Tempt (The Kresova Vampire Harems: Aurora Book 2)

by Graceley Knox

  “She loves the customs of an earlier time. For such a big unveiling to other races and factions, she’ll be sure to handle your costume choices personally.”

  “Meaning?”

  “There will be a truck or two of dresses arriving for you to choose from. Morana wants someone she’s eyeing for her court to be a perfect representative of her power.”

  I blanch. “You mean a perfect dress up doll. Do I look like blood-sucking Barbie to you?”

  “You’re blonde.” Carver wipes his hand over his mouth, a smile flirting behind his fingers.

  We stop at a dead end and the servants slip away from us. Two doors face each other. Carver opens the one right behind him and I catch a glimpse of a thick, Persian rug and the hint of a four-poster bed carved from Mahogany or another reddish wood. The heat is now rioting through me, my sex wet and ready for him. I know exactly how we can spend the afternoon.

  Leaning up, I kiss him. “So, if that’s your room…”

  “Your room is behind you. I didn’t want you out of my sight and you needed something large enough. I know from experience those damn dresses take up a lot of space.”

  My tongue teases his again, darting in between his parted lips and tasting him. There’s a hint of copper on his breath from where he’s last fed but also the rich Scotch he drank on the plane and something else, something earthy and powerful that’s purely him.

  “But we can celebrate me coming home on your bed first.”

  He grinds against me, the rigid outline of his cock hard against my hips. “Ma belle, I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Oh, Carver, I wasn’t asking. I was definitely demanding.”

  “Anything for my true queen.”

  He’s lifting me slightly over the threshold, and the wedding symbolism isn’t lost on me at all, when the cell in his pocket rings. “Merde,” he says and yanks the phone out. The rest of the conversation devolves into a foreign language I can’t even hope to guess at. Carver takes a moment and covers the receiver. Giving me an apologetic shrug, he whispers. “I have to take this, ma belle.”

  Forcing myself to smile, I pull away from his grip and hurry to my room. “I know. Isn’t that part of subterfuge and saving the world or, well, at least the Kresova. Duty calls and all that.”

  His eyes seem even bluer than usual and his nostrils flare. “I will make this up to you, ma belle.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “I hate that grin.”

  It’s not fair to pout, but most of the evening so far has been spent with me, my anxiety over whatever it is Morana expects of me, and no one to offload on. Lucian’s not here. Reina and Row were very busy---and very vocal---for several hours, and Carver’s call sent him running off on an errand for far too long. I’m happy for my bestie, really I am, but it’s hard to be running high on so many emotions. Plus, I’m getting hungry. It’s not time yet to feed, but it would have been nice to get a few sips from Carver, to satiate both my body and my raging libido in one. I’ll have to settle for tomorrow night, I hope. Still, does Reina have to keep smiling like the cat who ate the canary?

  “Why?” Reina asks as she leans back in the bubbles of the jacuzzi that might as well be a pool.

  Carver’s palace might be old school, literally from the time before Marie Antoinette was beheaded and all that jazz, but he’s definitely worked to have modern accommodations too. There’s a full spa on the premises. He staffs it with masseuses who aren’t vampires, but I would bet they are fae or witches. They have a magical touch; that’s for sure. After a sauna, we’re both now relaxing in a giant jacuzzi, like the kind you’d get at a hotel or a gym too expensive for me to afford back home. Reina floats in front of me, and it’s hard to even pretend to be mad at her with her bobbing up and down.

  Girl’s tiny. That yin to my yang.

  Like a true opposite, she’s also having far more luck tonight in the romance department than I am.

  “I hate that grin,” I continue, “because I want to spend that type of quality time with Carver, but he hurried out of here on a top-secret mission. Who knows what’s going on. It could be something he’s heard from Lavinia or shifter prophecies.”

  “Do you think he had to go back to Paris?”

