by Laura Wright
“If you enjoyed the ballet”—he raked his hand up her calf, massaging deep into her muscle, making her feel so good she wanted to groan—“there’s so much more I can show you, introduce you to. There’s the opera, Broadway. I believe Eels is playing at Webster Hall, and Swedish House Mafia’s over at Barclays. There’s also comedy, a few irritating Christmas shows I’d force myself to watch if it pleased you, and if you appreciate art, I know a Pureblood veana and her twin brother who have a show opening this Friday in Brooklyn.”
Between the massage and all the suggestions of what they could do together in the coming nights on the island of Manhattan, Petra felt her rational brain slipping away. “I’ve never been to an art gallery.”
His hand slid behind her knee, then slowly worked its way back down. Her sex clenched, wishing he would move that hand up between her legs instead.
“You’d like their work, I think. Whimsical but dark. Fairy tales gone wrong.”
She stared at him in the glow from the red taillights of cars up ahead and internally swooned. He was so gorgeous. Dark hair and eyes, heavy lips and sharp cheekbones, all wrapped up in a perfectly cut charcoal gray suit.
“I was thinking about buying a few pieces for the house. I have all those empty walls. I could use an opinion.”
“Syn.”
He looked over at her, his dark brows lowered over those magnetic, impossible-to-read eyes.
She wanted to stay in the bubble of tonight. The clothes, the compliments, the tutus, and how his hand had reached out and taken hers when the lights in the theater dimmed, then hadn’t released it until they went back on again. After all, she’d spent months, as she searched for her father, fantasizing about just this kind of attention from this exact person.
But it was all just that. Wasn’t it?
A fantasy?
“I don’t understand,” she said, her tone gentle as she eased her feet and legs from his grasp. “This—you and me—it was supposed to be all about blood and the balas.”
“Are you saying you’re not enjoying it?”
“I am enjoying it. That’s kind of the problem.”
His expression was utterly impassive as he said, “I don’t see a problem if you’re enjoying it.”
“That’s because these experiences, dates and . . . et cetera . . . well, they don’t mean anything to you.” The words felt like jagged glass in her mouth. “Except maybe as a precursor to sex.”
His jaw tightened.
She sighed. “Look, I don’t want to argue or make things uncomfortable, because frankly I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m staying here, with you—that the baby needs you. But I’m concerned.”
“About?”
Yes, Petra. About? Can you say it? Actually get the words out without your head exploding from embarrassment?
He was staring at her expectantly.
“Okay. Here’s what.” She put a hand to her belly. “We’ve already established that there’s a bond that’s been formed between you and Little Fangs here. I don’t think it’s a good idea to form one between you and me.”
His expression remained impervious. “Because of the bear shifter?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Because you have no feelings for me besides physical ones. That might’ve been okay in the past. A fun night and nothing more. But I’m about to become a mother. I’m trying to build a family.”
“With the bear shifter.”
“Jeez. Does it matter?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached down and retrieved her shoes, then slowly, sensually, placed them back on her feet like she was freaking Cinderella.
“Petra?”
She shivered at the sound of his voice. “Yes?”
His gaze lifted, dark eyes under dark, imposing brows. “You’re not going to name the balas Little Fangs, are you?” he asked as they pulled up in front of his building. “It’s bloody awful.”
13
T he bear shifter.
Syn stood on the terrace in the bitter cold and tried to reason with himself. As the wind smacked him in the face, he tried not to think about Petra, about the night they’d just shared, about Little Fangs, and about how right now she was probably in her room removing the goddamn dress he’d fantasized about removing himself.
The bear shifter.
She’d been in a real bloody hurry to get away from him after that speech in the car. He turned and leaned back against the stone balustrade. Seconds after entering the apartment, she’d thanked him for a lovely evening and for the clothing, then left him standing like a complete knobhead in the hall.
The fucking bear shifter.
He was only interested in the balas? How could she think that after tonight? Was she truly going to make him say it out loud? Admit that something deep and disturbingly wonderful was happening between them?
He stared through the glass doors and into the apartment. The apartment he’d purchased for only one reason. What the bloody hell was he doing? Out on the terrace pining for the daughter of his enemy? He should be preparing for Cruen, his arrival and his slow progression into pain-filled madness. Here . . . where Petra and the balas were staying . . .
Ahhhh . . . Bollocks! His mind swam. He was so ruddy conflicted. It had all been so clear before he’d given Petra his blood. With every lick, every suck, every pint, he grew more and more weak with regard to the true goal of his existence.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Not even for the balas.
The buzzer at the front door drew his attention.
Who the hell could that be at this hour? he wondered, heading inside and across the living area. Better not be the Romans, come to talk him out of keeping Petra here. Of course, those three pavens wouldn’t be bothering with the door—a flash to the terrace was more their style.
“That’s right!” came the loudest female voice Syn had ever heard. “Time to party!”
Standing outside in the hallway, some of them still exiting the elevator, were twenty or so of his most dedicated revelers from the past week. His gaze moved over them, males and females, all sharp and sexy and ready to take down another case of whatever he’d purchased for tonight.
