by Jen Colly
Dyre glanced back to where his brother fought them, still gasping and choking on his own blood. Bette didn’t give him a chance to think over his indecision. She reached out and gently took his sword from his hand. With a shaky nod, Dyre walked toward Rollin.
Falling to his knees near Rollin, Dyre whispered, “What do I do?”
“Hold him down,” Rollin said. “He’s fighting us.”
He recognized that hollow look in Dyre’s eyes. He was in shock. Numb. His world forever changed. Rollin was familiar with that feeling.
Placing Dyre at his brother’s shoulders, Rollin moved down to hold Gian’s flailing legs. In that transfer of positions, Gian had a surge of strength. He swatted Elin away yet again, and this time he made contact, hitting her hard enough to throw her balance.
She righted herself and, hovering over Gian, grabbed his chin and forced him to look her in the eye. “He shattered your windpipe. You want the ultimate revenge? Live.”
A gasping, restricted breath later, Gian’s hand fell away, and Elin set to work. She dove into her bag, pulled out a scalpel and a piece of tubing. With Gian’s movements finally under control, Elin made an incision at his throat. She pushed the small tube through the incision and his ribcage expanded, finally letting in more oxygen. Elin held the tube in place as Gian fought the urge to cough, pain distorting his features whenever he failed.
Cutler returned with a stretcher and together they hoisted Gian up and secured him in place.
“Get him to Havelock, boys,” Elin said, wiping the blood from her hands. “He needs surgery. Fast.”
Dyre looked back to his father, his fingers curling at his sides. Rollin settled a heavy hand on his shoulder, but before he could speak, Bette stepped into Dyre’s line of sight.
“He’s gone,” Bette said evenly. “I refuse to give him further thought. I suggest you do the same.”
After one last, seething glance toward the body on the floor, Dyre hurried after his brother and Cutler. The moment he disappeared out the door, Elin raced to Mr. Ashford’s side.
Bette wilted, her shoulders slumped. She whispered, “I lied. Rollin, I lied to him! But if he had put his sword to that man, too, he might be tried for murder. Gian could have lost his entire family. I couldn’t…”
“You did the right thing. I wasn’t sure if he lived or not either,” Rollin said, waiting for Elin’s verdict.
“The wound is fatal. He’s lost more blood than what we see…internally, and beneath the carpet.” Elin paused her exam, her questioning gaze landing on him. “Should I try to save him?”
Now that threw him. “You’re a doctor. Aren’t you obligated to try?”
A tiny smile curled over Elin’s lips as she shook her head. “You people keep forgetting I’m not a doctor. I took no oath to preserve all life. I’m loyal to Navarre, and to the lord’s Guardians.”
“While you debate this, his life fades,” Rollin said.
“The life of a man who would throttle his own child,” Bette whispered, her words said freely and without specific direction.
“If I save him, which is unlikely, he will be sent to the arena. Executed.” Elin grabbed her bag, thumped it down beside her. “I’ll try, but only if you give the order, Guardian. Keeper of justice.”
That hit home hard, like she’d drilled a hole straight into his chest and opened all his emotional wounds. She knew it, too, by the look on her face, the challenge in her eyes.
Rollin had become a Guardian to protect, to prevent people from being hurt, whether from demon, human, or fellow vampire. The law would be upheld, and Mr. Ashford executed, should he survive. What purpose would it serve to bring him back only to die under the sword of the High Justice? He’d die as he should: At the hand of the man he’d wronged.
“Justice met,” Rollin said, and with an approving nod, Elin rose and left the room.
Chapter 17
Balinese
Bette stood in the living room, watching Rollin wash the blood from his hands at his kitchen sink. Tonight hadn’t gone as planned. Dinner, dessert, and sensuous lovemaking had been on her list. Well, the first two had been accomplished, but without Rollin at her side, she didn’t think they counted. The dead aristocrat and his badly injured son had destroyed her plans. Having a friend under the surgical knife didn’t exactly spark romance. Case in point: Rollin hadn’t said a single word on the way home.
He threw the towel into the sink and walked into the living room. Facing her, arms crossed over his chest, he looked somehow bigger. Intense. Rollin was upset, and it went beyond what had happened to Gian. He was waiting, not for her, but to find the right words. Rollin had something to say, and whatever he was holding back seemed to vibrate within him.
“Rollin,” she whispered. “You’re shaking.”
“Hell, yes, I’m shaking. I almost lost my friend. I still might. How could his father…” His words trailed off and he looked toward the door. “I should have stepped in, prevented this.”
His leashed, but visible, aggression could be intimidating, she supposed, though not to her. She’d been surprised to discover that not a single thing about this gentle giant frightened her, and that allowed her to try and ease his troubled thoughts.
“You didn’t know,” she said.
Rollin scrubbed his hand over his cheek. “Yeah, I did. Gian was fighting, and losing a lot of money. I told Dyre, but not soon enough.”
“Rollin,” she said, the sharp staccato of his name on her lips drawing his attention. She couldn’t let him blame himself for this tragedy. “If that man could become angry enough to harm his child, then it was only a matter of time. Thankfully, you were there to help Gian.”
