Blood Rogue, #1

by Linda J. Parisi

  She hesitated, and Chaz frowned.

  “Something wrong?” he asked. “I mean, after the way you’ve been treated, I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to help.”

  “What? Oh, no. It’s not that, but coming close to death has also made me realize how important life is, and that I was meant to follow a dream.”

  “What dream?”

  “I want to become a doctor.”

  “A doctor? Really?” Chaz thought about that for a moment, realizing she belonged in that profession.

  She nodded and burrowed deeper into his chest. “So I’ll have to work around my classes. Do you think Hunter will be okay with that?”

  “Shouldn’t you be asking me that question?” he fired back at her.

  She looked up at him with just a hint of guilt. But the excitement in her face gave him her answer. “Yes.”

  He smiled down at her. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me as long as we’re together. And we’re together, right?”

  “Always.”

  And that was good enough for him. He bent down to give her a kiss with a rogue’s gleam in his gaze. Her vampire. For as long as she would have him.

  THE END

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  And don’t miss more paranormal romance like MY SONG’S CURSE by City Owl Author, Poppy Minnix. Turn the page for a sneak peek!

  Sneak Peek of My Song’s Curse

  By Poppy Minnix

  Being a siren sucks.

  Every customer stares at me in attentive silence as I sit at the least conspicuous table in the back corner of this mom-and-pop Italian restaurant.

  Well, excuse me for clearing my throat.

  Going out in public wasn’t the best idea, but this afternoon, I held a heated conversation with the actors on my television. They apologized to each other with caresses and phrases of sweetness, but I ended up on the floor, hugging a pillow in the empty silence. When a show becomes my reality, it’s time to leave the house.

  Now, as usual, I’ve enthralled the humans. Whoops. They study me as if the next thing I do will make their lives complete. The attention is normal, but I’m the last being they should covet, because there’s much more to my species than being a lust magnet. A few more words from my hypnotic voice and they’d lick my shoes if I asked them to. Not that I would.

  So now, it’s time to return home. I push my chair back, but a shadow obscures the dim glow of overhead lights.

  A man looms over me, dark and decadent, oozing charm with his confident smile. Well, hello, handsome. Other diners stand to follow him toward me.

  “Stop,” I tell them. “Return to your seats. If you work here, continue your duties.” I bring my gaze to his. “You stay.”

  Even though our conversation will be as fake as the actors I argued with earlier today, my heart thumps an excited beat. It’s been months since I’ve sat with someone.

  I slide the empty chair out from under the table with my foot. “Sit.” I keep my voice quiet and controlled, but it's a deep purr of promise.

  He does what he’s told, waiting with a familiar expression of hope mixed with dedication plus a dash of do me. Poor humans are so easy to captivate.

  I let my fork drop against my bowl of pasta primavera, creating a loud clang that shatters through the room. “Name.”

  “Jordan Oltier.”

  “Okay, Jordan...” I draw circles on the checkered tablecloth with my fingertips. “Tell me three things about yourself.”

  He concentrates, lips pursed and eyes to the ceiling. “I play basketball, own a dog named Maizy, and I’m a nurse at Grison General in the pediatrics department.”

  Wow. Mr. Oltier sounds perfect. I dig deeper just for giggles. “Do you have a wife, fiancée, or girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Boyfriend?” I ask, taking another bite of pasta.

  Unlike most humans, his focused pucker relaxes into a grin. “No.”

  His big hands rest against the cream-colored tablecloth. They’d unzip my dress, and splay across my back, hot fingers digging into neglected skin. Eagerness flares in his eyes.

  I haven’t invited someone in for a long while. Each move we’d make would play out in a script with me as the director. Except I’d force my leading man to do whatever I wanted, unsure if he enjoyed himself or what he’d do if he had free will. After, he’d return to the humans, used for a night with fuzzy memories of me that would fade by the hour, while I’d hold on to every fake touch because it’s the closest thing I have to life in an empty room of endless time. I don’t want that for either of us.

