Her Vampire Prince (Midnight Doms)

by Ines Johnson

  I brush my thumb across her lip, gathering the small amount of fluid that breached her full bottom lip. Her pink tongue darts out and strikes my thumb.

  Now it’s my turn to blink rapidly. Now it’s my turn to struggle to find my bearings. Now it’s her spell that I am under.

  My brain tells me to wipe the blood on my trousers and not on my tongue. She is not for me. My victims are always faceless, their bodies just blood in a bag.

  The monster in me wins out. Animal instincts bring my thumb to my mouth. My tongue latches on and takes every molecule of her blood. I swallow it down and my fangs sharpen.

  I remember the first time I saw fireworks. The explosions had startled and then thrilled me. Carignan Durand’s taste explodes in my mouth setting off tiny bombs of sense and sensation.

  Her blood is tepid. If it was warm it would taste like ambrosia.

  "I can't believe I just told you all that," she says.

  I put my thumb behind my back like I’m a naughty little boy hiding the cookie he’s just stolen from the cookie jar. "People say I have a trusting face."

  Carignan narrows those honey-wine eyes at me. "No, they don't."

  I can't help but like her. A little. "It'll be dawn soon. I need to get you home.

  "You're sending me away?"

  The pout on her face sparks something in my chest. "Do you want to stay?"

  She scoots back on my bed, shifting the sheets with the movement of her ass. Later, when she is gone, I will rest my face right in that spot. If I’m lucky, I’ll dream of the sweet vineyard I could’ve run through between her thighs. Right now, it’s as though she finally realizes she is prey.

  "No," she says. "I just…” She hugs herself, rubbing at her forearms as though cold is settling in. "I don't want this feeling to go away."

  Right. The sensations. The warmth of skydiving. The adrenaline that is still coursing through her veins because, unbeknownst to her, there is a monster that wants to devour her flesh.

  "Maybe next time you'll do something safer,” I say. “Like a plank walk."

  “Plank walk? Like a pirate?”

  “No,” I grin. “Pirates are dangerous. There was a man who walked between two buildings some time ago. He was a Frenchman, so it can’t be too dangerous.”

  I am joking. I haven’t joked in centuries. The way she looks at me I can see that she is considering it.

  "Don't." I put the command in my voice, but I sense her resistance.

  I was right. Carignan is strong-willed. I enjoy her pushback for a second. I want to take a bite out of that supple ass of hers. I could string her up on my four-poster bed with the ropes she was wrapped in when she fell into my arms. I could suspend her wet pussy over my mouth and--

  "You sound like my brother," she says.

  "I am definitely not your brother." Not with the things I want to do to her. Things I hadn’t even thought of for centuries.

  Carignan wanted to be bound in a harness? She liked heights? She wanted to be pushed to the edge? Oh, the things I could do with her with the rope left from her failed parachute.

  My dick is definitely hard now. Instead of tapping into that desire, shame washes over me. What am I doing desiring another woman when I failed to save the love of my life?

  The possibility of death makes Carignan feel alive. But the thought of living another day makes me feel shame. The little daredevil and I are on different paths. Best I set her on her way.

  I latch onto her eyes. She gazes back at me, not hiding what she’s thinking, what she wants. She doesn’t fight my suggestion this time. No, I fight my own resolution.

  Still, I push the thought into her head. She is out in an instant. I catch her body before she hits the mattress. But have I made a new mistake?

  Carignan is now helpless in my arms. I could do to her whatever I want. No one would know.

  I rise with her in my arms as I walk to the head of the bed. Taking a seat, I settle down onto the mattress, cradling her in my lap, making sure to sit her away from my erection.

  The crack in her lip offers no more sacrament. Her head rests against my chest. Her nose presses against the place my heart would be if I still had one. I don’t know how long I sit there watching her breathe. The first rays of sunlight creep along the horizon when I reach for the phone and dial.

  "I thought it would take you much longer to call.”

  There is delight in the voice on the other end. It makes my skin crawl. The creature on the receiving end of my call is the biggest predator in hundreds of miles.