  I shiver even though the water is bubbling warmly around us. Oh, and despite being undead and immune to temperature. It’s a different kind of shiver and a distinct shadow of fear curling through me. I don’t want Carver anywhere near Morana. As far as she knows, he’s still her loyal assassin, but that’s not how things are anymore, not in reality. The last thing I want is for her to hurt him. It’s the Queen Bitch I don’t trust.

  “If he had to go to the court without me, he’d have mentioned it.”

  “Then relax. Whatever Carver has going on, he’ll handle it and then you, too, can be riding the pleasure train.”

  “All aboard.” I snicker. “Are you and Row staying here?”

  “I can’t. If any vamps drop by, you know we can’t explain why a human’s here and in the know. Carver has another estate near Nice that we’re headed towards. I swear, some gals get all the vampiric sugar daddies.”

  “Reina!”

  She shrugs and dips her head under the water. “I don’t mean it that way, exactly.”

  “What way do you mean it?”

  “Mostly that this place…”

  “Yeah?”

  “…is am-az-ing!” She stretches out the word so it feels like far more than three syllables.

  I have to agree with her. I’ve never seen anything like this palace except in movies or like on The History Channel when they talk about actual Versailles.

  “Being a vampire gets more surreal by the day.”

  Reina snorts. “Yeah, but that makes sense. It’d almost be disappointing if there weren’t exotic locales and weird new species popping up. I never imagined that Mama Lisette was anything more than maybe gifted at charms. Now, I know that fae and shifters and vampires and God knows what else are real.”

  “Thanks.”

  “For making hot monkey love with Row?”

  Slapping her lightly on the shoulder---I have to be careful of my strength---I just manage to keep myself from groaning. “No, for being my friend and for being willing to follow me into this crazy, dangerous world.”

  “I wouldn’t let you leave me behind.”

  I’m about to add something else when one of the servants rushes into the room. She’s a matronly type with a kind face and a rounded figure. She flings a huge, fluffy green robe at me and, at first, starts speaking French. Frowning, I point to my mouth. “English? Um. Parle English?”

  The servant’s neck blushes red in her apparent embarrassment, and I realize that she must be a human assistant. Interesting. “Sorry, mademoiselle, but there’s a guest at the door asking for you. Since you’re the lady of the manor right now, it’s best if you take it.”

  I frown. “And Row?”

  “Rowland is waiting there too. He says it’s a special guest and Reina can’t come, but he also wanted me to tell you it’s safe to come forward.”

  I take a deep breath out of habit instead of need. Sliding out of the water, I grab the robe and wrap it around me. “I think we can guess how ‘special’ our guest is. Stay here and enjoy the spa. I do not want anyone even possibly associated with Morana’s court to know about you.”

  Eyes as wide as china plates, Reina nods back at me. “I don’t either.”

  Anxiety lances through me as I rush with the older woman to the main foyer. It takes a while. Normally, I’d just run but I have no idea where I’m going in a building this large and new, and the servant can’t run at vampiric speed. Whoever has come must wait. When I finally make it to the front door, my expression sours. Standing outside the door with the darkness of the night behind him and the stars twinkling above is Charles. He’s still in the dumbass tights and the velvet top, looking more at home in Fair Verona and among the leads in a Shakespeare play than in modern day F
rance.

  “Aura,” Row says, adopting Reina’s nickname for me. Good. I didn’t love my full name, but at least when Carver said it there was something seductive about it. “Your packages have arrived.”

  I blink between Charles who is licking his lips at my state of undress and Row who’s flexing his hands into fists at his side. “What?”

  Charles steps aside and there must be four full racks of designer dresses. This time, they’re not the poufy reproduction numbers of an Elizabethan or medieval court. No. There’s every type of little black dress available but also sequins, colors, wild cuts of cloth. Everything. The collection before me would make critics at fashion week drool.

  And it’s all mine.

  “I…Carver mentioned a delivery was possible, but this is so much.”

  Charles leans in closer to me than he has to, and his breath is fetid, a sourness to the copper tang there. “Queen Morana wants you presentable. Don’t forget that.”