  Still, what’s the harm in talking about it?

  I prop my elbow on the table, cupping my jaw. “What were your thoughts when you saw me? Before I spoke?”

  “You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Confident and brave. Maybe a screamer.” He lights up like the thought delights him.

  He wouldn’t enjoy my screams, but his comment makes me grin. I ask him my favorite question. “What do you wish to do with me?”

  “Kiss you, then tie you up . . .”

  Yum. I didn’t peg him as the type.

  He shifts forward, his stare hard and unwavering. “And run a knife down your sternum thirty times, cutting deeper each time until I could touch your bones and play with your heart, the slickness of your blood—”

  “Stop.”

  I hate it when this happens.

  Chilled silence reigns in the restaurant, not because of creepy confessions but because my voice is a beacon to every creature that isn’t a siren. They stare, not at this serial killer but at me. They should rage, call the police, or run for it. Instead, they wait for my attention, hanging on each sound. I wish they wouldn’t.

  “How many have you killed?” I ask.

  “None,” he replies.

  Relief replaces the tight hold of terror in my chest. “Do you want to kill someone?”

  “Yes.”

  His enthusiasm still simmers, but I don't appreciate this brand of passion. People tell me odd and honest things, but his confession is one of the more disturbing ones.

  I lock onto his dark eyes, and my voice shifts into a deep and deliberate tone. “You will never kill. Think of how to help others instead of harming them. Pay for your dinner and leave.”

  Wannabe-serial-killer Jordan walks to an empty table near the front of the room, places bills down, and glances at me over his shoulder. He nods before exiting.

  Odd. They rarely look back after I order them to go.

  The room is so quiet, chills raise on my arms. I’m tempted to break a plate or turn over a chair to make a racket. Even the prep workers stare, frozen in the kitchen doorway.

  A man and woman walk in, stopping short in confusion. The couple follows everyone’s gazes to me, and the man give a low whistle, earning a smack on the chest from his companion. With a chuckle, he presses his lips to hers.

  I want to sigh or say aw, but I bite my lip and keep quiet. I won’t ruin meaningful kisses for those able to enjoy them.

  His hand sneaks around her waist, and she melts into his embrace as the world shushes, leaving them alone to savor each other. He chooses her above others, even a siren, and his body language is a gift of insight into his mind.

  Lucky humans.

  Eyes follow my every move as I pin money under my plate and make my way to the exit.

  Squeezing past the couple, I snatch a few buttermints from a dish on the hostess stand and call over my shoulder, “I was never here.”

  As I step into the warm night air, the chatter inside resumes. The customers and staff won’t recall that I took over their dining experience, and those who see me around town will remember me, but I’ll be nondescript. Forgettable. I’d love to understand why I’m this way, but even my most kn
owledgeable sisters tell me, “Just because, Lu.” It’s like they don’t care to find out our history and where the three original siren mothers went.

  Nonetheless, my ability is as frustrating as it is a comfort. I may not have friends besides my sisters, but I’ve altered wannabe-serial-killer Jordan’s brain to a normal, human mode . . . or he may go insane. He won’t kill anyone, though. Win? I shrug to myself.

  Not ready to return to my empty house, the endless downtown sidewalks beckon me. Couples file out of bars and head home or to the beds of others. They talk in loud laughing phrases about human world things—friends, politics, and pop culture, until they notice me and staring replaces the conversation. The urge to speak up is unmanageable; I enjoyed that movie too. Yeah, the new governor is a douche, except he has good educational policies. Your girlfriend has princess syndrome.

  A hush falls over the city this time of night, leaving me to meander in relative peace. The rhythmic clack of my heels echoing off brick and concrete soothe me and send my thoughts wandering to the human culture I’ve experienced this evening.

  My phone buzzes in my purse and I drag it out as I check if anyone is within earshot. Few people walk the streets. Smiling at Amah’s name, I answer in a whisper. “Hello, Ma.”

