by Tessa Dawn
Both physically and mentally.
He knew how to avoid even a momentary musing, a passing thought that might lead to pregnancy. Saxson Olaru knew how to charm, how to seduce, and how to tease…
And he knew when a woman had just invited him to kiss her.
Drawing in a shallow breath, he bent his head to hers, tunneled his fingers in her long, blond hair, and drew her closer, into his body. And then he pressed his lips to hers.
Softly at first, just a mere touch, the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.
Then he molded his soft but firm lips to Kyla’s in a perfect, erotic union.
He tasted the tip of her tongue with a slow, teasing swipe, catching the same with his full bottom lip, and then he gentled his pressure against her mouth, and leisurely—sensually—pulled away.
Her knees buckled beneath her, and he caught her by the waist, flashing a heartbreaking, endearing smile. “I wasn’t expecting that.” His voice was deep and husky, betraying his rising interest.
She nodded and shivered. “I wasn’t, either.” She blushed and looked away. “Um…I…” She gulped and stood there, silently.
“You…you what?” he encouraged, wanting to hear her full thoughts.
She chuckled softly. “I…I don’t usually do that. I mean, not with a man I just met.”
He brushed that same cluster of hair behind her ear once again and ran his finger down the slope of her neck. “It’s okay.”
She shook her head emphatically.
“Kyla, it’s okay.”
She shyly bit her lip. “Thanks. I guess…I think, what I was going to say”—she paused to bite her lip again, only this time, it seemed like a nervous tic—“is just that…just that…”
“Just that?” he prompted.
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” she blurted, her eyes growing wide in surprise, presumably at her own audacity. “I mean, just because I kissed you.” She bit her lower lip a third time, then lowered her gaze toward the ground. “I’m not…I’m not that kind of girl.”
Saxson laughed quietly: a melodious, sonorous sound. “Okayyy,” he purred. “I wasn’t making any assumptions.”
She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Kyla,” he said firmly, “you have nothing to fear from me, honestly.” He winked. “Besides, I’m not that kind of guy.” She laughed, and he took an enormous chance by releasing the last of his compulsion, just to test the waters—he hoped she wouldn’t scream. “Come home with me this night, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
To his utter astonishment, his destiny agreed.
Kyla Sparrow told her heart to stop racing, her mind to slow down, and her libido to heel!
Good Lord, almighty, the male was an angel, or the devil in disguise: His sweet hazel eyes, with numerous speckles of gold, were deep-set, enchanting, and endlessly hypnotic. His eyebrows were perfectly straight—and full—with just a hint of an arch above his pupils, and his cheekbones—she could see every hollow and bony ridge—they were sculpted to finite precision. His nose belonged in an anatomy book as an example of structural perfection, and those lips—good Lord, give her strength—that full bottom lip was perfectly round and slightly turned out in temptation. The masculine slope of his upper lip was thinner in the corners, almost sardonic, growing thick as it crested in the center: pouty, slightly arrogant, yet firm. She could stare at those lips forever.
Never mind what he tasted like…
And his hair, his goatee, the way the former framed his face, and the latter defined his jaw—he had been created to tantalize women.
And Kyla had to be careful.
Very, very careful.
So far, she had played everything just right: She had shown the proper amount of fear when he’d approached her in the bar; she had recognized a light dusting of fog in her mind, the almost imperceptible hint of compulsion as she’d followed him outside; and she had fought to resist the vampiric haze—if only for a few short moments—in order to entice him…
In order to gain his trust.
She had even mentioned the supernatural Blood Moon as if she could actually see it.
It was imperative that she went along with this claiming, that she didn’t raise any suspicions. If the vampire chose to invade her thoughts, to take any long-term memories, she was screwed.
She could not give him a reason to do so.
As it stood, she had to exhibit just enough interest to appease him, but not so much that she seemed too eager. She had to walk a fine, fragile line, which meant she had to check her libido.
Sex was out.
At least for now.
What if he became motivated to insist on an early conversion—in order to command a pregnancy?
She shivered at the thought…
Not only would the conversion fail, but even if she secretly relinquished her immortal soul to try to make a transformation work, pregnancy would be a no-go: Saxson would know within seven to eight hours—the equivalent of a six-week human gestation—that there weren’t any detectable heartbeats.
He would know that something was wrong.
Kyla softened her expression and breathed a sigh of relief, just as he spoke again: “Kyla,” he said firmly, “you have nothing to fear from me, honestly.” He winked, and her stomach did a little flip. “Besides, I’m not that kind of guy.” He paused as if making his own internal calculations, and she felt the vampiric haze lift, from all around her. He was releasing her from his compulsion. “Come home with me this night, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
Kyla smiled faintly.
So, he was trusting her, without coercion, testing the strength of their celestial bond.
She met his gaze directly and flashed a sheepish smile. “Okay,” she whispered, “let’s go.”
Chapter Three
Kiera Sparrow woke up on the top floor of a dimly lit warehouse—she knew she was on the top floor because there was moonlight shining down from a skylight like a macabre, organic cone on a stage. Her arms were stretched, taut, above her head; her wrists were cuffed to two iron bars; and she was tethered to the headboard of a giant wood-and-iron bed. She gasped, even as she stifled a scream, and her eyes darted frantically around her:
Where the hell was she?