Rollin shook his head, a dark edge to his voice as he said, “Anger brings violence.”
Bette tipped her head to the side, studied his face. Why had he yet to look directly at her? What it was about anger that bothered him?
“I suppose often enough it does,” she said, taking a step closer. A warning flared in his eyes, but he couldn’t dissuade her.
“I’m angry right now. Unfocused. I want a vengeance that can’t be had, a vengeance that’s not even mine to take. That’s not who I am! I don’t feel those things.” He stopped talking and gripped his head in his hands, his chest heaving with deep, frustrated breaths.
“But you feel them now, and that makes them a part of you. The difference is, you won’t act on that anger,” she said, but he looked doubtful. Then she understood. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? There’s nothing to act on. No outlet. You want to fix this, and you can’t.”
The power of his intense gaze suddenly boring into her rocked her back a step. Oh, dear. She’d woken a sleeping giant. What had she done, and how? He was well aware that there was no way to fix this problem, so why would her voicing the facts stir his ire?
“How do you do that? You’re in my head. You know what I think, what I feel.” Rollin straightened, as if some great epiphany had settled over him, and when he spoke, his rough voice was dark, accusing. “Nothing about you makes sense. How can you be fragile and frightened, then in the next second bodily block a charging Guardian? Dyre’s sword was drawn, and you didn’t even blink. He could have gone right through you. The blood, death, and hatred in that room… You were strong. Fearless.”
“I was only trying to help,” she whispered.
“That wasn’t help. You took command over the situation more efficiently than some Guardians I know, then controlled an emotionally damaged, lethal, grown man. That, Bette, was diplomacy. Aristocratic diplomacy wielded like it was your God-given right.” Rollin paused to look her over from head to toe. “Deny it. I dare you.”
She shook her head. No, this wasn’t the plan, but maybe a touch of honesty was what they both needed right now. Rollin demanded answers from her, but that wasn’t the root of his sudden and direct questioning. In l
ight of discovering their differences, and after such a tragedy, he would crave tethering. She could offer him that, bind them together and give him some semblance of control over his life.
“I won’t deny what I once was,” she admitted quietly.
“Then why not accept Navarre’s offer?” He opened his arms wide. “I have nothing of value. Why are you still here? What do you want from me?”
“If I tell you what I want from you, Rollin,” she said, but then took a steadying breath, squaring her shoulders. “Will you give it to me?”
“Tell me.” He was tense, his fists clenched at his side, prepared to weather whatever painful words he thought she was about hurl his way.
“I want you,” she said, as confidently as she could under the circumstances.
Rollin’s eyebrows furrowed. Suspicious. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Perhaps she needed to be clearer. Bette brushed her hair behind her shoulders and off her neck, tipping her head slightly to the side. “I want you to do what you’ve been thinking about since I bit you. Bite me back. Kiss me. Take me to your bed. Choose only one if you must, but I want everything. Any way you’re willing to share yourself, I want you.”
A flash of surprise crossed his face, and then his reserved façade broke apart before her eyes. In two long strides he was touching her, his hands cupping her face. The strength in those hands, the raw power he held back, the need she felt within him was potent.
He sealed his lips over hers, and she gasped at that first heated contact. Rollin took full advantage, his kiss instantly deep and needful, as if the floodgates had finally opened and there was no holding back.
Bette melted against him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and tried to lift herself to his height. Since she’d stepped foot in Balinese, she’d been near Rollin, always close, but never close enough. With a guttural groan, he locked both arms around her, lifted her from the ground, and fully crushed her against him. Lost in his hunger, his body pressed fully against hers, she sighed against his lips.
Without warning, he broke the kiss and buried his face against her neck. His lips played over her vein, firm and hot. This was what she needed for her survival, but as he murmured sweet words against her throat, she recognized something shocking. His bite, even his permanent mating mark, wouldn’t be enough. She wanted the man. She truly needed her Guardian.
His teeth grazed her flesh and Bette cried out, the anticipated pleasure instantly focused to a single point. She clasped his head to her, but he’d stopped moving beneath her touch. Something had changed.
Slowly he pulled back, and twice she thought he might return to her, finish what he’d started, but then he set her feet back on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Rollin said, the rough sound of his voice intoxicating. “I shouldn’t have…”
“Stopped?” she asked, breathless.
Desire flared in his eyes, and he drew her close again, but after several long and tension filled seconds, he regained control and stepped back. “I need to go.”
Bette had come to this city expecting to surrender herself not only for the ultimate goal of conceiving a child, but to gain safety and security until that time came. With Rollin, she’d sacrificed nothing.
Selfish though it was, she wanted to keep him here with her, let this passion burn bright between them, but she wasn’t what he needed right now.
She nodded. “You should check on Gian. He’ll want to see you when he wakes.”
“I should,” he said, but didn’t move. She could tell he wanted to leave, but hadn’t fully committed to the idea. Perhaps he needed a push.
“Before you go…” Bette turned around, lifted her hair from her neck, and asked, “Could you unzip me?”
