by Jen Colly
She didn’t take his hand. Following his lead, she sank to her knees. His body lacked significant heat, but she felt his presence as if she’d been drawn to him. Navarre looked beyond her, as if waiting. Not knowing what else to do, Cat tipped her head to the side and exposed her throat.
Reaching out, his hands settled on her bare arms, and he gasped at the contact. Slowly, his hands glided down to her fingertips, then back up to her shoulders.
“You’re real,” he whispered, his voice ragged and low.
Cat didn’t move, had nothing to say. He leaned closer, leaving mere inches between their bodies. His hands drifted over her shoulders, then brushed her hair from her neck, cradled her face. She thought he would crank her head back and strike then, take the blood he needed. He didn’t.
His head dropped to her bare shoulder, his warm breath sending delicious chills skating over her skin. Navarre pressed a kiss there, sweet and lingering, and it was only the first. The next was closer to her neck, somehow sweeter. He passed that prime spot for a good bite, his kisses climbing higher until his lips gave her ear a nibbling kiss. A gasp tore past her lips, and she threw her arm around his shoulder, pulled him closer.
As she shivered in his arms, she felt him smile against her skin. His unexpected attentions messed with her mind. Never had the males of her species stirred anything in her, not even a passing curiosity.
He lowered his head back to her neck. His mouth opened, and she gathered her strength to fight through the pain. It never came.
Navarre turned his head from her, his hands now shaking against her skin. Through what sounded like clenched teeth, he said softly, “You’re female. So small. How can you…”
Navarre swept her hair back, his fingers stroking her cheeks over and over, like he was memorizing what he couldn’t see.
“I’ve found you. I have you.” He pressed his forehead to hers for a short, sweet moment, then said, “I can’t take from you.”
Panic seized her heart. She had to finish this. She cupped the back of his head, fingers tangling in his long hair, and pulled him down until his lips pressed against her neck.
“Bite me,” she snapped, holding him to her.
He groaned, the sound vibrating through her. His lips remained on her neck, pinned against her pulsing vein. His instincts would take over soon, the primal urge to survive.
“As my lady commands,” he whispered against her skin.
Navarre gave her neck a single, delicious lick. Then he struck, fangs sinking deep into her neck. Cat cried out, panted for air. He drank deep, and everything in her screamed to fight back, to save herself. This was everything she feared. The pain, the memories, and a new fear: loss of control.
His bite was blinding, weakening her body with unimaginable speed. She clutched his shoulders, his shirt, anything to anchor herself to him. It didn’t work. She was falling. Her nails dug into his arms, desperate to hold on to consciousness, but her blurry vision darkened rapidly, until the blackness finally took her.
Chapter 6
Navarre threw his head back, a clipped shout breaking past his lips. The female’s blood was like fire in his veins, traveling through him, searing his damaged flesh from the inside, healing in its wake. Pain still resonated throughout his ribs with each deep breath. He didn’t just feel, but heard the sawing of breath, the sound no longer muffled and distorted. If his lungs could now take in air without excruciating pain, how would his eyes fare?
Cracking his eyes open, he scanned the dimly lit room. It no longer felt as if the room was tilting, and the light from the fire didn’t sting, but his vision hadn’t fully been restored. He saw everything through a thin hazy film, but he could see. He was in the main room, on his knees.
Bearings regained, he turned his gaze to the woman in his arms. The darkness of the room swallowed the details of her face, but the things he could see? Perfection. Her shoulder-length hair fell away from her face, smooth and straight. Even unconscious, her lips curved in a tiny smile, shaped like Cupid’s bow.
When she’d first entered his home, he thought her another hallucination, but she was real. This female had somehow halted his mindless need to hunt, strangled his dangerous craving for blood by simply walking into his home. Something inside him had shifted, settled. Focused. He’d felt her presence, recognized her as if he’d been grounded by the other half of his soul being returned to him at long last.
The reality of the situation came crashing through his mind. He didn’t know her, and she was the woman destined to be his mate.
He had no memory of pulling her near, but his left arm held her hips tightly against his, and his right hand supported her back between her shoulder blades. He was most definitely supporting her. She’d gone limp. Her arms had fallen away from her body, open and to her sides, and her head had fallen back, facing the heavens.
With her neck exposed so thoroughly, Navarre could see the trickle of blood spilling from two points. His bite. He hadn’t sealed the puncture wounds with his saliva. He didn’t want to seal them. He wanted them left open, but if they remained open much longer, the mating mark of Possession would form, permanently branding her as his with a pair of unique black designs stemming from where his teeth had broken her skin.
The mark of Possession was permanent, and Navarre couldn’t make that decision for her, but if she felt even half of what he had in her presence, then she would soon come to him on her own. He wanted her to choose him, to hear her sweet voice, to bask in her consent.
Lifting her to him, he tilted her neck, gently licked the trail of blood from the base of her neck to his bite, then gave each point a sweeping kiss to seal the bite and heal her skin. The contact was electric, their connection undeniable.
He lingered at her neck, raining soft, tender kisses along her throat. She didn’t feel his touch, wouldn’t know he’d savored the simple contact of his lips on her skin, but he felt compelled to take advantage of the moment.
