Bastian GP

by Marie Johnston

  He would not feed from a child. She was still growing and he had his pride. They might not share DNA, but she was his to care for, no matter what anyone said. His to die for.

  “But you need help.” Her lips trembled as she wiped tears away with the back of her hand. Something white was crumpled in her fist.

  She’d clung to the paper, so tense from fear she hadn’t dropped it.

  On that simple sheet was their best hope for how to help her.

  But who could help her? Underworld. Spells. Ugly beasts. Gossip that had seemed inconceivable at the time.

  “I think… I think I’ve heard of some people that can help us.”

  ***

  Ophelia LeFevre propped her boots on the counter in the security office and shuffled a deck of cards.

  Why her buddy Creed had a deck of cards in his office, she didn’t know. It wasn’t technically his office anymore, either. Since bonding with Melody, the underworld’s newest baddest bitch, he split his time between the team’s compound and the underworld love nest he—mostly Melody—had created down there.

  What she did know was that his office chair, which was really an exercise ball on a stand, was ungodly uncomfortable. But she had yet to pop it. Probably because when she sat in it correctly, it wasn’t half bad. She could feel it in her abs.

  The compound was quiet this weekend. Their boss, Demetrius, was off at a Synod meeting. The more the underworld seethed with upheaval, the more the vampires’ and shifters’ new government convened.

  A thousand sighs that she’d escaped that mess. They’d recruited her hard to sit on the Synod and be the voice of the vampire people. Her reply had been something about cotton swabs and gouging eyeballs.

  Herding rabid cats came close to describing the mess the Synod had to deal with. Or the Synod itself. All her people looking to her for answers. Nope. She worked incognito.

  Her other teammate, one of the original five who had followed Demetrius, had taken the seat instead. Zoey had been a good, well-qualified addition to the panel of leaders. Until she’d bonded with a demon and been forced to resign.

  The other Synod members were eyeballing Ophelia again and she was walking around like Huh, what? I can’t hear you. Just because she was a prime and not festering with evil didn’t make her a good candidate.

  She tossed the cards on the counter and yawned. Stretching her hands high above her head, she sat forward. How much longer did she have to squat in this hole in the wall?

  They’d all been taking shifts in the security office since Creed’s mating. Zoey was on duty next. Zoey had more time now that she wasn’t being called away on Synod business. Her mate, Stryke, worked with his brother, another demon in the underworld named Quution. But Zoey and Stryke were out for date night.

  When was the last time—

  Not going there. She wasn’t the type to do something so staid as dating. Not. At. All. She fucked and moved on. Attachments were for suckers.

  She chewed a lip as she stared at the cards. A memory that liked to pop up and torture her at the oddest time filtered through her mind. Talk about the ultimate attachment. Her vision blurred, and she sniffled.

  Hadn’t Creed ever dusted in here? Damn her allergies.

  Movement flickered on the screen. Disappeared. Flickered again.

  She perched on the edge of the ball chair and squinted at each of the six screens and their respective camera views around the compound.

  There. Two bodies. One leaning heavily on another.

  A male and a female.

  They vanished again. Ophelia scowled. They were flashing.

  Vampires couldn’t flash to somewhere they’d never seen before, so these two were flashing ahead, stopping, spotting a target, and flashing again.

  Finally, they reached the door. The guns mounted above the exterior doors were calibrated for the front stoop. Ophelia’s hand hovered over the button to shoot. With her other hand, she tapped on the radio comm. Rourke and Bishop were out on duty, searching for primes recruiting hosts for the underworld’s most menacing demons.

  Ophelia and Fyra, Bishop’s fire-demon mate, were the only ones around tonight. Ophelia wouldn’t call on the demon unless she needed major firepower—and didn’t mind risking a few bystanders.

  Demetrius’s mate was home as well, but Calli had brains, not brawn. And of course, Demetrius’s ancient assistant, Betty, was around, but her job was paperwork and cooking, not fighting.

  The couple pounded on the door. The male was in rough shape. He straightened as if to take his weight off the slight girl at his side, then canted one direction and the girl shuffled sideways to keep him upright.

