by Tessa Dawn
Her newly converted body.
She could still hardly believe those words.
Kiera was now a vampire; she was a warrior-sentinel’s destiny. The proof of the preordained connection was etched into her wrist—it hadn’t been a Greek tattoo at all, but a perfect match to the moon and stars; that night she had been too alarmed to notice—and she had been claimed by Saxson Olaru because of an ancient Curse. They had twenty-two days left—well, twenty, to be exact, if one made allowances for the forty-eight-hour pregnancy—to produce a required sacrifice and turn it over to the Blood.
The males in the house of Jadon were ancient.
The males in the house of Jaegar were evil.
And Xavier belonged to an ancient species of werewolves: primal, genetic, vampire-hunting enemies.
Was she leaving anything out?
Oh, yeah, Kyla…
Her twin was in fact a human vampire-hunter. She had orchestrated the night of Saxson’s Blood Moon for her own nefarious purposes, and she was now being guarded in the house of Jadon’s jail—an archaic holding cell beneath an impenetrable, ancient compound belonging to the Vampyr king. And she was awaiting Princess Ciopori’s Blood Vengeance.
Kiera rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to keep everything straight.
Thus far, Saxson had been infinitely patient, clear and concise, and immediately responsive to all of Kiera’s volatile reactions and changing moods: When he had explained the conversion, what it meant and what took place, Kiera had wept for an hour. Yet in spite of his own exhaustion, he had held her hand, rubbed her shoulders, and soothed her…the entire time...with his voice.
When she had learned about the requisite pregnancy—and its forty-eight-hour gestation—she had reacted with shock and revulsion. Yet he had kept the conversation factual in nature, answering all her questions and assuring Kiera that she would choose the time, setting, and desired amount of awareness when it came to the birth of the Dark One. It was the only thing he could have said to console her, and he somehow just knew that intuitively.
When she’d learned about the houses of Jadon and Jaegar—the fact that Saxson Olaru had the cursive letters HOJ physically inscribed on his heart—she had run from the room, dashing around the house like a demented bird. She had tried to smash out three windows and set off a series of alarms, and ultimately tossed a cup of hot tea in the warrior’s face, before stabbing at his eye with a spoon.
Yeah, that had been a low point…
Yet, once again, he had remained at a safe, nonthreatening distance, only intervening when her well-being was at stake; and bless his HOJ heart, he had washed the spoon and given it back, along with a fresh, hot cup of ginger-mint tea.
His patience knew no boundaries.
When he had described Napolean Mondragon, who Xavier truly was, and spoken about his fearsome sentinel brothers—the work they all did for the king—she had waved a finger in his face, planted her hands on her hips, and told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would never—ever—venture out of the house or speak to any of them, so he may as well just take her back.
He had met it all with placid reserve.
And, finally, when she’d asked him to sit outside the bedroom door and speak to her from a distance—because she didn’t want to see his face—he had simply obliged her.
And the thing of it was: Kiera wasn’t flighty by nature.
Not in the slightest.
At least, not usually.
She wasn’t prone to mood swings or violent demonstrations, and she wasn’t typically unstable.
When she’d told him that truth, he’d believed her.
It was simply impossible to hate him.
And now, as she sat on his bed, wearing his way-too-large pajamas—because she didn’t want to touch anything he had purchased for Kyla—the entirety of the night and the nightmare she had lived through settled like mist all around her…
Heavy.
Ethereal.
And quiet.
“You okay?” Saxson whispered, seeming to sense her mood.
Kiera wrung her hands together, glanced down at her lap, and slowly closed her eyes. “No,” she whispered back. “I’m still reeling…processing…just trying to take it all in.” She opened her eyes, glanced beyond Saxson’s shoulder, and stared out a large picture window, admiring the sun rising over the canyon. “For whatever it’s worth,” she said, “I think there are a few things that are crystal-clear, even if I’m still digesting the rest.”
