by Tessa Dawn
He had left her in silence to think.
And think, she had…
About how to play things off, how to earn back her cell phone, how to orchestrate circumstances to get closer to Keitaro Silivasi and his clan: Nathaniel, Marquis, Nachari, Kagen, and their children. She knew she would have to go through the women, and she would need her phone, and more information, to accomplish that task.
And now, as she stood on the patio, contemplating how to move forward, she had the strangest, uncomfortable sensation: a curse of being born a twin. Despite her razor-sharp focus and her steely determination to remain in a cocoon of her own, she felt something so visceral and alarming, it could only be coming from Kiera…
Anxiety.
Terror.
Abject intimidation.
And the sound of haunting music.
Kiera was playing her violin, and she was playing it for someone—or for some odd reason—that absolutely turned her stomach.
What had Owen and Travis done with her?
And why?
Before Kyla could contemplate that further, she heard the patio door slide open and a pair of steady, agile footfalls amble across the platform.
“Sleep well?” Saxson’s deep, satiny voice pierced the silence.
As if they were lifelong lovers, he sidled up behind her, placed his hands firmly on her hips, and gently tugged her backward against his rock-hard chest. And then he bent to her neck and pressed his perfect lips against her skin, tasting her as much as he kissed her. “How are you, my love?”
Kyla shivered. “You don’t love me yet,” she replied with defiance, a bit taken aback by his forwardness.
She heard the iron in his voice. “No, not yet, but my devotion is the same. Did you sleep well?”
Kyla shook her head; there was no point in lying, and she didn’t want to rouse his suspicion—she needed to earn his trust. “Not really,” she replied. “Just…off and on.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders and massaged them, but he didn’t reply with words. Finally, after several minutes had passed, he stretched his back and rolled his head on his shoulders. “You must be hungry. Come inside. Eat. We have forever to talk.”
She gulped and recited an internal quote from Napoleon Bonaparte: Courage isn't having the strength to go on—it is going on when you don't have strength. “Saxson?’ she whispered.
“Hmm?” he intoned.
“Do you remember what I told you in Denver, when we were standing in the alcove? About my dreams, and that strange feeling I had…like I already knew you?”
“I do,” he said softly.
“I’m not afraid of you. I mean, I am, but I know I don’t need to be. I really do know that. And I know it seems soon, because you told me everything last night, but I’ve had a lot of time to think…”
“And?” he encouraged, waiting patiently for her to answer.
“And I know what I want…at least for now.”
Saxson rotated both palms, upward and outward, in an unconscious gesture of openness, and his deep, emotive voice sent shivers along her skin. “Go on.”
“I want to wait as long as possible…you know, before we worry about the Blood Moon. The conversion or the pregnancy…” She practically stuttered the last word as she shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot, and there was nothing pretend about her anxiety: Her body could not withstand conversion—he would kill her if he tried—and as for pregnancy? Not only had she had a hysterectomy, but she wasn’t compatible with his species.
She wasn’t Saxson’s true destiny.
Whatever she was planning, she had to get it done…before they tried.
“I just…I just,” she continued, “I want to get to know you first. I want to learn more about your world; I want to meet your friends—other warriors, other women—and I want to wait until the very last week because, well, just because.”
He encircled her torso with his arms and spoke directly in her ear. “Because?”
“Because as hard as it might be to believe, I’m really old-fashioned at heart. I don’t…I can’t…I’d rather not sleep with you until I’m ready, until we’re together and committed, and that’s going to take some time. I just need to get to know you, Saxson, I need some time to adjust. And during that time, I need you to give me my space: not to use any powers of compulsion, not to try and read my mind, just…just try to meet me halfway. And I swear, I won’t betray you—if you’ll try to trust me, I’ll try to trust you. I just need to move forward at my own cautious pace.” She held her breath and waited, and when he didn’t reply, she persisted: “Saxson?”
He caressed her cheek with his thumb, but he remained deathly quiet.
Oh shit, she thought.
Maybe she didn’t have as much control as she’d hoped.
Maybe he wasn’t quite as accommodating as he seemed. “Saxson?” The word came out as a tenuous query.
His voice was eerily calm, maybe too calm. “My love,” he whispered, “we never spoke about my specific powers—using compulsion or mind-reading—we never talked about the things I can do. How did you know I could do either one, and would that concern you?”
Kyla gulped, and then she spun around to face him, her face feeling hot and flushed. “I…I just assumed.” She tried to force her emotion into a blush. “Too many Count Dracula movies?” she croaked.
His lips turned up in a smile, but it was half-hearted at best. “Perhaps,” he murmured.
She worried her bottom lip.
Oh. Shit.
What had she done?
Despite her resolve—and her confidence—her legs began to tremble: This male could end her life in an instant. If he suspected something not on the up-and-up, he could pull the truth right out of her cerebral cortex.
“Shh,” Saxson crooned, noticing her trembling. “You need not fear me, Kyla—I am not going to harm you.”