  They were either really good actors or he was about to keel over.

  Ophelia tapped on the cameras to zoom in on the strangers. She flicked the sound on.

  “—anyone there?” the female yelled and pounded again. “We need help.”

  Ophelia smirked and spoke into the microphone. “Details, please.”

  She focused on the female. Young. Blond. She’d probably grow to six feet tall, but for now she was still a kid.

  Ophelia smacked her lips. That was not jealousy burning through her veins. At five foot two, in boots—on a good day—her petite stature as a prime prompted whispers wherever she went.

  “Details? Um… I’m Antonia Gaston and this is Bastian Dean. He’s hurt.”

  Names were good. Gaston, huh? That family was Ophelia’s dead boyfriend’s crowd. And that meant young Antonia was a prime and her parents were naughty, pretentious assholes who preyed on the weak for sport.

  Who was Bastian? She zoomed in on his face and lifted a brow. Ruggedly handsome. His shirt might have been white once, but now it was too stained with blood to be sure. The seam of his black slacks was clear in the security feed, as was the tie he’d wrapped around his thigh.

  An average Joe vampire. Probably a servant. In the Gaston manor?

  And Antonia was helping him. He looked young for a vampire but still an adult. Ophelia bristled. What was between these two?

  If she used her imagination, she’d leave Bastian to bleed out on the concrete.

  Ophelia pushed the mic. “How’s he hurt and why are you here?”

  “He got sh-shot. A lot. He saved me from, like this thing that my parents…summoned?” Antonia readjusted Bastian.

  He pushed off her. “I’ve heard about your crew. I know the rumors of demons are true and I’ve heard that you fight them.”

  Demons. Motherfucker. “What makes you think—”

  “Antonia’s not safe,” Bastian snapped.

  Ophelia reared back, her defenses up. She hadn’t expected the outburst from a male ready to collapse.

  “They were going to do something to her, and she still has the written spell or something she was supposed to recite to make it happen.”

  Ophelia pinched the bridge of her nose. They were going to need both brains and brawn for this business. She hit another button. “Calli, meet me in the infirmary.”

  Chapter Two

  Ophelia’s boots clicked on the hard floor as she stomped to the front door. She mentally checked all her weapons. It felt good to be wearing them again. The last several months, she’d basically moved in with Nadair to spy on him and his friends, and he hadn’t liked her getup.

  Too hard to get at the best parts of you, my love.

  The way he’d purred those final two words—it got her every time. Until it hadn’t been enough to overcome all the baggage between them.

  She didn’t bother drawing her sidearm before she flung open the door. If she couldn’t take a waif of a girl and an anemic male, then she deserved the ass kicking she got.

  Little Ms. Gaston gasped and stepped back, but she was forced to step forward again to stop a listing Bastian from hitting the floor.

  “Name’s Ophelia.” She gave Antonia a hard stare, then turned it on Bastian. Her pulse fluttered as she locked eyes with
him. Hanging off a young female, dripping blood all over the pavement, he hadn’t seemed like much on camera. And he still didn’t look like much. But the eyes… A unique shade stared back at her. Ochre. Like goddamn clay.

  Antonia’s nostrils flared. “You’re a prime?”

  Ophelia bristled at the all-too-familiar incredulity. When others scented her rank on such a diminutive frame, they always asked themselves, how could the richest of rich not raise a healthy, robust child?

  She could tell them exactly how. But she never would. Her nightmare was her own.

  “Yep. My blood is as loaded as my pockets. You know the feeling.”

  “Mistress Gaston,” Bastian rasped, his tone admonishing. If he weren’t a few units low, his voice might rumble the walls down. And Ophelia’s pants with it.

  Where had that come from? She wasn’t ready for a good time, or even a moderately bad one, with any male. Not after the mind fuck that had been Nadair. And she didn’t know Bastian, or his intentions—not that it had always mattered to her.

  And if Bastian was a servant, there was no way he’d get away with talking to Mistress Gaston like that. Ophelia narrowed her eyes at him. What was this male doing with the girl?