He licked his bottom lip in an unconscious gesture, almost as if he were eager to taste her revelation. “Can you tell me?”
She nodded. “Yeah, I think so.” She glanced, once again, out the window—his gaze was just too penetrating—and the things she understood, the truths she had absorbed, were far too intimate and revealing to share while she looked him in the eyes. “I know three things for certain,” she began, losing herself in the lavender-golden sky. “The first: that you’re not evil. You are not my enemy, no matter how frightening this seems, no matter how the future unfolds.” She heard his breath hitch, and then he grew unnaturally quiet, like a creature of the night becoming one with the shadows. “Second,” she pressed on, “I know that Kyla is. She’s evil to the core. Perhaps she’s always been…” She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I also know that I’m going to need to face her eventually, before the princess…claims her.” Her eyes filled with moisture, but she refused to cry over her twin. “She’s lost to me, forever. I get that—I do—but I still need to seek some closure.” A pastel orange hue blended with the bottom of a white fluffy cloud, eclipsing its purple underbelly, and the azure-blue sky that framed the silhouette provided a breathtaking backdrop. “And last, but not least, I know that I owe you an apology.” This time, she turned to regard him and met his seeking gaze head-on.
She owed him at least that much.
Saxson’s stunning eyes swept over her features with pure, undiluted compassion. “No, Kiera, you don’t.”
She smiled faintly. “Yes…I do. If not an apology, then I owe you a thank you.” She held one finger in the air to keep him from interrupting —she needed to get this out. “You saved my life, Saxson, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your intervention. You figured it out, you found me, and you did what you had to. I don’t blame you for that, even if it’s terrifying. Kyla was the villain, not you.” She linked her fingers together and settled them in her lap. “Beyond that, you slayed all the monsters”—her voice cracked, and she tightened her interlocked fingers around the top of both hands, until her knuckles became mottled; she wanted to get this out without breaking down—“that may sound theatrical, but it isn’t. Owen…and Travis…those vampire-hunters; they were worse than any nightmare I’ve ever had. And if they were still here…if they were still living…I don’t think I could bear it. I wouldn’t survive. I’d be constantly looking over my shoulder, flinching at every noise, wondering where they were, and waiting for them to strike: to find me and finish the job. As it stands, Xavier is still out there, and the thought makes it hard to breathe.”
“He will never get anywhere near you,” Saxson growled, the smooth skin above his high, sculpted cheekbones growing taut as he tightened his jaw. “I swear that to you—on my life and my honor as a sentinel.”
She studied his expression—the narrowing of his gaze, the constriction in his lips, the barely perceptible hint of his fangs, and she knew he was telling the truth. “I believe you,” she whispered. “But all that aside, I wanted to thank you for something else, as well.”
His compelling, perfect eyebrows arched above his equally stunning eyes. “What’s that?” he quietly rasped.
She forced herself to smile and swept her hand in a wide, circular arc, indicating the bedroom, his house, and the valley. Everything. “You could have handled this—all of this—so very badly…but you didn’t. You handled it with patience, kindness, and honesty. You have treated me with…well, with grace…even as I’
ve treated you like just another captor. I know that you’re not, Saxson, but it’s going to take me time: not just to assimilate all the new information; not just to try and come to terms with the impossible—the Blood Curse, the Vampyr, the life that I’m facing—but to heal from the trauma I’ve been through. To locate enough of my center, to regain enough of my footing, to even try and take a single step forward…from here. I honestly can’t promise you anything.”
She pressed her lips together and held her breath, waiting for his reply.
At least she had gotten it out.
Saxson shifted purposefully on the bed, where he sat. He leaned toward her, reached out his hand, and then drew it back in hesitation. Everything in his expression, in his bearing—in his protective, territorial posture—told her he wanted to touch her, soothe her, hold her. But true to his generous nature, he was holding back…restraining that urge. Finally, after several pregnant moments had passed, he rubbed his thumb over the shadow on his jaw and whispered, “What do you need from me, angel?” His captivating eyes nearly pierced her soul. “Whatever it is, I will make it happen.”
