Blood Ecstasy

by Tessa Dawn

  The blonde nodded warily. “I am. How can I help you?” The entire room looked stunned.

  Trevor plastered an ingratiating smile on his face and started to glance around the room, pretending to be too nervous to meet anyone’s incredulous gaze. “Um, Rebecca Johnston gave me this address, and this visitor’s pass.” He held up the plastic card. “By the looks on your faces, I take it you don’t get a lot of male…victims…in your group.” He tried to sound meek, if not outright afraid.

  Sheila furrowed her brow.

  Okay, so Rebecca would not have sprung a new member on the group like that. Oh well. Too late. Trevor would just have to go with it until his long-lost love showed up, and then, the jig would be up anyway. “Would you like me to leave?” He sounded utterly dejected.

  Sheila held up a hand—she was clearly uncertain—and exchanged wary glances with the other skeptical women in the room. “Rebecca sent you?”

  Trevor nodded. “Yeah. Yeah.” He spoke the second affirmation with a lot more confidence.

  “Have you spoken to her recently? Talked to her, directly?” a short brunette chimed in from the middle seat on the sofa. “We got a couple messages, but that was it.” She spoke with an obvious lisp, and her mouth didn’t open like it should, almost like a part of her jaw was wired shut. Damn, that had to suck.

  “Uh,” Trevor thought fast on his feet, “um, nah; it’s been awhile. It’s probably been a few weeks since I met her at the VOSU headquarters. She tried to convince me to come to the weekly meetings, but I was afraid…well…” He swept his arm around the room, indicating the assembly of women and their stunned, unwelcoming expressions. “I was kind of afraid of this.” He lowered his head and averted his eyes. “Of having to admit that I can’t break free of my ex-wife, that I’m actually afraid of a woman. Scared for my life, really.” He bit his bottom lip and took several steps backward, turning to walk away. “You know, this was a bad idea. Sorry if I caught you guys off guard or scared someone.” He pointed to the open door and began to walk away. “I’ll just go.”

  A few seconds passed…and then: “Wait. What’s your name?” A chick with short, spikey hair, dyed hot pink.

  Trevor turned back around. “Uh, Jacob. Jacob Rogers, but my friends call me Jake.”

  “Well, if Rebecca sent you, then you’re welcome. I’m Kate, by the way,” Pinky said.

  Trevor flashed an awkward smile. “Hi, Kate.”

  And then, one by one, the pathetic women began introducing themselves, offering Jake a seat on the sofa, pointing out the salads, brownies, and beverages on the counter.

  Well, wasn’t this just special.

  Trevor helped himself to an extra-large helping of Asian salad, three delectable brownies, and a full glass of white wine before making his way to the couch and addressing the waiting women. “So, my story kind of goes like this…”

  eleven

  Rebecca was still, more or less, living in a fog.

  She was still grappling with the extraordinary facts she had learned about the Vampyr; she was still processing all the details about the Curse, including the inevitability that she would have to be converted to another species in order for a pregnancy to work; and she was still trying to quell her overwhelming fear of Julien Lacusta, despite the fact that they had shared a tender moment.

  One tender moment.

  Over the past three days, Julien had given Rebecca a wide berth, such as it were, allowing her to wander about the large rustic home at will; leaving her alone to sit, think, read, or watch TV in the high-tech theater room, whatever it took to decompress; and encouraging her to purchase anything she needed—food, clothing, or toiletries via online vendors—in order to make her stay more comfortable. He had slept in the guest room, across the hall from the master bedroom, and he had generally kept a polite distance, with the exception of making himself available to hear her thoughts, answer her questions, and address her concerns as often as she wanted.

  She didn’t want…

  She didn’t want to be there.

  She didn’t want any of this to be real.

  And she didn’t want Julien Lacusta.

  But she did want what the vampire had promised: to free all the unfortunate women in her VOSU support group from their tormentors. And she figured she could stick around long enough to see that through.