  Swallowing hard, I step back toward Row. “Do whatever you have to do to get this stuff inside and go. Charles, you’re a creep.”

  “But we’re part of the same court,” he practically hisses. “Maybe Morana will let you be a prize once in a while for me.”

  I don’t need a mirror to know my eyes are flashing silver. “Over my dead body.”

  Charles laughs, a nasty sound. “That’s exactly my point.”

  Chapter 9

  If I’m tense on the journey back to Paris and to Morana’s court, then Carver might as well be a violin bow pulled to the point of snapping.

  His eyes are a stormy blue that seem to reflect his mood, and he hasn’t stopped gripping my hand as we ride in the backseat of his limo. I can’t help but feel gloomy too. I begged Row not to say anything about Charles’ leering and threats to Carver. There wasn’t a point. Charles is an eternal teenager and a slave to Morana, sure, but he’s not someone who seems to rank highly enough to get favors from the Bitch Queen. Besides, if Carver knew about the hanging threat, he might do something incredibly stupid.

  I hated what Carver had to do to keep his cover with Morana more than anyone, but it was important, and I understood the value in it. If he didn’t keep her thinking that he was still her most loyal consort and assassin, we’d never be able to accomplish our basically impossible tasks. We’d never be free and neither would the rest of the Kresova. Ever.

  Still, heading to her stronghold was horrifying. I’d seen her crypt in New Orleans, the carnage there, the dead bodies littering the floor and seen the family led to her and to their deaths. I was sure she kept her home as disgusting, that she had bodies piled to the ceiling and left to rot at her feet.

  “You look amazing,” Carver finally says, even though the pall hasn’t left the car.

  Shrugging, I smooth the fabric of my dress over my left leg. It’s a long, crimson dress that clings to all of my curves. It’s slit almost to my hip on the right side, exposing a creamy length of thigh. Before Reina and Row left toward Nice, she helped me do my hair. It’s swept up into a high bun but with tendrils falling free before my eyes. My lips have been highlighted with lipstick that matches my dress, and Reina helped give me a smoky eye look. It’s attractive, and I hope enough to make an impression on the court like I’m supposed to, but not enough to anger Morana. She’s the Wicked Queen to my Snow White, and I’m always walking a tight rope between being “presentable enough” and overshadowing her.

  There’s only a tiny sweet spot to hit or my head will litter her floor just as surely as any other speck of dust.

  Jesus Christ. How did all the Kresova live or unlive like this for thousands of years. To be the subject of someone so insane, so despicable is already eating at me and it hasn’t even been a month. Morana must be incredibly strong. If I had had to put up with that bitch for thousands of years, I’d have started a riot. I have a feeling someone had and probably more than once, but with no success.

  Probably a lot of pain though.

  Oh, joy.

  “You clean up well, too.” I run my hand through his wavy, dark blond hair. It’s long enough to sit on his shoulders and makes him look young despite the thick five o’clock shadow on his chin. He’s decked out in an Armani tuxedo with a cerulean pocket square that matches his eyes. When I first saw him, I thought he was sex on a stick. He’s living up to that image tonight, that’s for sure. “How long do we have to stay? Is she going to make me feed in front of her? Are we going to have to kill humans for sport? Seriously, I’m not walking into some kind of Saw sequel, am I?”

  Carver’s jaw twitches before he speaks. “Tonight, is a homecoming and welcome for her court, but the other factions and races are in town. Some of the other races do not approve of Morana’s actions and lack of decorum.”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “But,” he continues, “while the royal courts of the other races don’t approve of her, they won’t stop her. There’s no gain for them in a full-out war. However, even if she doesn’t admit it to herself, Morana wants their approval, craves their regal attention. For a few days, she’ll be on her best behavior and adhering to some of our rules, at least for show. It will mean that---”

  “Her quarters won’t look like a damn torture porn film?”

  Carver frowns. “Torture porn? Ma belle, what types of movies have you been watching?”

