Dark Enemy Redeemed

by I. T. Lucas

  “Just Kian.” He shook it. Damn, he really needed to come up with a last name for situations like these.

  “And you are?” She offered Brundar a warm smile as he took her offered hand.

  Fuck. Obviously, she thought Brundar was the one Kian was purchasing the ring for. Not that he could blame the old girl for her misconception. With the guy’s smooth-shaven pretty face, and his fucking blond hair reaching his mid back, it was no wonder she assumed he was the fiancé. After all, this was Los Angeles.

  “His bodyguard,” Brundar clarified.

  “Oh, yes, but of course. Very prudent of you, Mr. Kian.” She quickly recovered like the pro she was.

  “Though we would’ve gladly delivered your purchases to your home ourselves. Most of our clients opt to have it done this way. No need to take unnecessary risks. Unfortunately, it’s not unheard of for criminals to observe an establishment such as ours and follow a client home.” She was looking Brundar over from head to toe, no doubt searching for a concealed weapon—something that the metal detector up front had missed.

  But heeding Annani’s advice, Brundar had left his daggers stashed under the Lexus’s back seat instead of surrendering them to Pierre upon entering the store. Even unarmed, however, Brundar was a deadly weapon—the daggers just one more accessory in his arsenal.

  “It’s very kind of you to offer, but as you can see, there will be no need. Can we please move on to the selection? I’m somewhat in a rush.” Kian sat down and motioned for Brundar to do the same.

  “Yes, right away, sir.” She took a seat across from them. “Pierre? Could you please bring the selection for Mr. Kian?”

  He’d wondered about that. There were no display cases in the private viewing room. It was set up as a parlor—with a thick Persian rug covering the hardwood floor, and a sitting arrangement comprised of a dainty sofa, two matching armchairs, and a dark-mahogany coffee table. A few pictures hung on the fabric-covered walls, the largest one a portrait, no doubt of the late Mr. LaBurg—the proud founder of LaBurg Jewelers.

  Only the telescope and the powerful LED lamp sitting on top of the coffee table hinted at the type of business taking place in this room. To the side, a cart stood on two short legs in front and two large wheels in the back and held an ice bucket with a wine bottle chilling inside it. Kian wondered if the two crystal glasses on the tray next to the bucket were there for Mrs. LaBurg and him, or for the happy couple.

  Pierre got busy at the sizable wall safe that was hidden behind Mr. LaBurg’s portrait, pulling out a velvet-covered tray. His steps were small and measured as he brought the tray over and gently placed it on the coffee table. There were only four simple rings on top of that tray, but each held a diamond that was nothing but, and as Mrs. LaBurg flicked on the LED lamp, the light reflecting off those stones was blinding.

  Kian was impressed. The lady had asked for his preferences over the phone and had delivered exactly what he had in mind—a simple, elegantly-designed ring with one extraordinary stone.

  The modest design was the only concession he was willing to make on account of Syssi’s aversion to extravagance—but the stone would be the best this jeweler had to offer. And as this was the most prominent establishment of its kind on the West Coast, it meant that it was the best there was.

  “Can I pour you some wine while you examine the selection?” She pulled out the bottle from the ice bucket and presented it to him.

  As if he was going to check the label. “No, thank you.”

  Kian lifted each of the rings one at the time, examining them under the LED light and then returning them to the tray before checking out the next. They were all equally beautiful.

  “These are the best we have and, naturally, each diamond is certified by the two leading grading agencies, the GIA—the Gemological Institute of America, and the AGS—the American Gemological Society,” Mrs. LaBurg whispered with reverence. “You will not find diamonds of this size and quality anywhere else on the West Coast, you have my word. At least not from a reputable establishment.”

  Did he believe her? Perhaps. But it wasn’t important for him to have the absolute best. The best available, with certificates, would have to do because he was out of time. Besides, he knew next to nothing about diamonds.

  “They are all beautiful. Which one would you say is the best?”