Problem was, he hadn’t purchased a bloody thing. Not for them, at any rate. In fact, he’d completely forgotten they existed.
He leaned against the doorjamb and shook his head. “Not tonight.”
A male who Synjon knew had just come directly from his Broadway show moved to the front of the group. “Not tonight? I thought it was every night, man.”
“Just for a few hours.” The woman beside him whined in an irritating baby voice. “I came all the way in from Queens.”
Synjon stared at the lot of them. Were these the same gits who had practically taken up residence in his apartment every night this week? How had he not noticed how bloody awful they were?
Another woman, dressed in some kind of leopard print costume, glanced past Syn. “Well, look here. Someone gets to party with you. Who is she?”
Something moved inside Syn at that moment. Clearly, Petra stood behind him, and he didn’t want anyone’s eyes on her. Especially not those of the males in the crowd. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood directly in the doorway. “Good night.”
The male snorted. “He’s having a private party, y’all. Let’s blow.”
“Not at all,” Petra called out. “I’m only a friend. Come in. Please.”
Syn turned to look at her. “What?”
Which in turn freed up a good amount of space for the group to push their way into his entry hall.
Letting the fools move past him, Syn just stared at Petra, who was wearing a set of black loungewear. Her breasts were pushed up, and she looked sexy as hell.
“What did you just do?” he asked her.
She shrugged. “You don’t need to curb the partying for me.”
“Wasn’t for you, love,” he lied.
“Fine. For the balas, then.”
; “Perhaps I just don’t feel like dealing with company tonight.”
Her eyes raked his body. “Doesn’t sound like you.”
No, it didn’t.
The elevator opened again behind him and more people poured into the penthouse.
“Listen,” she said, “one of these very lovely one-night stands could be your blood donor. Have you thought of that?”
“No.” In fact, the thought repelled him.
“Well, you should.” She gave him a very tight-lipped smile before turning and walking away.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“To my room.”
He wanted to go with her. Or take her to his room. They could lock the door and remain lost there for days. If he could just get rid of these tossers.
Someone turned on his stereo, and music blared from the speakers. He heard the pop of champagne corks. Female voices called to him. But he didn’t even spare the lively living room a glance. It was as though that world, that existence, didn’t include him anymore. He followed Petra. Caught up with her just outside her bedroom.
Before he could say a word, she turned and leaned against the doorframe. She looked so beautiful. Long dark hair, lush pink lips. And how the fuck was he ever going to get over those eyes? The color and the sharpness and the heat.
“Just because I’m staying here,” she said softly, “doesn’t mean you should stop your life.”
“Why? Because once you leave, you won’t be stopping yours? Is that what you’re saying, Petra?”
She released a breath and stepped inside her room. “Good night, Syn.”
“This isn’t my life,” he said just as she closed the door in his face.
Fucking bear shifter.
He turned back and headed down the hall again, completely uninterested in the thirsty crowd that awaited him.
* * *
Dillon had never been so thankful to have her mutore brothers near. Helo and Phane bracketed her as she sat at the dining table in Wen’s home and faced the heads of each shifter faction. The ones who governed, counseled, and had divided up the Rain Forest lands long ago to accommodate each species of shifter. The Order’s words—no, Feeyan’s commands—lay heavily on her mind, and she was still pretty clueless as to how to keep the vampire world out of this one.
She’d sent the Romans and Dani to take care of Syn and Petra, see if the pair would agree to a simple “hi and bye” before the other nine. She prayed they would. It would be one less thing for her to deal with.
“Why would your Order want a war with us?” said the Avian leader, a small, aged female with bark brown eyes and a pouf of gray hair on top of her head. “We’ve done nothing.”
“There was a mix-up,” Dillon explained. “Two vampires were here, and it was believed they were being held against their will.”
The leader of the Mountain Beasts, which claimed as its members anything from bear to gorilla to fox, leaned forward on the table. The male looked very young—Dillon would guess not even twenty—but his emerald green eyes held intelligence beyond their years. “You speak of Petra. And the father of her cub.”
Dillon nodded.
“But they’re gone now,” said the leader of the Plains, his golden cat eyes bright against his deep chocolate skin.
“Yes, but there’s another who remains.” Dillon glanced around the table. “This vampire was once here a long time ago. He was granted samples of your DNA. I think he’s still here. Maybe he’s hiding among your people, trying to get more samples out of them.” She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Both the Avian leader and the young Mountain leader looked over at Helo, then Phane, then back to Dillon. “You are all part shifter, aren’t you?” the male said.
Helo was the first to speak. “Water. So, Mountain faction, I suppose.”
Phane glanced at the Avian leader. “Hawk.”
The leader of the Plains continued to stare at Dillon. “And you?”
“Jaguar,” she said simply. “Listen, back in our world we’re not prized, not respected. In fact, we’re pretty much thought of as trash.”
All three leaders recoiled in shock.
“Trash?” said the Avian female, her bird eyes narrowing.