  Now, as she stood in the far corner of the vampire’s great room, trying to shuffle out of the way as a late-night delivery crew lugged a heavy, distressed-leather sofa into the center of the room, she couldn’t help but wonder: Had she completely gone insane? Was any of this really happening? Was she truly the destiny of an immortal vampire?

  Honestly…

  How had any of this come about?

  For all intents and purposes, Rebecca Johnston was sequestered inside a rustic mountain home, hiding away in Dark Moon Vale—as if her previous life and obligations were of zero consequence—and she had very little to any control over her immediate circumstances. And, as if that was not enough, she had actually gone along with the bizarre, nerve-wracking program by scrolling through an online furniture catalogue, choosing a half-dozen large-ticket items for a house she didn’t own, and following through by scheduling a preposterous late-night delivery.

  Hell, according to Julien, he had just gotten rid of a similar lot of furniture, a few weeks back, and the last thing Rebecca wanted to do was encourage him, overly accommodate or ingratiate him, make it look like she planned on hanging around once they had each fulfilled their end of the high-stakes bargain.

  Yes, Julien would free the VOSU women from their tormenters, and in turn, Rebecca would free the terrifying vampire from the Curse of his kind, but after that, all bets were off. Rebecca planned on taking the baby and finding a place of her own.

  Granted, Julien would probably object.

  At the least, he would probably insist that she remain in Dark Moon Vale so he had daily access to the baby; but Rebecca could work with that. Did she really have a choice? Just so long as she could rebuild her life, return to some semblance of normalcy, and get back to the familiar, daily routine she craved—living and working on her own—she could adjust.

  She would have to adjust.

  There was nothing else she could do.

  After all, she had no intentions of living in a secluded mountain retreat with a powerful, brooding vampire who had an affinity for heroin.

  “Excuse me, ma’am…” A short, muscular, twenty-something guy, with a broad nose and a tightly shaved head, interrupted her thoughts. “Where do you want the sofa?”

  Rebecca sighed.

  What was done was done, and truth be told, she could not endure one more day, sitting on the floor, standing in the corner, or perching on the edge of the moss-rock fireplace, while Julien lounged in his oversized chair and stared at her, incessantly, with those moonstone eyes. And the opposite was equally alarming: Whenever Rebecca took the chair, Julien hovered in the corner. Hell, he practically stalked the rafters, loomed in the shadows, or perched on the hearth, haunting the entire great room like a six-foot-four, vampiric ghost.

  No thank you.

  The furniture was sorely needed.

  Rebecca pointed to her left, toward an empty space beneath several high wooden beams, and tried to sound like she belonged there. “Why don’t you place it right there, with the left arm of the sofa facing the right arm of the chair, kind of perpendicular.”

  The husky mover grunted beneath the weight of the sofa, and then he took an obvious, albeit inadvertent, second glance at Rebecca, sweeping his gaze over her face and her body with blatant appreciation.

  Julien stirred in his chair.

  He shifted his weight from side to side like a lazy jungle cat about to rise from its slumber, and leaned forward. A barely audible growl rose in his throat. It wasn’t all that loud, and it wasn’t particularly drawn out; but then, it didn’t have to be, to prove effective.

  The sound was equal parts savage and commanding.
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br />   The furniture guy lost his grip on the couch, stumbled forward to catch it, and let out a grunt of pain as the massive end of the sofa slammed against his thighs. He quickly averted his eyes. “Right here?” he asked, ignoring the trickle of sweat that was dripping into his eyes.

  “Two inches to the left,” Julien growled.

  Rebecca held her breath.

  What was the vampire doing now?

  The delivery man was clearly about to drop the couch, and Julien was baiting him, almost as if he wanted to see him fail. But for what purpose? So he could fly from the chair, bite him in the neck, and proceed to drink his blood, right in front of his coworkers?

  Right in front of Rebecca?

  Oh, hell no, Rebecca did not want to witness some bestial show of dominance, right there in Julien’s great room. Seeing what he had done to that blond woman, the night of the Blood Moon, had been enough bestiality to last Rebecca a lifetime.