She took a slow, deep breath and tried to nod. “I…Saxson…did I just make you angry? I’m trying too hard, and I just get caught up…” She paused to catch her breath, covered her face with her hands, and did her best to manufacture real tears. “It’s just…I’m only human, and you…you’re not. You’re so much more: more powerful, more intimidating, more insightful. And I know that you could… I guess I just imagined it.”
Saxson grasped her by both wrists, lowered her hands from her face, and cupped her jaw in his hands. “Listen,” he said softly. “I’m not going to lie; you strike me, sometimes, as truly…odd. You’re very accepting, very methodical, and trying desperately to remain in charge. I get that. And in time, I will get you, too. But for now, this moment, I want you to understand: You are both under my care and under my command, Kyla. Vampires are primal creatures. We are dominant, territorial, and very protective; and being such, I will always take care of your heart—but I will also see to my duty. And I, not you, will control this Blood Moon. I will not jeopardize my safety or skirt my obligations to appease you.” When she started to sway, he righted her and continued. “I will absolutely take every word you have spoken into consideration, and I will do my best to please you, because your contentment pleases me, but I will not make promises I cannot keep. Not right now. Not this early. Do you understand, my love?” There was a faint feral growl in his throat.
Kyla recoiled in shock.
So Saxson Olaru had a backbone after all?
He would not be that easily manipulated.
She took several steps back and scanned the deck, her gaze shifting from right to left, as if she had a mind to run. “What are you going to do?” she whimpered.
Saxson sighed, took both of her hands in his, and gently kissed the tips of her fingers. For the first time since she’d met him, he almost looked exasperated. “I’m going to take you inside and feed you, get you something to drink. We’re going to discuss the possibility of having some of your clothes and personal belongings brought to Dark Moon Vale—purchase anything else you might want or need, right now—and then we�
�re going to sit and talk. Surely you have more questions.” His stern jaw relaxed into a smile, and he brushed the pad of his forefinger over her quivering top lip. “Surely you have more requests. I’d like to entertain them all. Please…don’t be afraid of me, Kyla. We’ll figure this out, together.”
Kyla grew as still as a leaf floating on the surface of a quiet pond as she let Saxson’s words sink in. And for the first time in years, she felt a kinship with her sister…
They were both in over their heads.
Saxson Olaru followed Kyla inside, kicking himself for not being more accommodating.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Why had he responded like that?
Especially when she was being so accepting, so easygoing, so eager to comply, even if she wanted to do so on her own terms and at her own pace? Why had her reasonable requests and inquisitive words stirred such an instinctive response in his gut?
Celestial gods, if this kept up, he might have to speak with Napolean.
At the least, he might have to consult his brothers.
There was just something about Kyla Sparrow—something about his destiny—something that rubbed Saxson the wrong way.
And it didn’t make any sense.
He owed her…everything.
He was honor-bound to not only protect her, but to please her, to love her.
To cherish her.
To make her feel at home and at least somewhat in control of her fate.
He would have to try much harder.
He watched her as she made her way toward the kitchen, shuffling quietly, like she felt lost: Maybe he had just waited so long…perhaps he had imagined too much… His destiny was beautiful, she was smart, and she was here!
She was his.
Saxson could do better, and he would.
Chapter Nine
Kristina Riley-Silivasi pulled her sleek pink Corvette into the pebbled gravel driveway of Nachari’s brownstone, grateful that there wasn’t any snow on the roads and she was able to take her baby for a spin. She had cut out of work early that morning and was eager to get to the mall.
She needed a pair of azure-blue ankle boots, with a three-inch heel to be exact.
Nothing else would do.
Her favorite form-fitting pencil skirt had hung in the closet for two long months, a cross between steel-blue and gray, and she was eager to dust it off and take it for a spin—only, it was winter; the hemline fell above the knee; and none of her current pumps worked with the uniquely colored fabric. Since Braden Bratianu had proven himself to be a tireless warrior in the mall—good-natured, endlessly patient, and willing to cart her packages—she was hoping he would tag along.
She bit her bottom lip and sighed as she climbed out of the driver’s seat and gently shut the door behind her: It was February 14th, the human holiday, Valentine’s Day, not something the house of Jadon celebrated, but it could still pose a problem. Braden was always looking for any excuse to plant a kiss on her cheek—or gods forbid, her lips—to wrap his arms around her.
Those strong, muscular arms that were beginning to look like a Viking’s…
She quickly repressed the thought. Although he would turn seventeen on May 10th, Braden was only sixteen years old. Jail bait. At least outside the house of Jadon. And Kristina? Well, she would be turning thirty in June—thirty. That practically made her a cougar.
Yet and still, due to the wisdom—or wicked sense of humor—of Napolean Mondragon, the Vampyr king, she and Braden were betrothed. She laughed at the stupid, antiquated word: betrothed. They were informally engaged, required to one day be mated, destined to one day knock boots.
She shoved her hand over her mouth and giggled.
What a wicked thought!
But she just couldn’t help it…
The average bear might not understand, but vampires matured much faster than humans. Even if Braden was occasionally plagued with immature antics, his nosferatu genes were definitely showing: His voice was masculine satin; his chest and his biceps were…titanium; and he was developing that telltale swagger that only a vampire had, a sexy allure that practically dripped from his pores.