Navarre gathered and lifted her small body, carried her to his bed. Already her blood worked wonders, quickly healing. She was a tiny thing, though clearly the active sort. Her arms were toned, stomach lean. Even her small weight put a strange, painful pressure on the center of his chest surrounding the wound. His muscles, however, were up to the challenge thanks to her.
Once he set down his treasure, he stepped back to study her, sweeping her short hair from her face. He traced the curve of her jaw. Delicate female. How could she agree to feed him? What made her so devoted to her lord, or perhaps willing to let go of life?
Navarre stretched out beside her. He’d never seen a woman wear clothing quite like this. The tradition of offering one’s lifeblood to a royal required a simple white gown. She’d come to him in a cream-colored leather corset and a pair of snug, very worn, brown leather pants. He didn’t know what to make of her rough exterior. The clothing seemed to offset her pristine hair and sweet face.
A wave of exhaustion washed over Navarre, but he fought the pull of sleep. His body longed to rest, to heal with the new blood he’d been gifted. He refused. He hadn’t finished enjoying this woman. Navarre traced the column of her neck to her shoulder, lingered over her collarbone.
He’d never felt skin so soft. Navarre smiled. He was addicted to her and he didn’t even know her name. Gently, he retraced his path, skimmed his fingers up her neck to where he’d bitten her.
She moaned at his touch, a sleepy little noise that deepened his smile. She turned toward him, possibly avoiding his tickling touch, and threw her arm over his torso. He held his breath for an earth-shattering moment, struck with the gravity of what finding her meant to him, to the city.
Navarre’s eyes slid shut, the healing sleep once again pulling at him, but this was not the terrifying dive into unconsciousness he’d experienced after he’d been stabbed. He felt the promise of a heavy, sated sleep, cocooned in warmth, and this time he wasn’t alone. Gathering the woman close to his side, her held her small
hand in his and let sleep take him.
In sleep, her blood worked to heal his body, but nothing could mend together his fragmented memories. He dreamed, sights and sounds haunting him from the night of the attack.
Within his dreams Navarre could sense a man, hidden by the shadows of the château. He felt the liquid warmth spreading over his chest, the cold stone of the château floor at his back, and the blood warming the floor beneath him.
Then that night replayed, but not in order. The sword split Navarre’s skin, the sharp blade scraping his ribs as it entered his chest. The clash of swords from the battle he’d just left ringing in his ears. Now he ran, racing through the hallways of his city. Now in his home, a sense of urgency clawed at his chest.
Navarre woke, eyes wide and alert, his mind working hard to sort dream from reality. His home was quiet. No danger visible. He tried to roll to his side, but couldn’t move. Glancing down, he found his body weighed down by a woman, her body pressed against him, her head on his shoulder.
Resting his head, Navarre rubbed his free hand over the scar on his chest. It felt tightly drawn, throbbing, but he was healing. Already strength returned to his starved muscles, because of her.
Who was she? Where had she come from? Feeding had always been a delicate balance of dominance and submission within their own species. She had acted as if she’d never experienced the exchange, hadn’t understood her role.
Her Cupid’s bow lips had parted, and she breathed softly. Navarre took great comfort in her shallow breath, her steady pulse beneath his fingertips. He’d taken much of her blood, his rapidly healing body the evidence. How had she lived? Despite the odds, and his deepest fears, she’d lived.
Only the crackling fire from the next room lit his home, and not well. Reaching back to the nightstand, Navarre flicked on the light. The drive to see her, to touch her, built inside his chest. Excitement. Anticipation. A long-awaited mystery brought to light.
He looked down at the woman tucked against him, warm and safe in his bed. His smile faded, his eyes fixed on her hair. Red. His people didn’t have red hair. It wasn’t genetically possible. Not only that, but she’d been strong enough to feed him. More than strong enough, she had merely passed out. The building facts were alarming.
Was she a new species? Should he now be worried about what kind of creature he’d savored? Navarre licked his top lip, recalling how her blood slid over his tongue. She’d tasted like a vampire. Perhaps more rich and satisfying than others, but she was definitely vampire.
Navarre checked her neck, finding his bite had already healed. It was possible she had once been human, but a converted vampire would not be this strong. If she was a human turned without a mark of Possession binding her to her mate, then her existence was a crime in every vampire city, punishable by death for both the creator and the creation.
If Savard had kept her alive, bent laws to allow her residence, then he must have a good reason. Navarre trusted his captain’s judgment in this matter, mostly because they shared the same views regarding other species. Neither believed anyone should be punished for circumstances beyond their control.
Navarre touched her vibrant red hair, smoothed it away from her face. Why would a woman of questionable lineage offer her blood to her lord? The vulnerability, the exposure, blatantly left her life in his hands.
He smiled. Clever female. That was the point. She needed something from him. Something Captain Savard might no longer be able to provide. Perhaps she did fear for her life, as she should, but never from him. Navarre tightened his arms around her shoulders as if he could protect her in that single embrace.
