Blood Bond

by Shannon K. Butcher

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “My suite. All we Sanguinar live belowground, below all the public areas. No sense in risking a broken pane of glass during the day.”

  “Because you’ll burst into flames?” she asked, only half-joking.

  He rolled his eyes. “Hardly. Despite what Hollywood would have you believe, we bloodsuckers don’t go in the sun because of what it does to us, but because of what it summons.”

  “Summons?”

  He nodded. “The Solarc—who rules Athanasia with as much mercy as a hungry shark—hates the Sanguinar. He’s able to see through sunlight, and if even a fingernail sliver of it touches our skin, he can see us and sends one of his assassins to destroy us.”

  “Harsh. Why does he hate you?”

  “Because our birth was not pre-approved by his majesty and therefore, blasphemous. He doesn’t believe we should exist, so it is his mission to wipe us out.”

  “Sounds like this Solarc guy is a whiney bitch-baby.”

  Ronan’s grin was slight, but still had the power to take his appearance from stunning to mind-numbingly gorgeous. Drool-worthy. Completely scrumptious.

  Not that she was into that kind of thing. She’d never been with a man that she could remember and wasn’t about to start the bad habit now. She didn’t have time for that kind of bullshit.

  Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the show.

  The elevator was large enough to move a couch, but it was still small enough that she could smell him. She wasn’t sure if he wore cologne, or if it was his natural scent, but he smelled sweet and spicy, like fresh cinnamon raisin bread.

  A small, irrational sliver of her mind wondered if he tasted half as good.

  The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to reveal a hallway that looked much like those three levels up. It was lined with numbered doors. Lights ran down the center, though they were much dimmer down here.

  Ronan led her to the third door on the right, then swiped his ID in the lock to open it.

  He walked into the dark space. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

  She couldn’t see a thing past the faint pool of light coming in from the hallway. After a second, he made a noise of realization, then flipped on the lights.

  “Sorry. I forget others can’t see in the dark.”

  “That must be handy.”

  His suite was bigger than she’d expected. The ceilings were high—maybe ten feet—and space was open. A living room, complete with a couch and a recliner was decorated in soothing grays with accents of deep midnight blue. There was a miniature kitchen in one corner that looked like it had never been used. Next to that was a dining space just big enough for two that also looked unused.

  On the far side of the room was an area bracketed by two adjacent bookshelves that went all the way to the ceiling. A scuffed side table and an overstuffed leather chair sat on a plush rug, giving the reading nook a cozy air. Every shelf was lined with books, and most of them looked to be old. Really old.

  To the right was a short hallway that she guessed led to a bedroom since there was no bed out here.

  A few personal items dotted the space—books, trinkets, several throw blankets. But what caught her attention most was the drawings framed and hung on the walls.

  Sloppy crayon art and crooked drawings were treated like the finest masterpieces, lit and labeled as if in a museum.

  “What’s all this?” she asked as she studied the artwork.

  Some were sweet images of kittens with pink noses and suns with smiling faces. Other were darker, drenched in blood and covered in frenetic scribbles. One was completely black except for a pair of mismatched green eyes in the middle of the page.

  Each piece had the name of the artist and the date on a small metal tag.

  “Gifts,” Ronan said. “From the children I’ve helped.”

  “Helped how?”

  He shrugged as he came closer. She’d been able to feel his presence since he’d taken her blood, but when he was this near, that feeling was more defined. Almost like a touch, rather than a shimmer of heat.

  She could still feel his hand on hers, feel his tongue flicking over her arm, feel his mouth at her throat. Everywhere he’d touched her, he’d left behind ghosts. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to find a way to rid herself of them.

  Ronan pointed to the top drawing of the smiling sun. “Charlie was sick. Leukemia. He said that since I couldn’t see the sun, he’d draw it for me.” His long finger slid down to the next one. “Sidney got injured in an attack the night we found her. I healed her wounds and brought her here to live with her parents.”

  “And this one?” she asked, pointing to the green eyes.

  “William drew this over and over. It was what he saw the night his parents were killed and eaten in front of his eyes. I worked with him for months, easing his fear and smoothing some of the sharper edges of his memory of that night. We replaced them with memories of his parents, before the attack. This was the last drawing he did of those eyes.” He pointed to another wall with more framed art. In the center of it was a very lifelike pencil sketch of a puppy, mouth open, tongue lolling in a doggie grin. “He draws animals now, and he’s quite good.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. This man she’d been evading for weeks was far more than she’d expected. He’d done good in the world. Helped people.

  All Justice could think was how amazing that must feel.

  “Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, tea, wine.”

  “Water,” she said, mostly because she wanted something to do with her fidgety hands.

  She felt out of place here, like she didn’t belong. These people were fighters, heroes. They raised orphans for heaven’s sake. She was just a pawn who stole, lied and killed when the fates demanded it of her. And sometimes when they didn’t.

  Ronan had a home, a family, people who loved and depended on him. All she had was an accumulation of stuff she named so she didn’t feel so fucking lonely.