“This vampire who remains here is responsible for creating us.” Dillon took a deep breath. “He took your DNA and mixed it with vampire DNA. He’s kind of a monster.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” said the Plains leader.
“And why did we know nothing about it?” asked the Avian female. “We must go to our shifters and talk.”
“Fine,” Dillon said. “But first we need your help.”
“What do you suggest?” asked the young Mountain leader male, his interest in her and her jaguar clearly visible in his amazing eyes.
“We need to find him and bring him back to our leaders.” Dillon looked at each faction leader in turn. “Unharmed.”
“But if all you are saying is true,” said the Plains leader, “he should be exterminated.”
Oh, Dillon sighed internally. I really hated my job. “Yes, he should,” she agreed. “But if Cruen isn’t returned alive, the Order will come.” She took a deep breath. “And they’ll bring war.”
* * *
Damn right she was going to sleep through a party.
Petra finished brushing her teeth, then turned off the bathroom light and got into bed. She didn’t pull up her covers right away, but instead began rubbing her belly in slow, gentle circles as outside her door the steady, almost rhythmic sounds of conversation were punctuated with the jarring shock of laughter and the heavy beat of a bass line. The baby was really active tonight, moving and pushing against certain internal organs. Petra grinned. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as she thought.
She was about to reach for the television remote, see what late-night programs were on, when the bass line ceased abruptly, and she heard the most beautiful sound rise above the din. She stilled, drew back against her pillow, and closed her eyes.
Someone was playing the piano out there, and whoever it was had some serious talent.
Petra took a deep breath and just focused on the music. As if the balas heard it too, the kicking inside her womb gentled, and a lovely calm moved over the entire room.
It had been a long time since she’d felt like this. Calm, steady breaths in and out of her lungs as she relaxed, without a worry about the balas, where she was going to get blood she could actually keep down, or her emotional state.
Granted, this feeling of complete peace couldn’t last. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to enjoy it while it was here.
Though the music eased her body, it unfortunately couldn’t eradicate all thoughts from her mind. She wondered if Syn had spotted something he liked out there, something that would satiate his hunger, someone who could take the pinch of his fangs while granting him several pints of her blood.
A low growl broke from her throat, interrupting the Zen vibe she’d had going on in her bedroom. Shit, if he was drinking from someone right now, it shouldn’t bother her. The idea of his fangs penetrating another female’s skin? Shouldn’t bother her. The image of her blood flowing down his throat, feeding him, sustaining him? Or the sounds, the almost sexual groans of satisfaction when he was finished? Shouldn’t—
This time she groaned and rolled onto her side.
Goddamn it, no, it shouldn’t bother her. After all, feeding would keep him healthy and stable for her and the baby. But . . . it did. It just did.
In that moment the piano music ended. Strangely and abruptly. Petra stilled, waiting for it to come back. What had happened? She missed the slow, emotional rhythms already. A scream jarred her and sent her gaze to the door. Was that a woman? Close by, loud chatter and the sounds of several pairs of shoes clicking across hardwood could be heard.
Without a thought, her mouth dry with concern, Petra got out of bed and grabbed her robe. She was just slipping her arm in the fuz
zy sleeve, when the door burst open. The earsplitting sounds of about forty retreating partygoers spilled into the room, along with one very pissed-off female shifter.
“You have got to be shitting me.”
Petra stared at her best friend. “Dani?”
“Glad you remember my name,” she said, glancing around the room. “Thought the evil vampire douche bag might’ve erased your memory along with your rational thought.”
“What are you doing here?” Petra asked, slipping her other arm into the remaining sleeve of her robe.
The hawk shifter walked into the bedroom and slammed the door. “Oh, you know, saving you from making mistake number freaking two, Pets.”
14
Lucian tossed him a cue, lifting one pale blond eyebrow. “We do this over pool, Brit Boy.”
Synjon caught the stick easily, then rounded the table, which was positioned on the far side of his living area. “Do what exactly, Frosty?”
Lucian’s eyes widened. “What the fuck did you just call me?”
Synjon grabbed the chalk and said nothing. He was thinking about Petra, and all that was being discussed in that spare bedroom. He didn’t like leaving her alone with the hawk shifter. That female hated him. With good reason, but still . . .
“Frosty?” Lucian repeated. He turned to Nicholas and Alexander, who were standing around the large billiard table with sticks of their own, waiting their turn. “Hey, boys. Did Brit Boy here just insult me?”
Nicholas grinned. “Don’t get emotional, Luca.”
“Please,” Alex agreed. “That would be embarrassing for all of us.”
Leaning over, Syn adjusted the shaft of his cue stick, aimed, and with an audible crack knocked the cue ball into the stripes and solids.
“You’re changing,” Lucian said, leaning over directly across from him, setting up his shot while inspecting Syn. “How?”
Syn’s eyes flipped up. “There’s no change. I’m an emotionless bastard. My desires and plans are the same as they always were.” Just waiting for Cruen to come to me, beg me to put him out of his misery. Except maybe that wasn’t his first thought anymore. His gaze shifted toward the spare bedroom. They were taking forever.