She moaned, a low, lazy sound that began at her throat and resonated through his chest. Sighing, she nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder and burrowed closer. The arm she’d thrown over his stomach moved, her hand curling around his side to squeeze him tightly. Navarre held his breath, not willing to risk her withdrawing her touch.
Palm flat, her hand slid slowly over his ribs to his stomach, then higher, her fingers curling as they encountered the ridge of his chest. Her eyes snapped open. No gasping, no feminine squeal of surprise. She thrust herself from him, rolled, and sprang to her feet with the reflexes of, not just one of his kind, but a warrior. Impressive.
Body tense, she glared at him, unchecked fear in her bright green eyes. Those eyes may have been focused on him, but she soaked in her surroundings. The awareness, the intelligence he saw in her was unequaled to any other female he’d encountered.
Her eyes suddenly lost focus and she swayed, her knees buckling beneath her. She went down, but reached out, fisting the comforter at the edge of the bed in her hands. There she hung on, listing on the verge of unconsciousness, and holding on with everything she had in her.
Navarre started for her the moment he noted the change, but she’d gone down fast. Lifting her easily, he placed her in the center of the bed, propping her up on a couple pillows.
“You’ve lost a fair amount of blood,” he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The light-headedness will soon pass.”
Instinctively, he reached out to her, wanting badly to sooth her fears.
“Don’t touch me,” she said evenly, her chin lifting a notch. “What I gave to you, I gave freely. You’ll have nothing more.”
He let his hand fall to the mattress, still outstretched toward her, though nowhere close enough to actually touch her. She would have to make an effort to bridge the gap, but she kept a clear distance from him.
“I will not harm you,” he said, making every effort to keep his body still. Navarre needed to keep her talking, to hear her voice again, to feel it seep into his bones and soothe his soul. “And why did you give your lifeblood so freely?”
Her gaze darted away from him, scanned the room, then returned. She whispered, “What do you mean? My lord?”
He stood slowly, careful not to startle her, and though he was no longer on the bed, he did not fail to notice that her eyes flared wide. She pivoted on the mattress to keep him directly in her line of sight. Navarre stuffed his hands in his pants pockets, hoping to diminish her apprehension.
“You have just known me more intimately than any woman in my city. Please call me Navarre.” Her eyes narrowed as she continued to glare at him. Did she think his offer to dispense with formality a trap? To the point, then. “You expect a trade, do you not? What is it you want from me?”
He wasn’t sure she would answer him, but then her gaze softened and she said, “I want to stay here, in your city.”
“Unless you have committed a severe crime, I would not send you away.” Navarre removed his hands from his pockets and opened his arms wide, and inviting. “You may stay here as long as you like.”
“Do you promise?” she demanded.
“Have you committed crimes?”
“Not by your standards,” she admitted. “At least not since I set foot inside your city.”
Ah, there it was. Quick reflexes, sharp mind, and a desire to stay in his city. She might very well be a human turned vampire, but it was likely she had operated as a Stalker, living among humans for the purpose of killing demons. Murderers were executed. Period. But the lines of what was considered murder grayed when the subject was the life of a demon.
Her admission gave him pause, but not enough to send her away. “You may stay within my city, as long as you live by my laws.”
Her shoulders relaxed and her breathing changed, her relief too great to hide. Slowly she made her way to the opposite edge of the bed, bracing her arms on the mattress as she gingerly stepped off and attempted to stand once again. She righted herself, knees bent, but steady. Her recovery had been quicker than he’d expected.
“Who are you?” Navarre asked, hoping she would now let her guard down. “What is your name?”
Her lips parted to answer, but a knock at the door broke their connection, and she snapped her mouth shut.
Captain Savard entered withou
t an invitation, and planted himself solidly at the open door. Taking advantage of the interruption, the woman squared her shoulders and strode to the door.
“You staying?” Savard asked her.
She nodded, familiar with his captain, comfortable in his presence. “Surprised I followed through?”
“Not really,” Savard said casually. “But I knew once you entered his home you wouldn’t back down.”
“You followed me?” She let out a halfhearted laugh. “You really love that man, don’t you?”
Navarre listened, completely fascinated with their easy conversation. Her question wasn’t meant to criticize, but tease. Had anyone ever teased Savard?
Savard shrugged. “He hasn’t killed me yet. That puts him at the top of my list.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t killed you,” she said, casually reaching out to support her weight on the door frame. “So by your logic, I’m up there, too.”
“True. Notice how you’re not dead either,” he said, giving her a pointed look.
She laughed. Really laughed. The light and airy sound made Navarre more jealous than it should.
“Are you saying you have my back?” Her lips turned up at the edges, not exactly a smile, but it gave her a friendly look that somehow seemed deceptive.
“I do,” Savard said. “And thank you for doing this.”
She sent him a short nod and slipped out the door.
Savard crossed the room, appearing high on life as he strutted across the grand foyer to stand before Navarre.
In that moment, Navarre felt the weight of his absence. He was an outsider. Savard had a connection to this woman, to his newfound mate. They were familiar with each other, so much that they had a natural banter, easily ignoring his presence in the room. As a man who thrived on knowledge and preparation, he felt deeply lacking.
No, he didn’t know her, but he would. “Savard, who is she?”