  “You sound happy. Why are you whispering?”

  I wince. I nicknamed my oldest siren sister ‘Ma’ for a reason, not just because it fits her real name or because she’s the closest thing I have to a mother. Amah makes sure we take care of ourselves and behave. I’m one for two. “I’m walking downtown.”

  The tap of her nail clicks against metal. “Tell me about tonight’s outfit” she says, toneless.

  I glance at the sheath dress that clings to my every curve like a warm hug. “Sweats.”

  “Liar.”

  “Fine. My favorite green dress. I went to dinner, had primavera, stopped potential crime.” Ma won’t appreciate that. She takes a natural approach to the mortals. Farm what you need from them, then set them free.

  “Oh, Lula. Only you. Let’s see it’s . . . my goodness, eleven where you are? Darklings and otherworldlings may be out. Please go home soon.”

  The memory of my first darkling encounter makes my steps slow. Lena’s death was more than a century ago. It’s over. I shove away sad thoughts. It’s my night out on the town, my time to pretend I belong somewhere. I’ll save heartbreak for when I’m alone again.

  “The otherworldlings fit in with the humans,” I say, clacking along the sidewalks. “They won’t make a scene, and I can control them if they do. Plus, the streets are empty.” Eerily so, even for the late hour on a weekday.

  “I know. I just worry. Have you spoken to Gerty or Venora lately?”

  “I spoke to Gerty last month, but Ven and I chatted two weeks ago.”

  “Gerty isn’t returning calls. Ven’s in love, again, and has been hard to catch. She tells me he’s intense.”

  “Intense?” Venora’s the romantic out of my seven sisters. I’m happy for her if she’s found another to keep her warm and off the phone, but she holds onto her sweet, doting men and women a little too long before setting them free. “Not her typical choice of companion.”

  “No, he’s not. He withstands her thrall well, but she claims he’s human.”

  “You think he’s an otherworldling?” The non-human species resist our ability better than humans, but they eventually succumb.

  The chipped sidewalk catches my heel, and I stumble before a boarded-up building. I’ve wandered into an area of town that would terrify most people.

  “I should go,” I whisper.

  “Let me know if you hear from them.”

  “I will. Love you, Ma.”

  “Love you, too.” We hang up, and I pivot, put my phone away, and walk the direction I came.

  “Mm, now there’s a fine piece.” A droning voice close behind me grabs my attention.

  I spin and get a glimpse of green spiked hair before a fist rams into my midsection, and the air rushes from me in a harsh ‘whoosh.’

  Crumpling, I gape my mouth to inhale, but can’t get a breath.

  Two pairs of scuffed boots and three sets of colorful kicks step closer. Straightening up shoots a pang through my gut. The five men circle—sharks scenting fresh blood. Each is menacing, with piercings, scars, and bared teeth. The same devil face tattoo marks their necks. Their sick laughter promises hate and pain, and I need to speak right now. A couple puff up, jerk toward me with aggressive movements, closing in to block my exit as I gasp to find my missing air. Nothing happens but a wheeze. Not good.

  “On the corner tonight, sweetheart?” One harsh voice says. “I could use a good workout.” As if I needed clarification, he steps closer to brush his hardness against my side. I move to hip check his crotch, but he hurries back, barking a laugh.

  “Got a little fighter here,” he says. “Fun, fun.”

  Balling my fists, I struggle to growl, but nothing comes out. I’d command them if I could only get a breath. These the type of beings that need to be enthralled for good.

  Someone jerks me upright as the man with hair like spring grass steps close, inches from my face, and shows off a cracked incisor. “What’s a high-class bitch like you doing on our turf?”

  His voice is a low growl. Demon? He’d be a runt if he were. My nose tingles with lack of oxygen as I gulp at the night air that can’t find room in my lungs yet.

  “This is our street, Mama. Ain’t nobody gonna save ya. Ready for me? Hmm?”