  He stiffened as he tried to rise off Antonia. “I’m afraid we are in dire need of your help. We have information that threatens Mistress Antonia. I am unsure how far the evil has spread.”

  Ophelia snorted. The evil hadn’t spread anywhere; it had always been there. Demons were just a different source.

  Bastian’s brows dropped, then his gaze dropped to her chest. But his gaze didn’t stop on her breasts, it stalled on the shoulder holster she wore. He perused farther to her hips, where her weapons belt was slung, then down to her black shitkickers and their thick rubber soles. They were a dream in the icy winter of the upper Midwest, with plenty of room in the calf for her sheathed daggers.

  His brow creased, like he was processing information and failing to come up with a formula for why a prime female was dressed like her.

  Definitely a servant.

  “Follow me. And if I sense any ill will, just know: I shoot first and forget to ask questions later.”

  Antonia squeaked. Ophelia strode away, expecting them to follow.

  “She’s no threat to you,” he murmured to the girl, shuffling behind her.

  No threat? Ophelia had her back to them. They couldn’t see her lips twist in a disgusted sneer. No threat. Why? Because she was so much smaller than the already statuesque teenager? Or because she’d obviously turned her back on her prime family and their power along with it?

  Her weapons weren’t compensation for anything. They were an extension of her personality. But she wouldn’t expect a favored butler to understand.

  Bastian’s pained grunt squelched her ire. Maybe she should offer to lend a hand. She could fireman-carry Bastian to the infirmary. Though his knuckles and toes might drag on the floor, because even hunched and drawn in on himself, he was a big man.

  To be fair, most males of her species were sizeable. Vampires spawned supermodels and Magic Mike extras. Bastian would probably measure up to the rest of the males on her team, despite being born of common blood.

  Good genetics, and his parents had nourished him well.

  The familiar simmer of resentment flared in her gut. She stuffed it down like she’d done for the last 111 years.

  A faint trace of brimstone lingered in the air as they neared the bare room they called the infirmary. It contained two stretchers and its only real purpose was to strap down a vampire and force-feed blood. Beyond that, a vampire—or even a demon, since they were now part of the team—was beyond help. They’d either heal themselves or perish.

  Ophelia stepped into the room. “Fyra.”

  The voluptuous demon sat on the counter, her pencil skirt stretched at the seams and her cleavage about to burst loose of her buttons. If their new guests didn’t flee at the sight of her, then they were truly in dire straits.

  Fyra hopped down. “Bloody guests. My favorite.”

  Antonia stopped, her wide eyes growing impossibly wider. Bastian’s expression froze. His nostrils flared. He eyed her warily, angling his body in front of the girl.

  Well, he earned a tiny drop of respect for that, as long as there was nothing perverted going on between them.

  “That smell,” he hissed. “Y-you’re—”

  “Fab-u-lous,” Fyra sang. “But yes, I’m also a demon.”

  He bared his fangs, his gaze incredulous as he stared at Ophelia. “You harbor them under your roof?”

  Ophelia chuckled, and Bastian recoiled. She patted the stretcher for him to crawl onto. “Just like there are heinous, devious, purely evil vampires, there are heinous, devious, and purely fashionable demons. And some work with us to stop the underworld from threatening this realm.”

  “But they’re not all fashionable,” Fyra whispered.

  Bastian’s gaze swung from her to Fyra and back. Antonia squeaked again and cowered behind him.

  Ophelia rapped her knuckles on the bed. “Get up.” When Bastian didn’t move, she gave him a hard stare. “You can either lie here and take my vein, or you can leave. Either way, we’ll investigate any claim that the Gastons have partnered with demons in order to gain their own power in this realm. So. Leave or stay?”

  Bastian was a crumbling brick wall in front of the girl. Antonia made the decision for him.

  “We stay.” She helped Bastian to the table. “What power would my parents have to gain? They’re already primes.”