  All at once, Julien shot her a harsh, sidelong glance, almost as if to say, watch your P’s and Q’s, and then, just as quickly, he looked away.

  Rebecca pulled up short.

  What the hell was that?

  She hadn’t done anything to encourage the mover, and it wasn’t like she was waiting for an opportune moment to make a run for it. Still, she thought, wetting her lips, if she had entertained even a passing thought about signaling the movers for help, trying to scribble a note on the back of a receipt, or whispering “call 911” in a stranger’s ear, the look on Julien’s face had just squashed it.

  The lazy lion would probably eat the movers, and then he would turn his king-of-the-jungle attentions on her.

  Rebecca was not an idiot.

  She nodded, a brusque incline of her head, and took a cautious step back, pointing at the oblong coffee table, crafted from the trunk of a large aged tree. “Could you put that in the center of the room when you’re done with the sofa? Just set it evenly, kind of between the chairs and the couch.” She twiddled her fingers together in a childlike, nervous gesture.

  A second mover nodded his head. “Sure thing.” His voice was a bit too ingratiating, and Julien slowly raised his hand, pointed it in Rebecca’s general direction, and gently crooked his fingers.

  What the hell…now?

  Did he want her to sit on his lap?

  She shook her head no, and the tip of his sculpted nose twitched, ever so slightly, even as his lazy hand stiffened.

  Rebecca gulped: I’m fine where I am. She spoke the words in her mind, knowing full well that he could hear her, clearly. In fact, from everything he had told her, he could glimpse her thoughts—or take them from her mind—any time he chose, although the practice was highly frowned upon in the house of Jadon: something to do with invading free will. And while she could not hear him, telepathically, at least not unless they were physically touching or until she was converted, he could intercept her telepathic messages now. It had something to do with the fact that he had taken her blood, although none of it made a lot of sense.

  Julien cleared his deep, raspy throat, having heard her every word. “Tu îmi aparții mie șoarec mic. Vino.” He drawled the words in old-world Romanian, and Rebecca’s mouth nearly dropped open.

  She knew exactly what that meant.

  You belong to me, little mouse. Come.

  Over the past three days, he had used the phrase quite often, like some medieval term of endearment. The joke, according to him, was based on the fact that she was like a busy little mouse, always scurrying around, trying to find a way to escape. And, of course, there was the comment she had made about the mouse trap, when he had offered her crackers and cheese. Somehow, the term had stuck.

  As for the reference to belonging to him?

  That she couldn’t account for.

  Just the same, she knew in her soul that if she defied him now—and in front of the human movers?—he would likely get out of the chair, stalk across the room, and toss her over his shoulders, carrying her back like a conquest. Julien wouldn’t hesitate to shock the human laborers and erase their memories, later.

  Had she just said humans?

  Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat, wiped her sweaty palms along the front of the faded blue jeans she had ordered from a next-day delivery catalogue, and made her way across the room slowly, trying to appear nonchalant. She sat on the arm of the chair, purposefully foregoing Julien’s lap, and his large powerful palm immediately found its way to the small of her back.

  “Thank you, iubito.”

  Baby.

  She struggled not to shudder.

  Rather, she turned her attention back to the movers and watched as they unpacked the last of the furniture, began to collect their empty boxes, and searched the floor for a missing clipboard—more than likely, they were looking for the final bill.

  Despite the commotion and the odd situation, Rebecca’s mind began to wander. She couldn’t help but wonder what her support group was doing now: The women would be gathering in Sheila’s comfortable loft, sharing stories about the passing week, and offering encouragement to one another in an effort to allay any lingering fears. And Rebecca would not be there to participate. She would not be there to lead her own meeting. It was all happening without her.

  Rebecca’s heart sank in her chest.