What the hell had happened?
And why did she feel so strange?
Her body was fatigued; she was curiously dizzy; and her head felt like someone had split it with an axe.
But why?
The memories flooded in with a whoosh.
She had been standing in the unisex bathroom of the bar in LoDo, chatting with Kyla, when two terrifying strangers had rushed in. The man with a mask had drugged her and dragged her to a van. And Kyla…Kyla had let him do it.
No, Kyla had actually helped him!
What the hell was going on?
She stretched her neck to peek through a bricked-in architectural cove, occupying half, or more, of a wall. With its custom-fitted, wrought-iron insert, it served as an interior window, opening the site-lines to the rest of the warehouse.
Glancing further into the space, she immediately furrowed her brow: The warehouse wasn’t empty. In fact, it was appointed like a lavish, upscale apartment with an opulent, open floorplan. There was a living room in the center, extravagantly decorated with art, floor rugs, and high-end furnishings; a kitchen, facing the living room, with cherry cabinets, granite counters, and travertine flooring; and two bedrooms, toward the back of the building, each edging a cement wall and sharing an enormous, open bathroom, with two similar bricked-in alcoves. While the bathroom was semi-enclosed, and accessed through two adjoining bedroom doors, the wrought-iron window inserts allowed Kiera to see distinctive elements from the room’s interior: a Tuscan bricked-in shower; an opulent jetted tub; two copper sinks; and two hidden water-closets, on either side of the basin, connecting the en suite to each of the abutted bedrooms.
Kiera was in the bedroom to the right.
She scan
ned the lofty, open space one more time: It was a home without walls, but it had to be a million-dollar spread, and that meant her captors were men of serious means.
Speaking of her captors…
She craned her neck to the left, and then the right, trying to get a glimpse of an abductor—surely they hadn’t left her there alone. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a heavy, barn-style door at the front of the warehouse slid open and two familiar males sauntered in, one carrying a long, wooden case in his hand as he stepped out of a rustic elevator.
“She’s awake,” the short, stocky guy with a dozen tattoos grumbled, hustling across the wooden floor toward the bed.
“Don’t touch her,” the second guy warned—this was definitely the same man who’d been wearing a mask, the one now carrying the case, and he followed on the first guy’s heels, ambling with utter confidence. “The Head Hunter said she was not to be harmed, not a single hair on her head. In fact, Xavier said she’s his. And if anyone violates her, he’ll disembowel them himself.”
The short, stocky creep glanced over his shoulder and blanched. “Damn, Owen. That bastard is rough.”
“Yeah,” Owen said. “He is. And he means what he says.”
“I got it,” Tattoo replied.
“Travis…”
“I’ve got it!” he repeated, angrily.
So, her captors were named Owen and Travis—that was good to know.
But who the hell was Xavier?
Kiera bit back a snarl of rage, gritting her teeth in disgust as her captors approached the bed.
Owen appraised her tethered body from head to toe, then back up again, and she wanted to spit in his face. “How long have you been awake?” he asked.
Kiera cleared her throat—her head was still pounding—and she tried to sound braver than she felt. “Who the hell are you, and what do you want with me? Where’s Kyla—what did you do to my sister?”
Owen sat down beside her, setting the case on the floor, and the mattress depressed from his weight. Her body tilted and rolled to the side, being sucked into the depression by gravity, but the tethers stopped her decline, causing her arms to stretch and ache. The asshole stroked her cheek with a lazy right hand, and Kiera visibly trembled. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled.
“Let’s get one thing straight, right off the bat, Miss Sparrow,” the tall, arrogant bastard spat. “You don’t ask the questions around here, and you don’t make demands.” He tapped his chest in a brazen show of dominance. “I’m Owen, and this is Travis.” He pointed at his friend. “And the fact that you know our names ought to tell you everything you need to know: You’re not going home. Not ever.” He leaned in closer until his face was hovering five or six inches above hers, and he smiled. “If it wasn’t for the boss’s orders, we would’ve slit your throat in the van and left you in a Dumpster, but as it stands, the chief wants you alive—he wants to study your blood—and he has a personal affinity for the violin.” He glanced down at the case near his ankles. “That means you’re going to play for him, whenever he asks, and if I were you, I would play my best.”
Kiera recoiled at Owen’s words: all of them.
They would have slit her throat. Left her in a Dumpster. Their boss wanted to study her blood…
What the hell was happening!
And how could anyone expect her to play the violin under such appalling circumstances?
Owen nodded at Travis, then glanced down at the wooden case, and the short, stocky sycophant jumped like a puppet on a string. He crossed to the bed in two clumsy strides, picked up the resting instrument, and placed it on the mattress. Then he fumbled with the latches, his thumbs too fat to slide them upward, until he finally got it open. He raised the case to show her the cheap, worn-out violin.
Kiera frowned.
And?
What the hell was she supposed to say?