  Reba was a poor substitute for drawings from a child who had once been broken but was now able to create art. And as nice as the hug of Ricardo’s leather seat was, it couldn’t compare to the touch of another living soul.

  Suddenly, Justice felt the need to get out of here. As much as she wanted Ronan to help her the way he had those kids, she wasn’t sweet and innocent. She didn’t deserve his help.

  Maybe her compulsions weren’t the fates at all, but a punishment for something she’d done in the years she couldn’t remember.

  Whatever her crime, it must have been heinous.

  “I think it’s time for me to leave,” she said.

  Ronan stopped midstride, a glass of ice water in his elegant hand. “But I thought you wanted me to help you.”

  “I do. I did. But I think it was a mistake to come here. I don’t suppose I can activate the elevator without your blood, can I?”

  “It wasn’t a mistake to come here, Justice. Whatever fears you have, let’s talk about them. You don’t have to run off.”

  She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t know how. She was used to being alone. The last thing she needed was some sexy, smooth-talking man outmaneuvering her in a battle of words.

  No, the last thing she needed was another mission from the fates.

  If she was going to have any chance at freedom, this was it. Ronan possessed magic. He helped people. He was willing to help her. That wasn’t a combination she was going to find ever again. She could hardly believe she’d found it now.

  He set the water down and closed the distance between them. She hadn’t realized how near he was until his hands cupped her arms in a gentle squeeze.

  Another ghost of a touch that would haunt her forever.

  “I need you, Justice. You have no idea how much. Please don’t go.”

  He needed her? That didn’t make any sense at all. She was the one with the screwed-up head.

  He looked at he
r like he was telling the truth. She didn’t know how he could be, but to be gazed upon like she was more than a pawn—like she was important—was almost more than she could stand. It was too good to be true.

  Indecision warred in her mind, armed with arguments for and against staying. In the end, the final blow was as simple as it was sad.

  She had no choice. Just like always. If she didn’t find a way to free herself from her tormentors, she was going to end up dead. Even worse, she might end up killing someone who didn’t have it coming. How would she live with herself then?

  She knew the answer to that question.

  She couldn’t.

  “Okay,” she said. “I really don’t have much to lose.”

  Relief spread across his beautiful face like a wave. He didn’t even try to hide it. His posture relaxed, as did his grip on her arms.

  Long, elegant fingers slid over her thin cotton shirt. His touch was cool, which gave her the oddest need to warm him.

  The faint scar on her neck where he’d fed from her the first night she met him tingled. As much as his actions had shocked and confused her, she’d often looked back on that night, dwelling on the feeling of her blood flowing into his body.

  There was an intimacy in the act of feeding someone—a deep closeness. She imagined it was the same for a nursing mother nourishing her child.

  The feel of his mouth moving over her skin had never quite left her, and while there had been some pain, it was nothing compared to the heady rush of giving someone the very thing they needed to survive.

  She reached for the scar out of habit, hardly even realizing she had until Ronan’s gaze tracked her movement.

  Sad lines creased his eyes and regret shone plain on his face.

  “I’m so sorry I treated you like that,” he said. “Had I been in my right mind, I would have healed you so that no scar remained.”

  “It’s okay. I have worse scars. Some I can’t even remember getting.”

  His pale blue eyes slid over her features, down her throat and back again. As they did, his pupils flared wide. “Would you like to see what we can do about that?”

  She nodded. “Now, before I lose my nerve.”

  “You don’t have to worry about a thing. Just look into my eyes and breathe.”

  Justice did as he asked. It was easy, just like falling, and a moment later, she felt herself do just that.

  ***

  Ronan caught Justice before she could fall and eased her onto his couch. Her body melded against his perfectly, her dips and swells lining up exactly with his.

  He’d tapped into his power to help her relax, but it had worked almost too well.

  She was still healing, he had to remind himself. She looked healthy and whole, but her body was still rebuilding her lost blood. On top of that, she was in a constant state of exhaustion, always moving and going wherever she was compelled.

  It was that compulsion that worried him the most, and the thing he was determined to fix. She could live without her memories, but she couldn’t live at the mercy of a master she didn’t know and couldn’t escape.

  He settled her languid weight in his lap and cradled her body like a lover. Perhaps he was overstepping boundaries, but he really didn’t care.

  She was his. It was his right to hold her close and feel the warmth of her flesh on his.

  Wasn’t it?

  A sleepy, contented sigh escaped her lips as she nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Her breathing was deep and even, and her pulse was a steady beat that slowed to match his own.

  He could have simply held her like this all night, enjoying the feel of her against him and her warmth becoming his own. He would have preferred they both be naked, but that would have inevitably led to more than he intended.

  Even the idea of taking her made his cock swell and ache. His nerves buzzed with anticipation, and his mind drew pictures of the two of them together, bodies entwined.

  He was going to have her. Soon. But for now, his focus needed to be on his task.

  Ronan gathered a trickle of power from his cells and sent it into Justice’s mind.