  “Not many of those, but Reina loves all the horror flicks and sometimes gets control of movie night. As long as there aren’t corpses everywhere and a river of blood, it’s a start.”

  The limo pulls to stop outside of a huge penthouse not far from the Seine River. Carver slips out and soon is on the other side of the car and helping me to my feet. My eyes widen at the ornate building before me, something with heavily carved balustrades that must be from at least the 1700s.

  “This is her place?”

  “She has a whole apartment complex in the city, but her own quarters, chérie, make no mistake. They make mine look like a squatter’s hovel.”

  “I’d believe that.”

  Shit, if I lived to be three or four thousand years old, I’d probably be so rich that Bill Gates or Jeff Bezos would come begging me for money. I feel inadequate again. Yes, Morana’s a psychotic despot, but she’s also wealthy and worldly beyond my understanding. She’s old enough to have witnessed most of human history, at least the written down part, and, worst of all, she sired Carver. There may always been a tie between them, something even deeper than the harem bond he and I share now.

  I hope that it’s never tested; I hope he never chooses her over me.

  “Ma belle?” Carver’s voice is gentle, like a warm blanket I could wrap myself in if I wanted. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m going to see the Wicked Bitch of the vampire nation. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

  He kisses the back of my hand. I want more, but I understand why he’s doing it. What a spy might see is merely a polite, courtly gesture. Leaning to my ear, he whispers quickly before anyone can oversee. At least, I hope he does. “She may be a queen, but you’re a Dria. Morana has nothing on you, and she never will, ma belle.” He pulls away and winks at me. “Always remember that.”

  Swallowing hard, I follow him into the inner sanctum of the craziest monster I’ve ever met.

  Easier said than done.

  Morana sits on a throne because of course she fucking does. If her home outside of Paris is another horror show like the plantation home in New Orleans, I don’t know. Here, as Carver predicted, the accommodations are blessedly clean and opulent. Travertine tile floors, French impressionist paintings from Monet and Gauguin line the walls, and King Louis style furniture, heavy and covered in velvet, populate her apartment. The view of the river is spectacular, and a twenty-foot high window looks out on the Seine below us. As for Morana, she’s dressed in a long emerald gown that almost swallows her tiny frame.

  That’s the craziest thing of all about Morana.

  She’s shorter than I am, sligh
ter, and built like a bird. It seems impossible she has the strength she does, but I’ve seen her tear the head off a grown man without so much as blinking. Not that I’ve tried it cause, hello, not a crazy monster, but I know I don’t have that kind of strength in me. I’m a vampire and a fledge with my own wild nature working for me, but she’s ancient and even a flick of her wrist could probably send me crashing through a damn wall.

  Right now, she’s lounging over the gold throne and regards me with the same lazy half-focus of an alligator waiting for an idiot to wade into the bayou. I’m prey to her, and we both know it. Fuck. Morana revels in it.

  “Well, if it isn’t Carver and our newest child.”

  I keep my eyes trained on the floor--thankfully blood-free--and try not to let her catch me looking at her. She finally stands, graceful and unhurried, and then sashays to Carver. I know this game by now, understand that she flirts and does far more with him because she can and because she knows it insults him. Maybe she understands already how it eats at me. This time, Morana trails one hand, sharp fingernails extended down the front of Carver’s crisp, white shirt. Then over the button and waist of his pants. She runs her skank hand over his crotch, and it takes everything I have not to do something suicidal and lunge for her throat.

  Carver is mine, damn it. My consort, my harem-mate, my lover. Not hers.

  Whatever he was to Morana, even a child made by her fangs, doesn’t matter anymore. Or it shouldn’t. Still, a traitorous voice in the back of my head reminds me that he could rush to her, that he could always go back at any time and betray me.

  Betray us.

  Taking in a deep breath and hoping the few court members spread around confuse it for a fledgling mistake and not for the only way I know to calm the anger growing inside of me, I force myself to look away. Keep my head down, focus my gaze away. Now’s not the time to take down the Bitch Queen. Soon it will be, but not now.