  Mrs. LaBurg picked up the one he had his eye on. It seemed to be slightly larger than the others, but it wasn’t the only reason he gravitated toward it. There was something about the ring’s design and the stone itself. It just seemed like the one. “This is a flawless, nine-point-five-carat emerald-cut, D color. I think it’s the most beautiful of the four.”

  He had to agree. “How much?”

  “The best I can do is one million seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

  Not too bad. From what his mother had told him, he’d expected it to be over two million. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to negotiate. If for no other reason than to tell Syssi that he got it at a bargain price without having to lie.

  “If I have the money transferred to your account right now, can you do one and a half?”

  Mrs. LaBurg didn’t even blink. Evidently, he wasn’t the first client to offer cash payment. She smiled, her veneered teeth gleaming. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Kian.” She offered her hand.

  From there it was a matter of getting her banking information to Shai and having him wire the money directly there.

  Pierre produced a fancy box to house the even fancier little box he’d put the ring in, then wrapped everything and placed it in a small, black fabric bag together with the certificates the diamond came with. There was no logo or any other indication that the bag came from a store. Discreet.

  “Of course, if there is any problem with the sizing we will do all of the necessary adjustments.” She handed Kian the little bag. “I hope your fiancée loves it, but if she is not happy with the ring for some reason, we would gladly exchange it.”

  “Thank you, I’m sure there will be no need.”

  The ring was stunning, and the only problem Syssi would have with it was its price. Kian was prepared for a long and hard argument.

  Funny, here he was with a beautiful engagement ring, and instead of expecting a big thank-you he was worried that his fiancée would march him back to the store to return it because it was too extravagant.

  Still, if this were all they would ever fight about, they were good.

  When he stood up, Mrs. LaBurg offered her hand again.

  “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Kian. Is there anything else I can interest you in? Maybe a set of matching earrings? Or a necklace?”

  Well, in fact, there was. After all, his pervy proposal included a diamond choker to go with the ring, right?

  CHAPTER 16: AMANDA

  Standing on the top deck of the Anna, Amanda watched the sunset as the massive boat glided into Marina del Rey.

  It wouldn’t be long now before she docked in her spot. Not long enough, anyway. Amanda wasn’t ready to face Dalhu yet.

  Hell, she would probably never be.

  For the past two hours, she’d been mulling over what to say to him—the thoughts running in circles in her head. Problem was, she still didn’t know how she felt about him.

  Liar… Her subconscious whispered.

  If you’re so smart, then you tell me.

  Simple, you want him.

  Simple? He’s responsible for Mark’s murder. There is nothing simple about it.

  Great, now she was talking to herself as if her subconscious was a separate entity.

  Okay, girl, you are a scientist, and scientists search for solutions to problems instead of dwelling endlessly on the unfairness of them.

  First, for the sake of clarity, she needed to define the problem from a rational standpoint rather than an emotional one. Perhaps it would be better to write it down.

  The Anna would be mooring soon, but no one said Amanda needed to leave r
ight away. And if Geneva had a problem with that, so be it. Amanda had paid the crew a hefty sum, a whole week of double wages, and had used only three days.

  Fates, it felt as if she’d been gone for weeks.

  Her tablet was in her purse and she pulled it out, then settled on the chaise lounge to write her paper on Dalhu. Staring into the color-infused ocean, she gathered her thoughts.

  Dalhu was an ex-Doomer, who had decided to leave his old life behind and turn a new page on her account. He had kidnapped her only because she would’ve never given him a chance and gotten to know him otherwise.

  The little time they had spent together had been the best she had ever experienced—and that was saying a lot considering that half of the time she’d been either terrified of him or plotting to clobber him over the head with a shovel and run.

  He’d treated her with respect—more like reverence—and she had no doubt that he’d fallen in love with her. He’d been mostly honest with her and had told her about his past without trying to portray himself as a better man.