  He was good at this slow, delicate invasion. He had to be. Traumatized children were often sensitive to even the slightest signs of interference in their thoughts. But so many of them carried memories that would ruin their lives or get them killed. Synestryn were drawn to thoughts of them, and a child who’d been terrified couldn’t help but play the memory of the event over and over until it wore a permanent groove in their mind.

  One of Ronan’s jobs was to ensure that those memories were muted, foggy. He stripped them away completely when he could, but more often than not, that was impossible. Blooded children were strong, and removing those mental scars was often more damaging than helpful.

  So, he’d learned the art of subtlety, the need to slip into a mind so slowly and carefully that the person rarely even felt his presence.

  That was his intent with Justice—to ease into her and see what kind of task he had ahead of him. Instead, the moment he passed the fringes of her thoughts, he was sucked in. Consumed by her.

  She was beautiful inside, but in such a different way than he’d ever experienced. He was overwhelmed by her.

  She was like a chaotic piece of art, all swooping, tangled lines and brilliant colors. Strength looped around her insecurity. Confidence in her skills jumbled up with her constant, aching loneliness. The need to do good knotted in an intricate pattern with ties of honor around a thick vein of duty.

  The longer he basked in her essence, the more he could see the churning, frenetic war she waged against herself. It was inspiring and heartbreaking at the same time. He had no idea how she’d managed to hold onto herself for so long, despite her weariness and total lack of companionship.

  The only friends she allowed herself were inanimate objects. She’d given names and personalities to a few cherished possessions, as if cold steel and plastic could give her what she needed.

  Ronan didn’t understand why she’d isolated herself like this, but he wasn’t going to let it continue. She was hurting herself, and that was something he simply couldn’t allow.

  He felt his strength fading, and only then realized that he’d been inside her mind for too long, soaking her in. It was time to concentrate on his task and see if he could figure out who compelled her and what had happened to her missing memories.

  As soon as his own mind touched on his mission, a foggy wall appeared in front of him. He reached for it, but the thick mist simply bowed away from him as if repelled.

  Experience told him two things: One, behind this wall was her lost past. And two, someone had done this to her intentionally. The work was better than any he’d ever seen—better than his own, even.

  Whoever had done this was powerful, which only added to his evidence that Justice was like Hope. The powerful, otherworldly Brenya had shielded Hope’s memories from her, and chances were she’d done the same to Justice.

  Even with her blood flowing through him, Ronan wasn’t strong enough to undo the work of an Athanasian queen. He was going to need to plan his attack more carefully or risk hurting Justice.

  That, he wouldn’t do.

  Ronan turned away from the wall and searched for evidence of the fates, as Justice had called them.

  A wide vein of something he thought of as duty trailed all through her essence. It pulsed with a deep crimson light that flared brighter in spots. As he followed the path it took, he saw it disappear through the foggy wall blocking her memories.

  Whatever this thick rope was, she’d had it for a long time. The source of it was behind that wall, currently out of reach.

  Experimentally, Ronan extended his power and just barely grazed the surface of that tree-thick vein.

  Possession. Control. Unrelenting, merciless demand.

  Pain exploded in his head as a presence screamed at him in a bellow of pure thought. Power unlike anything he’d ever felt flung Ronan out of Justice and back int
o his own mind.

  Whoever or whatever had planted that thing in Justice wasn’t fucking around. He couldn’t even stand to touch it. He had no idea how she could tolerate toting it around inside her.

  He opened his eyes to find her staring up at him. Her silvery-green gaze was dreamy as if she’d just woken from a long nap. There was no sign of distress or pain, which relieved him.

  Poking around in her mind hadn’t hurt her and he was grateful for that. As it was, he was shaking and sweating from his encounter with the presence inhabiting her.

  And it was a presence. There was no mistake about that. Whatever was controlling her wasn’t a spell or a curse. It was a person, though that description seemed inadequate for the enormous power of the thing he’d touched.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  She pushed up from his embrace and shifted from his lap to sit beside him. He took note that she put more space between them than was necessary. He didn’t know if it was a sign of mistrust or a need for distance, but he instantly resented the cold air swirling around him where her body had just been.

  “I don’t know.” The pounding in his head made his words more clipped than he’d intended. His guts twisted with nausea, and his hands were actually shaking.

  Lethargy faded from her face and was replaced by a frown of worry. “You look like you’re about to throw up. I felt you in my head. What did you see?”

  He took several deep breaths to calm his body.

  “There’s a veil over your memories, which is what I expected. It’s the kind of thing I do for the children who’ve seen their parents slaughtered.”

  “You think that’s what happened to me? I saw my parents die and someone covered it up?”

  “No. Ten years ago, where your memories stop, you would have been old enough to understand what you saw. None of my kind would have protected you from your past like that. At most we would have blurred whatever trauma you suffered so you could deal with it in your own time. What I saw in you was far more than that.”

  “What was it?”

  “Someone intentionally cut you off from your past—completely—but that’s not the problem.”