  "I need a favor,” I say.

  There is a soft chuckle. Likely the sound the lion makes before it takes down a buffalo. “I’ll need something in return.”

  I hang up the phone. I should prepare her, but I am not yet ready to let her go. It would just be the one time I tell myself. I am a beast, after all. This is my nature.

  I am a bastard for doing it. But I can’t help myself. I dip my head to hers. Gently, as tenderly as I know how, I take hold of her bottom lip with mine.

  I do not bite. I do not suck. I simply press my lip to hers.

  Carignan does not stir. This is no fairytale. She is Sleeping Beauty, but despite my moniker, I am no Prince. All I bring anyone is pain.

  Chapter 8

  Cari

  "The person who rides in the back seat does not have to be strapped in."

  "Y-y-yes, they d-d-do."

  My right eye twitches but doesn't open. I shift against my pillow but can't seem to get comfortable. The pillow is firm. And covered in leather and not the cotton liner I’d bought for it the other week. The television is too loud. Which is weird because I never sleep with it on.

  "No, they doin't. Only them in the front."

  What had I been watching before I'd fallen asleep? The BBC? Was Masterpiece Theater showing some period drama? It appeared to be something set in Scotland. Or maybe it was an Irish comedy? I'd never been any good with accents.

  "I'm g-g-googling it."

  Googling? There was no Google in the Victorian time period. Definitely not during the time of the highlanders.

  Am I actually dreaming? Or is the television on AMC Classics? Yes, that has to be it. Because these men definitely don’t sound like any rugged highlanders. They sound more like the Three Stooges or maybe the Three Leprechauns.

  I hear the slaps and grunts of physical comedy as I struggle to come awake. When I open my eyes I don’t see Larry, Curly, and Mo. What I’m seeing is just too weird to describe. And it’s not on TV.

  The sun is rising in the sky out the window. I’m in a car. A moving car.

  In the front seat, the guy with the accent is in the driver's seat. Beside him, sits a tall, thin man. The thin man has his phone out, his slender fingers are tapping furiously over the face of the phone.

  A man with gray hair, but a young face sits beside me in the backseat. He has his seat belt on. I look down to see that my belt is fastened securely across my chest. The gray-haired man gives me a weary smile.

  "Th-th-there," says passenger seat guy. "It says it right here in G-g-google. Children up to s-s-sixteen must wear their b-b-belts."

  "Is the lass over sixteen?" asks the driver.

  The driver’s gaze lifts and regards me in the rearview mirror. The man beside him turns his head, nearly all the way around without moving his shoulders, like a human owl.

  “Well, are you, lass?" asks the driver.

  "Of course she is," says the man beside me. “Do you think the Prince of Pain would tussle with a child?”

  The two men in the front seat look dubious. I am utterly confused. Who is the Prince of Pain? Who are these three? How did I get here? Where are they taking me?

  "I doin't know,” says the driver. “Were those Hadrian's proclivities in the past?"

  Hadrian.

  The image of him rushes back to the front of my mind. His dark hair. His crystal clear green eyes. His sultry smile.

  The memories flood back all at once. I b
olt up, wide awake. The seat belt doesn’t allow me to get too far. My body is alert and warm from just the mention of his name.

  I fell from the sky. He caught me. He stared at my lips. And then... nothing.

  The memories are jerky and jumbled from there. Did I tell him he made me feel warm? Did I lick his thumb? Oh god, what else did I do?

  The last thing I remember is being with him, inside his arms. Feeling safe, secure, warm. So how did I wind up here kidnapped by these three stooges?

  "Let me out," I demand.

  "Don't worry, lass,” says the driver. “We will."

  Was this blackmail? Did they expect a ransom? My family is wealthy, but we’ve never been on the radar for kidnappers. Maybe this has something to do with my brother's political career? My sister has been in the papers with her scientific breakthroughs in grape hybrids.

  "We're just a few miles away,” says the man beside me.

  "Where are you taking me?” I demand.

  "To your apartment."