Kristina had no idea when it had happened, but gods help her, if he continued to “mature” at this rate, she was going to end up as putty in his persistent, strong, rugged hands. One sidelong glance from those burnt-sienna eyes, and she just might melt into a puddle.
She cringed at the thought.
Good Lord! She was four months away from being a cougar!
Gross.
Thank goodness she would no longer age like a human. She would forever appear twenty-eight, the age she had been when Marquis had converted her.
She sidled up to the door of the brownstone and leaned against the frame, rapping on the panel three times—Braden would recognize her knock. About thirty seconds passed before the door swung open, and the kid flashed her a wicked-devious smile.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Red,” he drawled, looking as mischievous as a Cheshire cat.
Kristina rolled her eyes and raised her finger, placing it between their mouths before he could swoop in for a kiss. “Don’t,” she warned him. “Just don’t.”
He responded with gentle laughter, and the sound was like music. And then he held up both hands in defeat. “So you didn’t come by to declare your endless love—what’s up then, baby?”
“Kristina,” she corrected. “What’s up then, Kristina.”
“What’s up then, Red?”
She smiled. She was warming up to the term. “I need a pair of azure-blue ankle boots, and I saw the perfect suede ensemble at the Silverton Creek Mall a few weeks back.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyeing her Corvette. “Feel up to a little shopping?”
He fell into an easy stance. “What about your sapphire platforms?”
She turned up her lip in disgust. “Trust me, they clash.”
“Your cobalt-blue spikes, the ones with the ankle straps?”
“Oh…no…they’re even worse. Besides, it’s winter. My feet will get wet.”
Braden appeared to think it over. “So, just go with the knee-high, ultra-marine leathers then.” He held up both hands in question, as if to say: no duh!
This time, Kristina huffed and placed her hands on her hips, causing a lock of her loosely coiled S-curls to fall into her eyes.
Braden didn’t miss a beat. He reached out instinctively and tucked it behind her ear, the backs of his fingers brushing her slender shoulder. “What are they for—the shoes?” he asked innocently, obviously needing more information.
She flicked her wrist toward her feet in mock demonstration. “My form-fitting pencil skirt, the blue and gray.”
Braden’s eyes narrowed in concentration, then he nodded. “Oh…yeah…you’re right. None of your shoes will work, unless you go with black.”
Kristina glared at him then, utterly appalled.
He placed the palm of his hand against his left temple, shut his eyes for the merest of seconds, then flashed her a welcoming smile. “Got it. Just let me grab my coat.”
She chuckled beneath her breath. Braden was definitely developing his own sense of style—as vampires could maintain their body temperature at will, he didn’t really need a jacket. Nonetheless, he liked to look stylish, and he was getting pretty good at it…a whole lot better than he used to be. “No problem,” she said, twirling her keys while she waited.
In less than a minute, he was heading out the door in a worn leather bomber-jacket that matched the shade of his jeans. “Damn,” Kristina whispered beneath her breath. That jacket definitely…worked.
As they started toward her car, he furrowed his brows and shook his head, losing some of the natural rhythm in his developing, easy gait.
Kristina eyed him sideways. “You okay, Bray?”
He shrugged his shoulders and held out his palm. “You gonna let me drive?”
Kristina appraised her pink coach lovingly and gave him an evil smirk. “Hell no!
Never…ever…ever. Not unless we’re taking your Mustang.” She waited for his reply.
He walked to the passenger door, shuttle-stepped sideways, then braced one hand on the panel. “That’s cool. You can drive.”
Kristina rounded the car in an instant, leaned against the door, and placed both hands firmly on Braden’s chest—there was nothing flirtatious about it. “Okay, that’s the third time. Braden, what is wrong?” Vampires did not get sick, and he was acting like something was hurting.
He tried to conceal his frown—or was that a grimace? “Psychic headache,” he teased in a lackadaisical tone.
“Yeah, because our kind really gets headaches,” she snipped. She pushed him aside, opened the door, and gestured toward the seat. The moment he folded into the leather, she squatted down in front of him. “You getting that house of Jadon thing?” she asked, lowering her voice. No need to aggravate the headache.
He nodded.
Kristina bit her lip. “In your head, or your gut, or both?”
Braden’s eyelids drooped like they were heavy. “It’s all in my head.”
Kristina nodded.
Ever since the king had been attacked by a dark lord in the form of a nasty possession-worm, Braden Bratianu had been linked to the heart of the house of Jadon—he had been linked to the venerable king. While he occasionally had premonitions, he more often had…sensations: bits and pieces of feelings and thoughts, some sort of supernatural knowing, the ability to pick up on random impressions that were floating through the ether. If it affected the house of Jadon, Braden was open game. He could feel it, taste it, smell it, or just sense it—and it often manifested in his body. When the king had been hurt, Braden had puked out his guts, and over time, he had come to distinguish the sons of Jadon from their powerful, ancient king by where he felt the sensations.