unless that artistically disturbed woman was seriously going insane.
She rubbed her face with her palms as if she could scrub away the anxiety and stared apprehensively at the farthest picture to the right. Something in her gut turned over as her eyes connected with the images…
It was as if it were real.
As if it were happening right now.
As if, right this second, the man was lying face-down against a cold stone, bound by four heavy lengths of chain, with diamonds—of all things—embedded in the links. And God almighty, was he writhing in pain as his flesh was literally torn from his body by a spiked lash. Yet never—not even once in all of her drawings—did the guy beg his tormentors for mercy. For lack of a better term, he took it like a man.
A man forged from iron.
Whoever her phantom captive was, he clearly had the heart of a lion.
Deanna reached out and swept the drawings into a haphazard pile, purposefully disturbing the order in a desperate attempt to erase the madness that had become her nighttime—and more and more often, daytime—obsession.
“Who are you?” she whispered, pleading with heaven-knows-what for just a moment’s peace. “And why are you haunting me?”
One of the earlier-sequenced drawings seemed to rise to the top as if it were trying to answer her question by floating above all the other images…speaking in some cryptic, metaphysical way. “It’s just random, Deanna,” she reassured herself. “From the way you messed them up… You are not that crazy!” She emphasized the last five words while momentarily squeezing her eyes shut. And then she began tapping the back of her foot nervously against the floor in a frenetic, repetitive rhythm as she cringed. “What’s wrong with me…what’s wrong with me…what’s wrong with me?”
She continued to stare at the most prominent drawing.
“Fine,” she finally spat, reaching for the picture and lifting it up to study it more closely. “I’ll bite. Show me some great hidden meaning, then.” Shaking her head, she whispered, “Show me just how psychotic I am so they can lock me away…forever.”