Her Vampire Lord

by Ines Johnson

  Marechal sits up, surprisingly elegant even though I’ve rucked up her skirt. She carefully places both feet on the ground. The stems of her heels knock against the floor, but the sound is not an invitation to come inside.

  “Of course,” I say, matching her professional tone.

  She nods. Her shoulders are erect, back straight, head high. But she won’t meet my eyes. Somehow she’s looking down her nose at me without looking directly at me. Her haughty attitude only serves to want me to make her beg even harder.

  “I’ll have the paperwork drawn up tonight,” I say, straightening out my shirt and refastening my cuff. “You’ll have forty-five percent ownership of your company.”

  Her gaze flashes to mine in the light of that math. There’s a tick in her jaw. I can hear her molars grind. There is a tremble in her pinky finger—a slight one, but it’s there. Any other woman would be on her knees, thighs parted, palms up, waiting for my command. Not this one.

  Marechal Durand is the strongest woman I’ve met in a lifetime. I crave to see her back bend, to break that iron will of hers until her pussy is putty in the palm of my hands. Working Marechal Durand up is fast becoming my new favorite pastime. I’m sure the pleasure will only be surpassed by working her over.

  “For now.” The two words are clipped. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Serrano. I’ll be going home now.”

  Her heels are the sounds of war drums as they impact the floor. My ears twitch as they catch a hint of the slickness on her inner thighs. If not for those thick stems on her vintage shoes, Marechal would be sliding across the floor.

  She moves quickly past me, giving me a delectable view of her backside. Fuck, if I can’t wait to bend her over my knee. But she’s almost out the door.

  “Wait!”

  Her heels come to a screeching halt. They’ve probably left a mark on my pristine floor. Marechal turns, giving me a wary glare. Damn, can the woman arch an eyebrow.

  “What?” Her tone could cut glass. The cool breeze rolling off her shoulders does nothing to dampen my hard-on.

  “You promised to look at my vines.”

  Her gaze dips to my crotch. There’s no problem with that particular vine. It is hard and eager for her attention. Very soon, I’ll place it on her tongue for her to suckle.

  She parts those lush lips in what I know will be a refusal. But before she can utter a word, I hold out my hands, arms outstretched, as though to show there is nothing up my sleeves.

  “Just because I lost our friendly wager…” I begin.

  Both her brows go sky high at that. I hold up my palms to show they are empty, even though I can still scent her sweet smell on my fingers.

  “I didn’t think you’d hold your winning and my failing over my head.”

  Now her mouth gapes open, but only for a second before she slams it shut. That dark plum gaze narrows on me with suspicion. Fates, when’s the last time I’ve had such an intelligent, discerning woman?

  “I would appreciate you taking a look at my vine, as a professional courtesy,” I say. “Surely you can give me another moment of your time.”

  The breath she lets out is low and shaky. Can she sense I threw that bet? Does she recognize that I had her in the palm of my hand, literally? It’s been so long since I’ve played a game of catch and release. Usually, women throw themselves at me for the release they know I can give.

  “I’ll grab a sample on my way out,” she says.

  It’s not what I wanted. But this is the pattern with her. I incline my head to her. She turns on her heel and makes a dash for the door. I let her go.

  Let her think to herself that she isn’t already on my hook. Her gait isn’t the confident stride it usually is. Her pussy is aching for me, aching for release. Soon enough, I’ll catch her. Then I’ll dangle her on the line until she begs for mercy.

  I’ll just have to keep our tryst from Cari, which in turn means keeping it from Hadrian. Despite the pretty family picture my new sister-in-law painted earlier, I don’t do relationships. Marechal is going to be a lovely distraction. But only for a few days.

  13

  Marechal

  There is no distinction between dreaming and waking. My body hums from a fitful rest to an energized alertness. Like a vine greeting the new day’s sun, I unfurl my arms and stretch my limbs. As I stretch the length of my body, I don’t hear the usual snap, crackle, and pop of tired tendons. Where I do feel the weight is in my core.