  A man jogs out of the shadows. “Let her go.” He strides forward into the dim light, his jaw clenched tight. He’s wearing a plain gray tee, no tattoos cover his neck, and the ferocious scowl he wears tells me he doesn’t belong to this group.

  The man next to me gives a dark chuckle, reaching into his pocket for what I’m sure is a weapon. Finally, I inhale enough air to speak. “Step . . . back.”

  The three that haven’t yet spoken walk backward in sync. My thrall and I have a rocky relationship. This is a proud, appreciative moment.

  The one holding onto me releases my arm, but Grass-head in front of me only twitches. It’s as if his body wants to move, but his mind fights it.

  Coughing forces more air in, then out of my burning lungs. “Go home.”

  This time, four turn and walk away without another word. The stubborn fifth remains. Some humans have more resistance than others, and since otherworldling species hold out long enough to harm those around them, I always work fast.

  I hum, though it’s shaky. Three seconds of my note, and he drops his proud stance. He swallows and blinks several times, then raises his smitten gaze.

  Placing my hands on my hips, I straighten, so I’m as tall as he is. “Are you listening now?”

  “Yes.” He nods, a tapped bobble-head doll, and relief loosens the tension in my back. At least until I notice the onlooker still stands ten feet from us. My ability should have seeped through, even if he were deaf.

  Witnesses are an issue, but sometimes life throws you gang members and you have to make community servants. Or liquified bad guys. It can’t come to that, though. Not here.

  I’ll handle the other man in a moment, but first, my focus falls on the enthralled asshole. I should make him jump in the sewers and let the wildlife deal with him. My sore stomach aches under my hand. “Treat women with respect. No punching, name calling, and no grinding against unwilling participants, got it? That’s just gross.”

  Past his shoulder, spray paint and neglect touch everything, but between two boarded-up buildings lies a big dirt lot under a streetlight. There’s potential to give someone the purpose they need.

  I point. “Start a community garden. Get your people involved and donate extra food. Go make plans.”

  He scurries away, leaving me with the stranger.

  The streetlight illuminates him, a spotlight on a golden-haired movie star. Tonight must be tall and handsome night. This guy better be less psychotic than Wannabe-serial-killer Jor
dan.

  I ball my fists and shove my resurfacing libido aside. My body is so desperate, it has already forgotten the punch. “Did you not hear me? Go home.”

  He ambles toward me. Stubble lines his sculpted jaw. It’s been far too long since I’ve experienced stubble burn. He halts a foot from me and stares with rare golden eyes. The color is inhuman. My hands fall from my hips, power stance forgotten.

  “I heard you fine, Firecracker.” His voice soothes, even though his powerful frame and towering height tempt me to step back. “Are you okay? I can’t believe they punched you. That shouldn’t have happened.”

  My eyes widen. No one resists my power except my species. There are no male sirens, right? I play over every detail of siren history. The three mothers exiled from Olympus only gave birth to females then disappeared. I’m the fourth generation from the line of Agalope, second youngest of eight sirens, so I’m aware that I don’t know everything about our species like Amah does. I’m soulbound to my species though, I’d connect to this being, wouldn’t I? I’ve learned much in my hundred and eighty-two years, but a resistant male is new. He appears concerned for me. Maybe he’s slightly enthralled?

  “I’m fine. Leave.”

  His furrowed brow smooths to an amused angle. “Care to explain how you turned a gang of felons into future gardeners?”

  What? Wait. How? Words, Lula, you can do this. “Why aren’t you headed home right now?”

  “Because I’d rather be here, making sure you’re safe. Are you okay?”

  I should run. I have no weapons beyond my voice. Amah has warned me time and again that my curiosity will get me killed, but I have to figure him out. “What’s your name?” He doesn’t look like a Grizaldak the Torturer.

  “Call me Alex.”

  That name works for him. I deepen my timbre, letting my vocal cords relax into each word. “Leave, Alex.”

  He tilts his head and perfect lips purse. “I’m not sold that you want me to.”