  Not telling her about Mark qualified more as an omission than an outright lie. Except, if he’d omitted one thing, he might have omitted other incriminating stuff. On the other hand, the list of his crimes was probably too long for him to mention each one separately. After all, he’d been a mercenary—a killer.

  His past wouldn’t have troubled her so if not for Mark. There was a big difference between thinking of Dalhu’s kills as casualties of war, and regarding his part in her nephew’s murder the same way.

  And yet, she had to concede that there were mitigating circumstances.

  When he’d issued the order to kill Mark, Dalhu hadn’t known she even existed, or that Mark was an immortal. In his eyes, his intent, this was another casualty of war.

  Except, Mark had been a programmer, not a warrior.

  Then again, if Mark hadn’t been a relative, it would’ve bothered her to a much lesser extent.

  What did it say about her, though? What kind of woman was willing to accept a killer as her mate?

  Why couldn’t Dalhu have been a professor? Heck, anyone would’ve been better than a killer. Even an accountant.

  Amanda chuckled. As if she would’ve ever been attracted to a boring number cruncher.

  The embarrassing truth was that she liked dangerous boys, and mellow males left her indifferent. It was utterly stupid, especially since she was supposed to be this sophisticated woman and to know better. She was a professor, for fates sake.

  Yeah, the sadistic fates were probably cackling with glee at the havoc their machinations were wreaking. Why pair her with a nice guy, when an ex-Doomer provided so much more entertainment for them?

  The fates had been kind to Kian, though. Amanda couldn’t imagine a better partner for him than his sweet Syssi. The girl was simply the best. But to be fair, Kian had waited an awfully long time for his fated mate. And while he’d waited, he’d been earning a shitload of points by impressing the fates with all the sacrifices he’d made—always putting the welfare of the clan before his own.

  So yeah, Kian was definitely deserving of their benevolence. Amanda, on the other hand, had partied for most of her life, and when she’d finally decided to take herself more seriously and dedicate her time to solving her clan’s most pressing problem—finding Dormants of other lines—it hadn’t been an entirely selfless move. She’d sought recognition and respect.

  And anyway, it wasn’t as if nice, eligible, immortal bachelors were lined up for her. Except for Andrew, that is. But first of all, Andrew wasn’t an immortal, yet, and second, he wasn’t an innocent lamb either—hence the initial attraction. But that attraction paled in comparison to what she felt for Dalhu.

  “American, we’ve docked. Don’t you want to go home?” Geneva’s wide shoulders blocked the view.

  “I need a few minutes. Half an hour tops. Why? Are you in a hurry, Ruska?”

  “No, I let the crew off for the evening, but I’m staying. Care for some vodka while you stare at the blank screen of your tablet? You look like you need it.”

  “Actually, that’s a splendid idea, though coming from you, somewhat suspicious. Why so nice all of a sudden?”

  Geneva shrugged. “I don’t like drinking alone.”

  “Fine, but mix mine with orange juice.”

  Geneva arched a brow. “That’s a pussy drink, American, good vodka should be drunk straight up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever, I want a screwdriver.”

  “As you wish, pussycat.”

  Amanda flipped her the bird. It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell Geneva to go get drunk on engine oil, but it was never smart to offend someone who was bringing you food or drink—lest they spit in it.

  Geneva flipped her back before taking the stairs down to the upper grand salon.

  Okay, where was I?

  Dalhu. Bad boy attraction. Fated mate. That about summed it up. Especially the fated mate part.

  Was he, though? Her gut was saying yes, but her brain was refusing to accept it. Because if he were her fated mate, than she was screwed big time. She wouldn’t be able to resist the pull, but her relationship with Dalhu would forever be tainted by Mark’s blood.

  “Here’s your juice, American.” Geneva handed her the tall glass, then walked over to the other side and sat down with the vodka bottle in hand.

  Apparently, Amanda wasn’t the only one having a tough time.

  “What’s wrong, Captain?”

  “Everything. Nothing. Just life, you know, it sucks.” She chugged an impressive quantity on a oner.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “That’s the problem with you, Americans—talk and talk and more talk. We Russians, we do, not talk.”