The musician inside her was disgusted—you don’t throw a violin into an unsecured wooden box—you place it in a padded violin case. As it was, the bridge had collapsed from the weight of the lid, the bow hairs were wrapped around the pegs, and the brutes had managed to scratch the belly. Not that any of that mattered right now.
“Can you play it?” Travis snorted.
Kiera just shook her head in amazement—in horror and disbelief.
None of this was real.
This simply could not be happening.
“Can you play it!” Owen echoed, his domineering voice packed in ice.
Kiera perused the violin a second time. “Yeah,” she muttered. “If I can fix it, I can play it, but not as well as you’d like.”
“Why not?” Owen barked.
Kiera tried to quiet her mind. The only thing she was thinking about was how to get away—how to escape these obvious sociopaths—but maybe, if she was smart, the violin could work in her favor. At best, it could buy her some time to think…and plan…and maneuver. She spoke in a trembling voice: “There’s no shoulder rest or rosin, and it may need a brand-new bridge.” When they didn’t object, she continued, “And the bow needs to be re-haired. It’s useless as it is.”
Owen wrinkled his brow, and Travis shot him a questioning glance. “You think Xavier gives a shit?” he asked.
Owen shrugged. “Don’t know. But I’m not gonna be the one to piss him off. You?”
Travis cringed and shook his head.
Damn, who the heck was Xavier?
“Nah,” Travis replied. “Better get what she needs.”
Owen nodded, and Kiera felt her heart lighten, if only a little bit. In truth, she could play the instrument with or without a shoulder rest, although she preferred the former; and the bow would still make sound without the rosin—it just wouldn’t be as rich. It wouldn’t grip and fully vibrate the strings or make the instrument sing. Still, the more items they had to fetch, and the more specialty shops they had to go to, the longer they would be absent from the warehouse.
The more time she would have to try to escape.
She fought to steady her voice. “If we’re still in Denver, there’s a good luthier on Broadway—he can change out the bridge and re-hair the bow, but you should probably go to Armando’s String Shop to buy some rosin and a pack of new strings: I prefer Melos Dark and Evah Pirazzi Gold, but I’ll need to see the E-string, whether it’s a ball or a loop. And you need a better case,” she added, “or it’s just going to keep on breaking. The violin is a delicate instrument.”
Owen studied her carefully, like he was searching for hints of deception. “Don’t fuck with me, Kiera,” he warned.
She quickly glanced away. “I’m not.”
He grinded his teeth and nodded at a nearby two-drawer nightstand. “Travis, get her a pen and some paper; then untie her hands. Yes, we’re still in Denver, so you can make a detailed list, Miss Sparrow”—he spoke her name as a formal title, with unconcealed derision—“specific parts, the names of shops, everything you need: Just get it right the first time. We’re not your personal lackeys.”
Kiera gulped.
She was anxious for Travis to untie her hands so she could move her fingers and get her blood flowing—and that gave her another advantage: “I don’t know who this Xavier is, or why he wants me to play, but you should both think twice about binding my wrists so tightly. My music comes from my hands.”
Owen toggled his head from side to side, as if he were thinking it over. His eyes narrowed in contempt; his lips turned down in a scowl; and then he reached out and slapped her—so harshly, so quickly—she never saw the correction coming. “You are an extremely arrogant bitch,” he snarled. “And your princess days are over.”
She gasped in pain and alarm as his long, knobby fingers wrapped around her throat.
“I revere Xavier Matista,” he spat, “and we will get him what he wants, but don’t get things confused, Miss Sparrow—you are nothing but a stray, mangy dog to me—my boss will understand if I have to put you down.”
Kiera froze.
S
he closed her eyes and listened to her heart’s frantic beating—it was clamoring like an agitated metronome in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, desperate to calm him down.
But she wasn’t sorry.
She was furious; and she was trapped! How dare he call her an arrogant bitch—he didn’t know a thing about her. Yet and still, she wasn’t stupid enough to incite more violence. If anything, she was desperate to try to read him, to try to figure the situation out: Travis was a low-level flunky. He was probably too stupid to think for himself. And Owen, he was cut from a different but just as evil cloth: intelligent, self-important, and obviously successful. But his pride was his weakness, and it might be his undoing if this Xavier Matista was as dangerous as they let on.
Perhaps Kiera could play one against the other.
Either way, she needed to hedge her bets, and that meant she needed to win over the boss: One way or another, this Head Hunter, as they called him, would be Kiera’s ultimate salvation…
Either that, or he would be her final damnation.
Chapter Four
Saxson Olaru rolled his eyes as he stepped outside onto his high, clifftop veranda, with its stunning views of the vista below: acres of forest, filled with towering pines, quaking aspens, and green or blue spruce trees; meandering rivers snaking through the valley; and a hidden mountain lake abutting the edge of the western vale.
He stared blankly at his twin, Ramsey, and then his older brother, Santos, before sighing in frustration: It was 3:30 in the morning; Saxson and Kyla had just made it back to the clifftop retreat, about fifteen minutes earlier; and Ramsey and Santos wouldn’t take “everything is fine” for an answer.