Like the perfect key sliding into a tumbler, the spring-loaded pins in Kiera’s wounded heart lined up, and she almost heard the click of the track as her very core unlocked. While she wasn’t completely open to Saxson’s ominous world; while she didn’t know if she could meet his advances; one thing was unerringly clear: this man—no, this vampire—was welcome to come in.
He had already slipped past her defenses.
Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she licked her lips to moisten them. “As much as I desire to call my parents, to hear their familiar voices; as much as I need to face and confront my sister, to bring that chapter of my life to a close; what I really need is just…to rest. In every sense of the word. I need to turn down the noise. I need to stop thinking, processing, and analyzing. I need to stop feeling everything: confused, terrified…afraid. Honestly, Saxson, I just want to take a couple days…and rest. Rehabilitate.”
He shifted onto his knees, so seamlessly—so unobtrusively—it was like the slow, fluid motion of a silent jungle cat, and then he crept to Kiera, placed one knee on either side of her thighs, and cupped her jaw in his powerful yet gentle hands.
He didn’t say a word.
He just stared into her eyes like he was reading her soul through her irises, his thumbs rotating softly in a calming, gentle motion.
And then he bent his head and kissed her.
With tenderness.
With reverence.
With love?
Kiera closed her eyes and kissed him back—not passionately, not erotically—but with affection.
He drew back, breathed soulfully against her mouth, then slid his lower lip—back and forth, just once—against hers, before fully pulling away. “You will rest as long as you need to, iubito,” he rasped. “And I will see to your every comfort, but first, there is something I want to give you—and I hope I have not overstepped my boundaries or made a misguided calculation.” His soft eyes brightened with anticipation. “I think it will help you heal.” He raised his forefinger, touched it to her nose, and smiled, as resplendent as the noonday sun. “I’ll be right back.”
Kiera’s head was spinning…from the moment…from that kiss…as she waited quietly to see what Saxson had for her. Minutes later, he returned to the bedroom with a beautiful red violin case in his hand.
“I know that this instrument you love was used against you as an instrument of torture, and I know that you may not want to play…perhaps never again.” His features grew solemn. “That’s fine; you don’t have to. This isn’t for me—it’s for you.” He set it on the bed, opened the clasps with tangible veneration, and slowly raised the lid. “This particular instrument is very special.” His lips quirked up in a knowing smile. “Our king, Napolean Mondragon, traveled back and forth to Cremona, Italy, quite a bit during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. He collected beautiful works of art and rare artifacts—but this? This was his finest—and rarest—acquisition: a gift made for him by a friend.” He lifted the antique instrument out of the more modern case and turned it around so she could see it. “A craftsman by the name of Antonio—”
“Stradivari,” Kiera breathed in a whisper. “Saxson…” She couldn’t help herself. She rocked onto her knees, crawled across the bed, and reached out for the instrument, cradling it like a baby. “This is an original Stradivarius? Made by the finest luthier of all time?” Her eyes clouded with tears, and a single drop escaped one corner. “Do you know what something like this would cost on the open market?”
He chuckled. “Yeah…millions…”
“Yes.” She nodded, empathically. “But honestly, it’s priceless. I’ve held one, once or twice, but I never…” Her voice trailed off as she caressed the wood with the pads of her fingers, peered inside the F-holes, and read the antiquated label: Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1704. “Antonio Stradivari.” She spoke the name with reverence. Then she handed the instrument back to Saxson because she had to shield her eyes. She was crying like a baby, and there was no way she could hold it back. “When did you do this?” she asked. “How did you get it? Why did your king agree? I can’t accept this, Saxson; I can’t accept something so—”
“Sh…sh…sh,” he hushed her. “You can, and you will. Nothing would give the king greater pleasure than to one day hear this exquisite instrument played as it was meant to be. My brother Santos picked it up from the king’s manse and brought it to me late last night, while you slept. I spoke with Napolean on the drive home from Denver, again, while you were sleeping soundly. You should have heard his voice, Kiera; he was absolutely delighted.” He quickly shifted to a different subject, as if he were afraid she might object again. “Don’t get me wrong: I know that musicians marry their instruments. It takes years and years of playing, trading up, searching to find the perfect fit in every way. So we will bring your primary violin from Denver to Dark Moon Vale, and anything else you need. But this…this is a gift from the king to you. And I hope it will serve as medicine to mend your wounded soul. Tell me you will take it, Kiera. Nothing would please me more.”