  “Yeah? And what do you have to show for it? The last time I checked, nobody is rushing to your borders in hopes of a better life, chasing the Russian dream. While we can’t keep them away.”

  “That is true. But the people who came here first and started your great country, they didn’t spend their time talking, they were too busy building.”

  “Ha, but they came because they wanted to be free, and freedom is an idea, so they had to talk about it.”

  “Whatever, I’m not in the mood for a political discussion.”

  “You started it…”

  “Just go back to staring at your tablet.” Geneva waved with the almost empty bottle.

  That’s what I get for trying to be nice to a surly Russian, Amanda harrumphed.

  But Geneva hadn’t been entirely wrong. It was time to stop over-analyzing and over-thinking. It was time for doing. Chickening out was the only reason Amanda was still on board instead of in a taxi on the way to the keep. And her sitting on her butt and pondering would resolve nothing.

  She swung her legs over the side of the chaise and pushed up, then headed for the staircase, but stopped before descending and turned around.

  “I’m leaving now. Come, give me a hug goodbye,” she told Geneva.

  As the woman regarded Amanda, her expression changed from her usual pissed one to something that approximated fondness. She got to her feet and pulled Amanda into a bear hug that would’ve crushed her ribs if she were a human. “You’re okay, American. I like you.” She let go with a clap on Amanda’s shoulder.

  “If that’s how you are when you like someone, I wonder what you’re like when you don’t.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “No, I guess I don’t.”

  CHAPTER 17: ANDREW

  The gate to the clan’s private garage was on the lowest level of the high-rise underground parking structure, and Andrew slowed his car before coming to a full stop in front of it. The sensor read the sticker on his windshield and the thing slid open.

  Kind of made a guy feel like he was part of the family. Except, as the only mortal among them, he was still an outsider, albeit one with a key to the front door—but no room of his own.

  He eased into a vacant spot between
Kian’s SUV and someone’s black Porsche. Hopefully, he wasn’t taking somebody’s parking space. But there were no markings on the concrete aside from those delineating the spots.

  He was curious about whom the Porsche belonged to.

  Perhaps Bridget? He wouldn’t be surprised if it were hers. Last night, he’d found out that the doctor had an adventurous streak. A fast car suited her.

  Reaching over to the passenger seat, he grabbed the grocery bag with the wine and Godiva chocolates’ box he’d bought for Bridget. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of buying a gift bag or skimped on the few bucks it would’ve cost. It’s just that he wasn’t sure if Bridget wished for their relationship, or rather hookup, to become common knowledge.

  That was also why he hadn’t brought flowers. Nothing like a guy walking in with a bouquet to advertise that he was coming to see the woman, and not the doctor for some medical advice.

  As he walked toward the bank of elevators, he had the impulse to check whether his thumbprint would work on the one dedicated to the use of the penthouse occupants, namely Kian and Amanda. Obviously, they weren’t the only ones with access to the thing. Their mother, the two butlers, and the Guardians had to have access too. But there was no reason for him to be granted that privilege, unless, as Syssi’s brother and Amanda’s rescuer, William considered him worthy of the honor.

  Why not check it out? After all, he wasn’t due at Bridget’s for another twenty minutes.

  As was his habit, Andrew had arrived early for his dinner date, but he had no intention knocking on her door before it was time. It wouldn’t be polite. He’d intended to check out the underground gym, but he could spare a few minutes for a quick ride up to the penthouse and then take the elevator down to the basement—if his thumbprint worked, that is.

  By now, he had ridden up and down enough times to figure out the clever configuration of the private and public elevator banks. There were three doors that opened to the lobby, one of them serving the penthouse and the other two serving the guests of the rental floors. Three additional doors opened on the other side and served the clan. The two general use public elevators were back to back to two private ones while the penthouse had only one but it opened both to the lobby and to the back. Of course, one needed a key or a thumbprint to be able to use it.