  Over the last several days, Julien had strongly encouraged her to call home—okay, so that was captive-speak for the male had aggressively insisted that Rebecca leave a message on the VOSU answering machine, explaining her curious absence and the fact that she would not be attending the next three or four meetings. He had strongly suggested that she relay some story about staying in Dark Moon Vale for an indeterminate amount of time, explaining that the valley had been so peaceful, so beautiful—it had felt so incredibly safe—that Rebecca had decided to extend her visit for as long as she could pull it off, financially.

  Yeah, right.

  Because that wasn’t completely out of character.

  Just the same, Julien had somehow embedded a soft, unspoken compulsion in the messages—whatever that actually meant—and he had assured her that her friends would not question her honesty or her sincerity.

  And then he had gently encouraged her to leave the same message with all her friends and family.

  And just like that…

  Rebecca’s absence had been explained.

  None would be the wiser, and no one would come looking…

  A tall, skinny mover with a horrible case of acne finally found the clipboard beneath a pile of Styrofoam, picked it up, and flipped through the anchored pages. Coming to the last page, he took a step in Julien’s direction, eyed the menacing vampire suspiciously, and stopped dead in his tracks. He bent over and set the invoice on the end table instead, taking a generous step back in the interest of self-preservation. “Ah-hem,” he cleared his throat. “That’ll be three thousand eighty-nine dollars.” His eyes darted anxiously around the room, fixing on everything but Julien.

  Julien reached into his pocket, retrieved a time-worn wallet, and thumbed through the leather, extracting a platinum credit card. He flicked it onto the end table—apparently, he didn’t have any interest in approaching the human, either—and waited while the nervous laborer ran the card through his portable machine.

  The guy held out the final printed receipt, along with a pen. “If you would just sign, right here, on the dotted line—” He stopped abruptly and slid the pen back into the top of the clipboard. “Um, never mind. We’re good.”

  Julien shrugged his shoulders and waited in silence as the men gathered the remaining trash and began to head for the door, and Rebecca’s heart sank in her chest: Even though she knew she could not call out for help, the moment was still alarming…unsettling. Once again, a potential rescuer—a potential group of rescuers—was walking out the door and leaving her behind.

  “Hold up,” Julien called, making his way into the foyer behind them. He reached into his wallet, retrieved a hundred-dollar bill, and placed it
in the tall, skinny mover’s trembling hand. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, watching as they scampered out the door.

  Rebecca sighed in both frustration and appreciation.

  Well, at least the savage had a few good manners.

  And at least he hadn’t slaughtered the delivery crew.

  A half hour later, in the master bedroom, Julien took a brazen step forward, pressed his rock-hard chest against Rebecca’s back, and glanced over her shoulder in order to gaze into the overstuffed duffle bag. “I don’t think anything else is going to fit in there,” he said, teasing. “You really know how to shop.” He lowered his angular jaw until his warm breath wafted along the lobe of her ear, and then he nuzzled his chin in her hair. “Do I need to fetch a second suitcase, little mouse?”

  Rebecca stiffened and leaned forward toward the bed, forward toward the duffle bag. “I can’t breathe when you’re that close. What are you doing?”

  Julien chuckled, a rich, deep sound. “We can stop by your apartment when we get to Denver, pick up the rest of your personal things, those items you can’t replace.”

  Rebecca held her breath.

  Okay.

  That sounded just fine, but why was he pressing up against her like that, whispering in her ear like they had been lovers for many years? “Would you mind backing up?” she squeaked.

  He smiled.

  She knew because she felt his lips curve along her neck.

  “I would,” he drawled. “Mind, that is.”

  She anchored both palms against the bed in an effort to keep from bending over any further. It was one thing to lean forward, out of his way. It was another to offer him her backside, like a prostitute. She cringed. “Julien, we’re not—”

  He pressed a kiss against the back of her neck, just below her hairline. “Not what?”

  “Not that.”

  He chuckled again. “And what is that?” Before she could answer, he slid a huge, splayed hand over her waist, then down, to her lower stomach, and pulled her back against him.