  Wait? What? "You're kidnapping me to my own home?"

  "No. No. We're driving you home from Hadrian’s,” says the man beside me. “He... well, he couldn't take you himself. So he asked us to do it."

  "You're friends of Hadrian's?"

  "No, not friends exactly. More like business associates…of his business associate."

  That was a head-scratcher. But still, "Why would Hadrian send three men to take me home instead of calling an Uber?"

  "You shouldna ever get into the car with strangers,” says the driver, whose name I do not know and whose face I’ve never seen before.

  I give him a telling look.

  "We're entirely safe,” the driver assures me.

  They all nod earnestly. And I am wearing my seatbelt.

  Did I fall asleep back at Hadrian's? It must have been the adrenaline from nearly dying, for real this time. I usually napped after any adventure sport.

  I don’t feel tired now. I’m still full of energy. I can’t believe I fell asleep in front of Hadrian. No wonder he sent me away and asked his friends of friends to do it for him.

  Man, I have no game when it comes to men. Never had. Maybe because I’ve never actually been interested in one before. Not any of the adrenaline junkies I hang with. Not the responsible instructors or guides. Not the safe boys in my prep school or the frat boys in college.

  But after just a few moments with Hadrian and I had tingles all up and down my spine. Yes, it might have something to do with the fact that I fell into his arms after nearly dying. But the way he looked at me, like he saw straight into the heart of me. I’ve never experienced anything like that before.

  There’s still a tingle in my fingertips and on my bottom lip where he brushed his fingers. But the sensations are all fading away under the dawn's new light, like the sun's rays are burning them away.

  "Tell me about him?" I ask no one in particular.

  "Who? Hadrian? Trust us, lass. He's not exactly the kind of creature you want to get involved with."

  "Creature?" I ask.

  The backseat guy smacks the front seat guy in the back of the head. The driver takes his hand off the wheel to reach back and sock the gray-haired young man. The thin passenger seat man tries to break it up. Somehow we don’t swerve into oncoming traffic.

  "It's a figure of speech,” says the driver once all things are settled down. “I’m Irish. Name’s Declan, by the way.“

  “I’m Parker,” says the guy beside me. “And that’s Laurie.” He points to the passenger seat guy. “What Declan means is that Hadrian has certain… tastes that aren't for a girl like you."

  “A girl like me?”

  Laurie clears his throat and takes over the conversation. ”I’ve heard of your f-f-family. Love Durand wine."

  I have no interest in talking about wines. "I couldn't place Hadrian's accent. Was it Irish?"

  "No." Declan scowls as though I’ve offended his entire country.

  "My bad,” I say, as innocently as I can muster. “You guys sound alike."

  "Impossible. He's a Spaniard."

  "No,” says Parker. “He was born in Italy. Then he moved to Spain for... well, you know what."

  Before I can ask what what, there is another round of smacking upside the head and over armrests. I try another tactic.

  "So, he owned vineyards in Italy and Spain?" I ask.

  “I believe his family was in the winemaking business,” says Declan. “But he left the family business for many years. He's had other less savory jobs."

  “Like what?" I prod. "Like the mafia?"

  I am only half-joking. The silence is a definitive punch line. So that’s what was up.

  "Something like that,” says Parker. “You'd best to keep your distance from the likes of him."

  I bite my lip. There’s the metallic taste of blood at the center of my bottom lip. But beneath the leaden taste is something sweet. "Well, we live in the same city. And his property is near my family's vineyard."

  The three men look at one another again, sharing more silent communication. I can’t get anything else out of them for the rest of the drive. We turn a corner and pull up to my brownstone.

  "Here you are,” says Parker. “All safe and sound."

  "You're a good girl, lass,” says Declan. “If Hadrian comes to your door, don't invite him in."

  "If there's ever anything you n-n-need,” says Laurie, “just give us a call."

  I look up at the sky. A plane soars overhead. Before last night it would’ve called to me. In the light of the new day, I don’t focus on the airplane. I focus on the buildings it flies above.

  "Well,” I say, “there is something. Have you ever heard of plank walking?"