Kiera swiped her tears with the back of her hand and sniffled in a less than ladylike manner. It couldn’t be helped. She stared at the exquisite case, with its beautiful velvet lining, and nodded, trying not to tear up again.
What had he done…
How could he have known…
There was nothing on the planet—no, nothing in existence—that could have meant more or touched her more deeply.
And after all she had been through over the last nine days, it was more than a fresh breath of air—it was like a new beginning.
A shining ray of hope.
The burgeoning anticipation that maybe, even in the midst of a storm—or a never-ending nightmare—dreams could still come true.
“Thank you,” she choked out tremulously.
There was nothing else she could say—adequate words did not exist.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Later that night
Keitaro Silivasi pressed his finger against his lips and nodded silently to his youngest living son, Nachari. I can hear someone breathing on the other side of the panel, he said telepathically, referring to the large mahogany door annexing the top-floor penthouse in downtown Denver. They had tracked the lycan Xavier to the lavish Swingle-Duplex Suites: Apparently, the Alpha General enjoyed his creature comforts when he visited—and terrorized—the inhabitants of Earth.
Nachari’s deep green eyes grew sapient. Yeah, me too.
Follow my lead, Keitaro instructed, understanding intimately how dangerous an alpha-male werewolf could be, especially if the beast felt cornered.
Without hesitation, Keitaro Silivasi vanished from sight, reducing his physical form to its basic molecular structure, and flowed like fluid magma through the keyhole. He could have just rematerialized inside the opulent skyrise condo, but he wanted to approa
ch the unknown from a lower vantage, toward the ground.
Nachari followed suit, remaining close behind his father.
Keitaro’s supernatural senses flared out in all directions: He sniffed, he listened, he looked, and he felt…for any errant vibrations.
Xavier Matista was not in the penthouse.
Shimmering into full view atop a dazzling marble floor in the glass-enclosed open floor plan, he quickly spun around, just in case he had missed something in his ethereal body.
And that’s when he saw the woman, better described as a girl…perhaps something in between…
She was hunkered over in a semi-fetal position at the edge of a platform bed, chained like an animal to a stake in the ground with a collar around her neck. Her wild amber hair, with highlights of golden brown, was filthy, matted, and tangled. Her naturally lean five-foot-six frame looked disturbingly emaciated. Her body was covered in marks and bruises, mottled from head to toe, and there was something affixed to her right thigh—it looked like a piece of stationery. Despite her jarring condition, what caught Keitaro’s attention the most were her large, terrified eyes.
They were unlike anything he had ever seen before: huge, round, and silver-blue, like swirling, crystal glass-art, or the surface of a mountain lake, shimmering beneath a beam of moonlight. Coupled with her thick, long, dark lashes, they were the eyes of a faery princess, not a human captive.
His breath hitched in his throat, and he looked askance at Nachari, who was already making his way toward the female. “Careful,” Keitaro snarled, not understanding where the instinct came from. “Don’t hurt her.”
Nachari furrowed his brow. He opened his mouth to say something, then briskly shook his head, apparently preferring to dismiss the thought. He dropped down in a lithe, limber squat, crouching like a tiger in front of her. “What is your name?” he crooned softly. “How did you come to be here?”