  A tingle persists between my thighs. A throb of need that I have never experienced before. Because I’d never known what I’d been missing.

  Last night, Gaius Serrano brought me out from under a deep, dark cave. He brought me down a long, dim hallway with lights on either wall flaring to life with each of his guiding steps. At the end of the corridor, I spied the first ray of sunlight. The rays reached out to me, beckoning me to me with their warmth. I hadn’t even known I was cold until that moment. Before I could touch the glass panes of the window, Gaius pulled the curtains closed.

  This morning, daylight streams into my open curtains. The full force of the sun’s light captures my face. I’m still burrowed under the comforter. Yet somehow, I am left cold. When I press my thighs together, the ache there persists.

  Last night wasn’t the first time a man put his hands down my panties. Back in high school, Wally O’Neal’s efforts had been pointless and embarrassing. Or, rather, pointed and uncomfortable. The man’s fingernails had been longer than mine. He was a much better Dungeon Master and aspiring wand wielder than he was a lover.

  Sex hadn’t interested me much after that. I’d had sex with my college boyfriend, Jordan Riley. He wasn’t a college student, though. He was my professor, one of the world’s foremost oenologists. The man was brilliant when it came to the study of ancient wines. I could listen to him wax philosophical for hours about the fermentation of rice in Predynastic China. His theories would be all I thought about during his two-minute pumping action between my legs. After he rolled over and fell asleep, I’d pull my panties back on and get my kicks reading his research notes.

  When Gaius put his fingers on me, my mind blanked into a pure blackness of bliss, punctuated by tiny starbursts of light that promised a big explosion.

  Would he want to do it again? That is a stupid question. I know he would. Handsome, rich men like to play power games. The real question is: would I let him play me?

  As of now, I have forty-five percent of my family’s company back in my grasp. Gaius still holds the controlling amount. What would I have to let him do to me to get another six percent?

  A sheen of sweat coats my forehead at the thought. I jerk the covers off me. My bare feet crash down onto the cold floor, shocking some sense back into me.

  That was a one-time event. I’ve spent all my life having to prove my intelligence and capability in a man’s world. I will use my head to get the rest of the shares back.

  With a purposeful inhale, I push myself up off the bed. I go through my morning necessaries and then get dressed.

  I pull on a bra, but the silky lace feels too rough on my breasts. The matching panty set feels tight at my thighs; the material brushes against my swollen core, and I ache. I pull on a tight skirt, hoping it will help keep me together. All it does is make me feel confined, make me feel the need to step out of it. Instead, I slip on a pair of six-inch heels—entirely impractical for the walk I have to do in the field today, but the shoes make me feel powerful.

  I leave my room and head for my lab. Stepping up to the open window there, I can see the entire vineyard. The sight of even rows of green that stretch on for miles settles something in me. Staring at the uniformity is what finally cools the ache between my legs. My shoulders straighten. My tits lift, but not because of any man. It’s because of all that I have built.

  With the yield of this season’s harvest, I know I’ll have enough to buy back the last six shares to retake control of my business. Gaius said he wasn’t interested in my money, but I’m willing
to offer the entire profit if it’ll put me back in control of my destiny.

  On my desk is a wilting vine. The color of the leaves is not any of the Durand's signature berries. Nor are they one of my hybrid blends.

  Then I remember; this is the vine I took from the Serrano vineyard before I left. At the roots are the telltale white spots to indicate rot. But there’s more.

  The green leaves are discolored with splotches of red. In some places, there are raised pockmarks along the veins. I place the specimen under a microscope to get a better look. What I see there doesn’t make sense.

  Grapevines are tough plants. They can survive cold winter storms, an invasion of pests and, in some cases, flooding. The Serrano vine looks like it’s been through each of these catastrophes all at once—when not a single one of those instances has happened in this valley.

  A light tap on the exterior door brings my head up. Zahara stands in the open door. Her gaze is cast down as she waits for me to acknowledge her. Before I do, I glance up at the clock. It’s well after lunchtime. I’m shocked to see that I’ve been examining this vine for hours.