  “Primes who lost their influence when our government was overthrown. Think about what they could do with demonic powers flowing through them.” Ophelia rolled up her sleeve. Her gums throbbed, an odd sense of anticipation coiling in her belly.

  She was just feeding a stranger. Doing something nice, for fuck’s sake. She’d forced her vein on her teammates several times. Not once had she gotten fucking butterflies.

  Her fangs were a nanometer from piercing her skin when Bastian laid a hand on her arm. Dried blood crusted around the edges of the fresh red staining his skin.

  “You cannot feed me. You are prime.”

  “I’ll do it.” Antonia brandished her wrist.

  “No!” Ophelia and Bastian said at the same time.

  He shook his head at Antonia. “I will not feed from a child. And you’re prime, too. I cannot take your vein.”

  Fyra crossed her arms. “Well, I’d burn you from the inside out, so you’re kinda outta options.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not into the old-school bullshit.” Ophelia punctured her skin.

  Bastian opened his mouth, but she shoved her wrist to his lips before any sound could come out. He flinched but couldn’t pull away. The transformation was instant. He clamped his hands on her forearm and yanked her closer, almost hauling her onto his lap. For a man who was a few pints low, he was still in possession of great strength.

  Between lovers, feeding was erotic. With strangers, it was an enjoyable necessity. Feeding Bastian should be nothing more than pleasing, but heat curled from his lips at her wrist and licked its way up her arm.

  No.

  She would not feel anything for this male. He’d come to them for help. She’d just lost someone close to her, someone whose loss should have left a gaping hole in her heart.

  But her heart? Meh, it was fine.

  Her mind? Totally fucked.

  Bastian was messing with her carefully established equilibrium. That was the thanks she got for saving his damn life. He would’ve bled out until his immortality fled before letting Antonia spare him a drop of blood. Such an honorable action, and an uncommon occurrence in Ophelia’s life.

  That didn’t mean she’d warm to him. Not because he was a common vampire and she a prime, but because he’d pointed it out. She had no need for a male to remind her of her birth status, or worse, use it against her.

  Bastian’s pulls on her vein
were stronger now. He shifted to his side and looked up at her. She cocked a brow.

  He pried his hands off her. The soft, warm swipe of his tongue across her skin fired every nerve ending in her body. She stiffened and jerked her hand away.

  He wiped off his mouth, leaving a smear of blood from his hand. There was nowhere on his strapping, fine body that wasn’t covered in it.

  Not that she’d been checking him out for any other reason than professional assessment.

  “I thank you for your generous offer, Mistress—”

  “Not Mistress. Just Ophelia. I don’t do that mistress shit. And my vein isn’t some treasured piece of rare jewelry. It’s been shared all over town.” She gave him a leer that should tell him exactly what she meant.

  He sat up, his gaze clocking Fyra, who hadn’t moved. The demon was content to watch the drama unfold. For all her casual attitude, Fyra would toast anyone that threatened her or the compound. Hopefully, that’d be all she toasted.

  Ophelia didn’t sense a threat from Bastian toward the demon, despite his earlier balking. Antonia’s expression was one of pure awe and Ophelia couldn’t blame her. Fyra lived up to her name. Six feet tall without her fuck-me heels, with flaming red hair and eyes that blazed like an inferno, she was exotic and stunning. Heat rolled off her in waves—literally, sometimes.

  Bastian relaxed, though disbelief still sat in his eyes. “I’d heard rumors about demons, but not that they were helping us.”

  Fyra studied her sharp fingernails. “Well, helping them helps me stay alive, so bonus. And my mate is part vampire.”

  “Part vampire?” Incredulity thinned Bastian’s voice.

  “Dude”—Antonia breathed—“what is going on?”

  She was shaking, her willowy body on the verge of collapse. Ophelia abandoned Bastian’s side, the loss of his heat something she refused to process.

  She hefted Antonia onto the other stretcher, snatched the sheet of paper from her hand, and turned to read it. Bastian switched cots. He twined his arm around Antonia and spoke so low it was hard for Ophelia to hear, but it sounded soothing. She let the deep timbre of his voice wash over her.