  Chapter 9

  Hadrian

  “Evening, Hadrian. Were you making Rocky Mountain Oysters for dinner again?”

  I come into the kitchen to see my brothers already up and eating their evening meal. I don’t answer Gaius, as my balls were spared from the sun’s rays today. But my big toe did get burned.

  “As a true connoisseur of animelles, you know I prefer bull testicles to four-hundred-year-old Italian meatballs,” Gaius continues. “The organ is best when skinned, floured, with just a bit of salt and pepper. Then deep-fried to a golden crisp and pounded flat.”

  Gaius smacks his lips as he waxes poetic over the appetizer. He’s dressed in a silk robe that likely cost more than a country village in France. His aristocratic nose is high in the air, even as it belies his low birth. His long lashes and dark eyes are perpetually narrowed so no one can ever tell if he’s looking at them. Having known the man for half a millennia, I know he sees everything.

  “We’re out of B-Negative again,” calls a voice from the kitchen.

  Virius stands before the open, stainless steel refrigeration unit. The blond male who is built like his gladiator forefathers is dressed in a white toga around his hips, brown cowboy boots on his feet, and a motorcycle helmet with the visor up.

  “Just drink the A-Negative,” says Gaius.

  “They taste nothing alike,” Viri shouts through the open visor as he holds up the offensive A-Negative blood bag. “The B is bright and complex, with an earthy aftertaste. The A is sweet and creamy like sugar. You know I don’t have a sweet tooth.”

  “Mix in some peppermint leaves. It contains iron and will give it an herby taste.”

  “Peppermint leaves?” Viri gags and tosses the bag back in the refrigerator. “That’s like me telling you to toss back a glass of California Zinfandel.”

  Gaius presses his hand to his chest as though he were trying to keep the bile down. “No need to be crass. Just drink it. You both need to eat something before we go into polite society.”

  “Polite?” I ask. “Are you sure we’re not walking into a firing squad?”

  Gaius waves my comment away as though it is a gnat buzzing around his head. “What happened between Frangelico and Domitia was before our time.”

  I tense at the m
ention of her name. I know Gaius’ hooded gaze catches my reaction. As always, he doesn’t mention it.

  “You should eat something, too,” he says.

  “I’m not hungry.” I turn and head out of the kitchen.

  “If you don't eat, you’ll complain all the way there,” Gaius calls after me. “I doubt Frangelico will have any bags on hand. Only live veins.”

  “I’ll eat when we get there,” says Viri.

  "Are you gonna get dressed, buddy?" says Gaius.

  I don’t hear the rest of their conversation. However, the outcome is clear when we all exit the front door twenty minutes later. I’m in my typical wardrobe of black slacks and a black cotton shirt. Gaius is tailored to perfection in a dark blue business suit. Viri has lost the helmet and put on a colorful Hawaiian shirt. The boots and toga remain.

  I take in the scenery as we drive the long, winding road that encompasses our new enterprise, the Serrano Vineyard in Patagonia. Our flagship vineyard back in Italy is two hundred years old and has earned us what amounts today to over a billion dollars. We need half that just to keep Gaius clothed and fed with his expensive tastes.

  We’ve planted our signature Serrano grape in Spain, France, Switzerland, and even Australia. Arizona is the closest Gaius will come to the questionable soil of California. Gaius was loathe to mix our berries with the new technologies vintners on the west coast were toying with.

  I didn’t care. I needed a change of scenery. Too many ghosts back in the old country.

  When we walk into our destination and take the private staircase down, I see a familiar scene. A woman spread eagle on the inverted cross of Saint Andrew. Her dark nipples are tight peaks that point to the ceiling. Her head lolls back in ecstasy as her master flails her naked skin.

  Unbidden, the memory of my little skydiver rises in my mind. What would she look like stretched out on that cross? Or better yet, suspended in the air on ropes. Her body bound and completely at my mercy.

  I shake my head to lose the thought. I’m not certain where the idea even came from. It isn’t as though I’ll ever see her again.