  “Yes, Zahara, please come in.”

  She shuffles into my lab. As she nears my desk, her hand rises. I take the slip of paper she offers. On the document, I see her carefully written script detailing the date, hours worked last night, and the number of workers. It’s a larger number of people than I expected.

  “We’re not trying to cheat you, Ms. Durand.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  “Times are hard back home,” she says. “Jobs are scarce. That’s why there are more of us this year.”

  Zahara’s blouse slips off her shoulder, revealing brown skin and a red, raised pockmark. The bruise looks similar to the disease on the plants, but in a straight line and close together. Like the swipe of fingernails.

  “Are you okay, Zahara?”

  Her gaze lifts to meet mine. She blinks as she searches my face. Whatever she’s looking for, she doesn’t find it, because she pulls up the loose fabric to cover the mark.

  “I’m ready to work,” she says. “With more of my cousins here, we should get the harvest done in half the time.”

  It’s clear she’s not willing to talk to me about her bruise. I have a mind to fire all of the new males she’s brought with her, starting with the misogynist from yesterday. Instead, I unlock the safe where I keep the cash for the day workers. I hand her the money noted on the invoice. Then I tug a few more bills loose, slipping them into her blouse where I saw the wound.

  I realize too late that the move, even between two women, might have crossed a line. But Zahara doesn’t flinch. She holds my gaze as she retrieves the money I stuffed down her shirt and hands it back to me.

  “I don’t do handouts, Ms. Durand.”

  Color stains my cheeks. I want to tell her that’s not what that was. I don’t want to give her a hand. I want to give her the ability to run if she needs to.

  “It’s not for your hands,” I say. “It’s for your feet, in case you need to get away.”

  The same small smile from yesterday plays on her lips. “History tells me never to take a gift from a colonizer.”

  “My family wasn’t part of that. I’m second-generation French-American.”

  Zahara nods, but she still doesn’t take the money. Her gaze is on the vine on the table. “I hear there are new owners at the Palmezzo Vineyard?”

  I take a deep breath. On the exhale, I try to let go of my need to save this woman who is not ready to be saved. “It doesn’t look like they’ll be harvesting this year. Their vines are sick.”

  Zahara's head cants to the side as she regards the vine. There’s a spark of clarity in her intelligent gaze.

  “Have you seen vine rot like this before, Zahara? Where there is no internal problem, yet the vine is still sick?”

  “No.” She shakes her head slowly. “But I have heard tales of it.”

  “What tales?”

  “The land upon which that vineyard sits once belonged to my people.”

  I knew that bit of history. Arizona has the second-largest percentage of Native Americans in America. Over a quarter of the area of the state is reservation land.

  Zahara’s mother was a descendant of the Mayan. Her father was a descendant of the Tohono O’odham tribe that once lived and toiled on these lands before the Europeans came. Her grandfather moved their family to Mexico shortly after my grandfather bought this land. They made the trek across the border every year to work the land that once was theirs.

  I now realize I’m not sure which branch of her people she is referring to. The indigenous people of Central America? Or the native inhabitants of North America? Would it be racially insensitive of me to ask? I’m not sure, so I just listen.

  “The stories state that my people angered the god of the underworld. The god made it so that nothing would grow atop the soil until his ire was appeased.”

  “How would the god’s ire be appeased?”

  “When the Night Son greets the dawn.”

  I had been taken in by her tale, but now I frown. “Night sun? That makes no sense.”

  “Of course it doesn’t, Ms. Durand. It’s just a myth.”

  14

  Gaius

  If it were my choice, I’d stay awake all day. I have no desire to walk into the sun, I just want to be awake in it. But each night, as the moon goes down each night, it compels the children of the night to go down with it. At my age, I can stay up a little later each sunrise, and wake a little earlier each sunset.

  My body begins rousing even before the last of the sun’s rays are creeping down below the horizon. It’s not enough to free me from my daily turmoil. The nightmare holds fast.

