Hunted: A Vampire Paranormal Romance (Vampires of Scarlet Harbor Book 2)

by Keira Blackwood

  “You should know what to expect,” Walter said, teasing me as he stroked his length up and down.

  I nipped his chin, urging him to give me what I wanted.

  His red eyes flared, his jaw tightened. It worked. This time it was I who teased him. With a fist around his base, I circled my opening with his swollen head.

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell me what you want.”

  He shoved his tongue between my lips, showing me a mirror of the desperation I felt.

  He squeezed my breast, and sunk deep within me. I fell back against the carpet, as Walter pulled my hips to his. He stretched me, molded me, consumed me.

  Everything was warm from the pleasure of him inside of me. I gasped with each thrust, with each knead of my breast, with each kiss on my neck.

  “When you come for me, and you will come for me,” he said, “I’m going to bite you, right here.”

  His fangs scraped my neck, a promise I looked forward to.

  “You’ll grow weak and I won’t stop,” he said.

  It was intimidating, but I knew I could trust him. I did trust him, with my life.

  My legs were weak already, my core tightened with every deep stroke.

  “I’ll feed you,” he said. “And we will be joined.”

  It was like getting married, yet so much more intimate, a promise for so much more than one lifetime. I was trading the life I knew for an eternity with Walter, and though it was scary and exciting, I was more sure of this than of anything else.

  “Amor aeternus,” I moaned.

  “Amor aeternus,” he repeated.

  Harder, faster, so fast. I squeeze his back, desperate for leverage.

  “You’ll wake up in the garden, under the earth,” he said. “But do not fear. I will be waiting for you. And you will be safe. Always safe, mine, forever.”

  One last stroke and I tipped over the edge.

  “Walter,” I cried as ecstasy washed over me. He didn’t stop, only pushed through, prolonging the feeling.

  Sharp fangs pierced my neck, and everything felt like more. More intense, more pleasure, until everything faded to silence, to black.

  There was a nasty knot of pain where my head was supposed to be, and a hole in my belly that was meant to be my stomach. I blinked, but there was nothing to see, only black. I tried to reach out, but my arms were heavy. No, not heavy, buried. Dirt all around me, I couldn’t breathe.

  Always safe, mine, forever.

  I didn’t need to breathe, only dig. His voice called to me, reminded me that everything was okay. Better than okay. We were amor aeternus.

  Something squeezed my wrist, a vice around my arm. Walter pulled me from the ground, held me in arms.

  Moonlight serenaded us, in the garden of perfect autumn blooms. A cool breeze blew, rustling the orange and red leaves upon the trees.

  I looked up at my love, my sire, and saw love in his eyes. He brushed my hair back from my face, dirt from my cheek, and kissed me exactly the way I needed.

  Epilogue

  Walter

  I held her hand through good days and bad, through episodes of uncontrollable hunger, the fits of confusion as she grew to terms with her new self. She never faltered, never broke down. Violet proved her strength through the roughest of circumstances, her will as a survivor, as she always had. I taught her to glamour, and to control the basic instincts of our nature.

  We stayed at the cabin in the garden, a place that I thought would never truly feel like home again. With Violet, it was more home than it had ever been before. She took over much of my duty working with the queen on combat training, as Ashley and Violet built a strange but pleasant rapport. I didn’t understand it, but Violet even seemed to like the queen.

  For the first time in my existence, as vampire or man, I was content in my being, happy even. For eternity to come, I had my amor aeternus by my side, more than I could have asked for, more than I deserved.

  Tyr

  The first days had been filled with emotion. Panic first. The icy water had cut through to the bone in sharp, stinging agony. The chains had tightened as the anchor had made its descent toward the ocean floor, crushing my bound legs, arms, and chest. Struggling had only made it worse.

  Moonlight had faded more and more as I had sunk further and further from the boat. With it, all hope of escape.

  Frustration had set in some time after the anchor had made impact on the ocean floor. More than hatred for the usurper, I despised myself. It was I who had allowed all of this to happen. It was I who hadn’t fought Yeke.