He hesitated, but then his fingers brushed her back, following the zipper down her spine to just below her ribs. Bette stepped away from him when the zipper stopped moving and walked slowly toward his bedroom, the back of her gown split wide open.
“You’re not wearing—”
“A corset? No.” She looked back over her shoulder, her gown slipping a little lower.
Rollin took a deep breath, looking for all the world like he was about to come at her again, but then he turned and headed for the door. “I don’t know how long it will take for Gian to wake. Don’t wait up.”
“You know where I sleep,” Bette said, clasping her gown to her chest.
He looked back once, drinking in the sight of her standing there partially unclothed before he ducked out the door. Oh, he was confusing. A woman could go mad wondering where she stood. He wanted her. He wouldn’t take her. She feared she’d missed something, a vital piece to the puzzle. What on God’s green earth could make a young male in his prime hold back from acting on his base desires?
If she could figure out why he hesitated, understand him and what he needed from her, then maybe she could alter her plans. This glimpse of the passion that naturally flowed between them invigorated her fight for life.
Just now, with the full force of his desires focused on her, nothing else had mattered. Not her need for his mark, or her intentions to conceive. Not even the approaching sun had registered. Nothing but Rollin had mattered.
The sun was up now, and she felt nothing more than an aggressive tingling at the back of her neck. A warning, but not a maddening drive to race above and accept the end. The urge to meet death was diminishing. This was a gift, a chance to begin a life with a man she could actually care for.
* * * *
Rollin marched down the corridor, glancing hatefully at the elevator as he passed. He wouldn’t be able to stand the confinement, not in this volatile state. His head felt scrambled, his body strung tight. It was why he’d walked out on Bette.
She’d admitted the truth about her aristocratic nature. Did he feel better? Yes, and no. That his instincts had been on point was a comfort, but that she had no interest in revisiting her old lifestyle confused him. Without mincing words, Bette had chosen him over wealth and power.
But then, she wasn’t aware he had both. Or was she? Balinese was no longer closed off, and rumors of Navarre’s unorthodox marriage and adoption were bound to have traveled outside the city. Bette could be making a grab for that royal connection, except technically speaking, there wasn’t one. Sure, Rollin had taken the name Casteel and had a generous stipend of money, but it ended there. He didn’t live or act like royalty.
Had she heard the tales of Navarre’s adopted children, then she would have also known that none were heirs to Balinese. No provisions had been set in place. Should something happen to Navarre, the transfer would follow his direct bloodline, and at the moment, there was none. Until their child was born, control of the city would fall to the captain. It would make no sense for a female to make a strategic play for Rollin.
Bette didn’t seem to covet the city, and hadn’t begged to stay in Navarre’s company. Initially, she hadn’t wanted to leave Rollin’s home, even with the promise of a new gown. Once she’d discovered the cost of the gowns he intended to buy her, her joy had significantly faded. She showed no outward signs of greed.
She’d said, ‘I want you.’ He’d heard those words before, from the daughters of lesser nobles, but he’d never believed them, hadn’t cared if they’d been true or not. Hearing them from Bette? He’d been all in before he’d even come to terms with his decision.
He wasn’t naive enough to consider they might be fated mates, two halves of one soul. Did he want her? Absolutely. Was there an undeniable pull toward her? He was certainly drawn to her for a number of reasons, but not with an ‘I’ll die without you’ type of bond. He wasn’t actually sure how much that mattered when it came to Bette. She wasn’t just any woman. Bette had the ability to enter his soul, take a look around, and embrace those parts of him no one else understood.
Problem was, he couldn’t take the risk. He didn’t
have the luxury of doing what he wanted. The safety of his family was his first priority, and without feeling the pull of his fated mate, he couldn’t justify pursuing anything with her.
Rollin paused in the corridor, his hand on the door to the recovery room. Walking out on Bette, leaving things unfinished between them, had been the right thing to do, but it hadn’t felt right. The burden of putting everyone else before him was starting to feel like too much weight.
Shaking out the tension in his shoulders, he stepped into the small, cozy recovery room on the third level. The warm lighting and homey atmosphere did little to distract from Gian lying motionless in the quilt-covered bed in the center of the room. Other than a bandage over his throat, it was impossible to tell he’d had a brush with death. Vigilant at his brother’s side, Dyre sat with his hands steepled before his lips. He looked ragged and weak. He’d probably donated as much blood as he could spare to save his brother’s life.
Rollin dropped into the other chair, drawing his gaze, and Dyre said, “You look worse than I do.”
“How is he?” Rollin asked.
“He’ll live, though I’m not sure that’s what he wants.”
“You think Gian provoked him on purpose?”
Dyre lifted a single eyebrow. “You don’t?”
“I thought things were better with your father.”
Dyre said quietly, “I thought I was the problem, and when I left, everything was better. After a time, I suspected he’d turned his abuse on Gian, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get him to leave.”
“Why not? Why stay and take the abuse?”
“He would have done this to Mom,” Gian said, his raspy, barely there voice a nasty remind of what had been done to him. “Is he alive?”
All eyes turned to Rollin.