  As I sleep, and I try to kick free of the slumber of the dead, I hear her. She is always in the background. The sound of her laughing, of her screaming, of her sighing with pleasure. I would always listen to those sounds to know if it was safe.

  The only time I could ever be certain, was when she was writhing beneath me. When Domitia trembled at my hand, I knew a second of safety. When I tamed her with my tongue, there would be a pause from peril, a period of protection. But I always knew the higher she rose on the peak, the sooner she would come crashing down and bring a world of agony down on me.

  And so, trapped in the last few moments of my slumber, I rub. I lick. I pump into her with everything I have to keep her on that edge for as long as possible.

  Stamina meant a reprieve from the sting. Endurance meant a break from her bite. Virility meant a deferment from discomfort.

  Pleasure is not for me. I have to keep my wits, else I lose control of myself and she takes the reins of power. And then there would be real torture.

  I know there will be pain eventually. Domitia cannot be happy unless she hurts the ones she cares about. She is a true sadist.

  The sounds of her pleasure reach a crescendo. I know that my time is nearly up. The pain is coming.

  What will it be this time? Will she pierce my scrotum again, adding a new adornment to my balls? Perhaps a new brand on my flesh? Hopefully this time, she’ll use a hot iron and not tear at my skin with her fingernails. Whatever way Domitia decides she’ll show her twisted love for me today, I take a deep breath and prepare, knowing there is no escape from her.

  She smiles her cruel grin that displays her otherworldly beauty. That grin led a child of the slums to follow behind an older woman and become ensnared in her fangs. She brought me from down low, up to a high place. I never suspected she would thrill in dropping me from on high, over and over again.

  Her smile stretches across her face. Her eyes flash. She bares her fangs. I brace for the pain, only to scramble awake.

  My mouth is open wide on a soundless scream. My fingers are wrapped around torn sheets. My eyes see the last strands of sunlight setting from the corner of the room.

  In the shadows of my bedroom sits a large figure, huddled in the darkness. My fear does not increase
. My anxiety lessens at the sight of him.

  “Dreaming of her again?” Virius asks.

  I still haven’t found my voice, so I do not respond. He doesn’t need me to. The three of us have this in common. We all dream of her. Hadrian’s dreams are ones of longing and shame. Mine are filled with performance anxiety and pain. Virius? I dare not think of what horrors she put him through. Of the three of us, I know he got it the worst.

  Domitia made Hadrian love her. She made me fuck her into senseless pleasure. Virius? Him, she liked to share.

  “I still can’t believe she is truly gone,” says Virius. His chest is bare. He wears only a loincloth wrapped around his hips in the way of his warrior ancestors.

  “She is.” I find my voice to give my brother the assurance. “I saw her burn this time. There were no tricks.”

  Lucius had taken Domitia into his dungeons. There, he had exacted revenge for all of them, including the countless young men Domitia had turned over the centuries only to slaughter at whim. Hadrian hadn’t been interested in seeing his former love again, now that he had the true love of his life. It had taken days to coax Virius out of the cellars after her return. I had gone to watch Domitia turn to ash for my brothers. She smiled at me one last time as she burned. Her eyes had fluttered as though she liked the pain of death. She probably had.

  “Do you think that she will haunt us?” said Virius.

  “She could if she had a soul, which she does not. So, we’re safe.”

  Virius appears to turn that word over in his mind. Safe. None of us know the definition any longer—if we ever have.

  I say nothing of seeing Domitia nightly in my dreams. The only thing that would free me of that apparition would be to stay awake all day. But my skin allergy and need for blood preclude me from accomplishing that feat.

  I should get up. But I feel restless. My sleep hasn’t been fitful in years.

  In times like these, I would reach out for a woman. A submissive female whose pleasure I could control, whose climax I could toy with, whose will I could bend to my fancy. Being in control of a woman’s pleasure is the only way I feel safe, both in the sleeping and waking worlds. As long as a pussy is writhing at my command, all is well.