  At first, I’d expected my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I’d thought day, night, summer, winter—something would hold meaning. They didn’t. As time had passed, the ocean drained my strength until all that was left was a husk floating in the current, though traveling nowhere.

  Eyes open or closed—I couldn’t tell. The world was black. All that was left were dreams, memories of the past, and the pinching claws of crabs.

  By the time I lost all sense of feeling, it could have been weeks that had passed, or years. There was no way to tell. But every moment, I waited for the death that would not come.

  Slick scales, a momentous force—a school of fish swam by. They glided all around me in the darkness, rushing past in a frenzy, disrupting the stillness. It was possible that this was it. A shark that would take a bite before realizing my flesh was unpalatable. The idea wasn’t upsetting. At least the torment would be at an end.

  Fins and scales pressed in, no longer moving away, but trapped all around me. It didn’t make sense. Was this some sort of hallucination? It wouldn’t have been the first.

  Currents pulled. The fish struggled.

  For the first time in an eternity, I saw something. It was blue. Blue water. Silver fish. I was rising.

  My body hung limp as I was lifted from the darkest depths of hell, reborn into the world. I blinked the water from my eyes as I was lifted up into the cold night air. The moon was bright, a glorious wonder to behold. And it was as if I were seeing the world for the first time. Light glimmered off the thrashing fish scales, still slick from the water below. Wind blew, cold against my soaked skin and tattered clothes.

  The sounds of flapping fish meant the end of their lives, the restoration of mine. Machinery creaked and squealed, raising the net over the deck of the massive fishing barge. Voices carried, though their words were muffled to my ears. The wind howled. And I dropped.

  The pain of impact on the hard wood was a pleasant assurance—I was alive. Boots scrambled. Fish flopped, struggling to make it back to the water.

  The heel of a boot nudged my ribs. Men crowded around me, speaking to each other in a tongue I didn’t care to decipher, in words that mattered not.

  The screams. The screams pierced through the water in my ears, through the fog of my starvation. The sound was just like I had remembered. The warm, metallic flavor of blood was my salvation.

  Also by Keira Blackwood

  Protectors of the Pack

  The Protectors of the Pack Complete Series Box Set

  Bodyguard

  Enemies

  Heir

  The Riverwood Series

  The Riverwood Complete Series Box Set

  Grizzly Bait

  Grizzly Mate

  Grizzly Fate

  Can’t Prove Shift

  Misdelivered

  Continue reading for previews of Misdelivered and Grizzly Bait!

  Misdelivered: Chapter One

  Lyn

  Heated, hazel eyes devoured every voluptuous curve. Desire poured from him in waves. Even from my seat, forty feet away, the stink of my mark’s arousal tainted my nostrils. It was the loudest thing in the hotel lobby, even with the musician bellowing Frank Sinatra as he smoothly played his grand piano. The tune was flawless, just loud enough to dull the sounds of the casino in the next room—drunken chatter, clinking of coins, and the never-ending electronic dinging from the slot machines.

  The lounge was filled with
dark, rich woods. And rich patrons. A redheaded waitress flirted with a middle-aged suit at one of the small, round tables, then mocked him when she returned to the bartender. A thin, elderly woman in a satin evening gown sat at the next table over. Her silver hair was styled like that of a movie star from the twenties, and her confidence matched. The seats beside her were filled by attractive men, young enough to be her grandsons. But with their proximity to the aging starlet, and her hands on their thighs, I assumed no relation. Whispered innuendos passed, glasses clinked, taps poured. I took it all in, and kept my body turned toward the performer at the piano. But my attention remained focused on my target.

  Salvatore ‘The Weasel’ Girardo—sixty-three, five foot seven, two hundred twenty-five pounds, and most importantly—loaded. His reputation preceded him, that of his wealth, and that of his love for curvy brunettes. During my research, I’d learned that Girardo was drawn to short skirts and low-cut tops. Which was exactly what had drawn him to the woman on the stool next to him. It was also exactly the reason I wore a blonde wig and a modest pencil skirt. Every button on my blouse was done up to the collar; and I sat as far from the lech as the Obsidian Resort’s lounge allowed.

  Not only did The Weasel attempt to conquer a new woman every evening, but also the hotel’s poker tables. His vices ruled his nights. Legal defense of Monaco’s sleaziest criminals ruled his days. That, and shady deals with shifter mafia—the Sanguine Syndicate.

  My inner cat was ready to pounce with one look at my prey—some sort of weasel shifter a few times removed. Guys like him made easy marks. Hell, he was asking for it wearing that custom Bangaudi suit and thickly layered gold chains. Only one thing bothered me. There was a quality to him that didn’t fit the rest of the package. It was his eyes. The way that he looked at the woman beside him was lewd, sure, but at the same time predatory. It didn’t matter though. I kept my distance, so even if Girardo had a surprise ferocity held beneath the doughy surface, it wasn’t my problem.

  The brunette cackled in exaggerated amusement as he leaned close and whispered in her ear. His thick, sausage fingers brushed the fair, freckled skin just above her elbow. A heavy blush tinted the tops of her ears and the center of her cheeks. He almost had her. It was nearly time.

  “Hey, sugar. Next round’s on me.” A tall, dark, and overconfident distraction slid onto the stool beside me. His black hair was slicked back in a fifties-style poof that appeared to be made of plastic. The ten gallons of cologne that wafted from him threatened to drown me. And the wide, bleached-white, self-assured grin on his square face told me he was accustomed to hearing yes.

  “I have a drink,” I said, sparing the man only a small glance before turning back to the pianist in the center of the room. The glass was cool against my lips, the Cabernet Sauvignon smooth on my palate.

  “A fine lookin’ lady like you shouldn’t be left to drink alone,” the man said. “The name’s Chad, and I can promise you’ll be screaming it. All. Night. Long.” He placed his clammy palm on my bare knee, still sporting that self-assured grin. Clearly he was not the type to take no for an answer. And if I could have afforded making a scene, I would have made him regret touching me. Break a finger, bloody a nose. Not tonight.

  “Chad,” I said, looking him square in the eyes, “You’ll remove your greasy paw from my leg and make your way back to the casino.”

  “And why-”

  “If you don’t,” I said, leaning close enough that only he could hear me. “I’ll tell your wife exactly what you’re doing on this ‘business’ trip.”

  Chad recoiled, stupid grin sliding right from his smooth face. “How could you… I’m not…”

  “The indent from your wedding band remains from where you took it off,” I said. “I can see the circle shape in your pocket.”

  He looked down, sliding his hand over the offending wrinkles in black fabric. It was enough of a diversion.

  “And I’m guessing this is the lucky woman who snatched up such a prize.” I held his cellphone out for him to see. On the screen was the picture of the jerk holding a smiling blonde. Both wore matching gold bands.

  “How’d you-” The cheater reached for the phone, which I gladly allowed him to take.

  “And now it’s time to return to the casino,” I said, with a small, sarcastic smile.

  He did exactly that, without another word, and with his head turned back to watch me while he walked away.

  Plastic Hair shoulder-checked an undeserving bellhop just before leaving my line of sight. I sighed in relief and turned my attention back to my task.

  Panic welled in my chest when I found Girardo’s stool empty. His scent of aftershave and lust still lingered. I scanned the room.

  There. By the elevator. His fat fingers teased the hem of her barely-there skirt as he held the woman against the wall. His back was turned to me. Her face was buried in his chest.

  I set my glass down on the counter with enough cash to cover the tip, and stalked forward. Silent steps came naturally, even in six-inch heels, even on the buffed marble floor. It didn’t matter. The couple was so engrossed in their pre-coital connection, I could have shifted into an elephant and trumpeted behind them and they wouldn’t have noticed.

  Stealth was my thing, so I stuck to it. A flick of the wrist, and I slid the keycard from Girardo’s pocket without missing a stride. Before the elevator doors opened, I was halfway up the stairwell.

  A stark contrast to the luxury of the lobby, the stairwell was cold, concrete, and quiet. Thick stone walls buffered the noise from below. The floors above were quieter, filled with lavish, empty rooms, belonging to the rich gamblers that threw their money away in the first-floor casino. The Weasel’s room was six fifty-three. High enough to make escape from the window difficult. Also far enough from the security that swarmed in the casino that if I happened to be caught, it would take time for them to arrive.

  At the entry to the sixth floor, I stopped and listened through the thick, metal door. Heavy footsteps accompanied the dragging sound of rubber wheels on carpet, and the gentle clink of glass on metal. A food cart. Metal jingled, keys fumbled on an overfilled ring. The ding of the elevator. A gentle moan, a rustle of fabric. They were here.

  “Come.” The voice was deep, his accent heavy. The woman giggled, wobbly footsteps following just behind his heavy, steady set.

  As the minutes passed, I waited silently behind the door.

  “Where is it?” Girardo growled.

  “Let’s go in,” the woman said. “I’m ready. I want you n-”

  “My keycard,” he said. “It’s fucking missing.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “Let’s go to my room.”

  “I’ll have to go to the desk-”

  “Please,” she begged. “I’ve waited too long already.”

  Again the rustle of fabric. The slobbery smacking of lips. The wheels of the cart and footfalls of the bellhop sped past.

  “Yeah,” The Weasel said, voice rough as gravel.

  Moments later, the elevator dinged once again. And they were gone.

  I moved. My window of opportunity was limited. Salvatore Girardo was likely a ten minute ride at best. When he was done he’d be back.

  I glided through the hall as if I belonged there, past the cleaning lady. Six fifty-three. I used the keycard and stepped inside. The suite was covered in shades of cream, from honey-hued hardwood to the white chaise lounge. Even the bricks around the fireplace were marbled white and sand. There was an ivory grand piano, and dozens of white roses. The only vibrant color to be seen was beyond the hotel walls, though through the dark, night sky, the beauty was diminished. Dark waves rippled just beyond the open glass doors to the balcony. The same view in daylight was cerulean and azure. The decor was what I had expected. As was the location of the safe—just behind the ornate mirror next to the bed.

  One of the benefits of being a shifter was the enhanced hearing. I’d never met another thief who could hear the subtle clicks of the combination
lock as it turned without using a tool kit. For me it was easy. I was born for this. The lock clicked in place, popping the safe door open. Inside was a stack of cash, and more importantly, the Vandervelt broach I’d hoped for. That one little piece would not only feed me at the finest restaurants for the next five years, but afford my entire lifestyle and whims. The rumors were true. It was here, cold and heavy in my palm.

  The thrill of success clouded my brain. But not enough to overpower their scent. Wolves. Why did it have to be wolves?

  Before I could react, a sharp, stabbing pain pierced the back of my neck. I turned, ready to fight, ready to run. But the world spun. The room swirled in a foggy… unfocused…

  Shoes, black dress shoes. Salvatore ‘The Weasel’ Girardo stood over me. The woman beside him looked terrified, her lip bloody, her wrists tied. Suit-wearing goons filed in around The Weasel. Blackness shrunk my field of vision. Twinkling away. Something else, a feeling to replace everything else. Dread. Nothingness.

  Misdelivered: Chapter Two

  Lyn

  As soon as it began, I knew it was a dream. It was the same nightmare that had tormented me countless times before. But knowing didn’t make it stop.

  Standing on the steps of Hell’s gates, I stared up at the horrific black-brick façade. Behind every window was darkness, a blackhole that devoured life as much as light. It was the kind of residence only a monster could stand. The building stretched toward the sky, though somehow seemed to lean forward as we approached the door as if the house itself willed not only to crush my spirit, but my bones as well. Horrific gargoyles slipped down the stonework, claws and teeth marked for my flesh. But that wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t. It was just a house, of grey stone. Still, my eyes deceived me. And the fear was real.