by Tessa Dawn
Saxson paused to replay his conversation with Santos in his head—was she referring to the homecoming reception for Dario and Lily on Saturday night? That wasn’t even a family affair—well, at least not for his family. His only purpose there would be to act as a sentinel, and his brothers had that covered.
Before he could reply, she extended her bottom lip in the barest hint of a pout. How absolutely petulant, he thought, and not in a cute, endearing way.
“I mean,” she continued, “I guess it’s okay if you’re not ready, or…or even if you’re kind of ashamed of me. I’m not stupid, Saxson. I can see how hard you try, yet I can also see that you’re not really into it. That you’re not really into me. At least not yet. I can understand if you don’t want to pretend around your…community.”
So it had been insecurity more than petulance…
For reasons Saxson couldn’t pinpoint, the entire shift in conversation still seemed mildly manipulative, more than it seemed sincere, and once again, they were back to some enigmatic impasse: Kyla was being kind; Saxson was being unforgiving. Kyla was trying to express her feelings, and Saxson was being judgmental. For what it was worth, he was genuinely trying, yet something just remained…off.
Like trying to force two pieces of a puzzle together.
Pieces that just didn’t fit…
Nevertheless, he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He was desperate to trust this Blood Moon. “Kyla, baby…” He deepened his voice, placing his hands on top of hers. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. In truth, I never gave it a second thought. Braden Bratianu is a young vampire in the house of Jadon whose parents are flying in to see him on Saturday—they’ve been away from the vale for quite a long time—it’s really nothing more than that. Honestly, I wasn’t planning on going.”
She bit her lip, looked away, and frowned.
He sighed. “But if you really want to go, then sure, I can make that happen. I’m not too ashamed to take you, Kyla.”
Her entire face lit up.
She unfolded his fingers and reached for the penny, tucking it inside the top of her bikini, right above her heart. Smiling a hopeful, mischievous grin, she fished for more reassurance: “Really? You would do that for me?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
She exhaled in obvious relief. “Thank you, Saxson.” She tapped her fingers over the penny and added, “And I will always cherish this.” Then she bent her head to peck him on the lips, affectionately.
Despite his reservations, Saxson tunneled his hand into her waist-length blond hair, feeling the wet, unruly curls glide through his fingers, and brought her head forward to deepen the kiss. All the while, he couldn’t help thinking: Funny, she will always cherish the penny, when I think that was called flipping on a dime.
Chapter Eighteen
Kiera Sparrow braced a hand beneath her aching, bruised ribs as she slowly turned off the overhead faucet and jets in the walk-through shower. She glanced over her shoulder at the steamy bathroom window and nodded: She had hung her thick terrycloth robe over the alcove’s ornamental ironwork on one of the decorative knobs, and that had concealed the majority of the bathroom’s interior. Then, under the cover of rushing water and Johann Sebastian Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G-Major, the music pumping through the speakers, she had managed to open the window, remove the screen, and loosen all the remaining bolts to the iron bars with her hidden tuning fork. In addition, all the sheets she could safely shred had been torn into strips, knotted together, and fashioned once again as ropes—they were safely tucked away in the bottom of the linen closet and stuffed between off-colored, folded towels—hopefully, those used the least by Owen. She could only hope that he would pull fresh linens from the top of the stack and never peer at the pile toward the bottom.
Her breath hitched as she shrugged into the heavy white robe and slid the tuning fork back into the pocket. The pain in her sides, her cheeks, and her stomach was unrelenting. Xavier had certainly done his damage in the lab: slapping her whenever she looked at him sideways; kicking over her chair whenever she flinched away from an unwanted kiss; booting her in the gut and ribs as she scrambled to place the chair upright and sit like a good little lab rat, once again, hoping to avoid his correction.
It had all been a cruel, sadistic game to the Head Hunter.
To the maniacal lycan general.
And Kiera was still surprised—as well as grateful—that she had escaped without being strangled or butchered…or raped.
Still, she knew her days were numbered.
It was just a matter of time before Xavier went too far, before he grew tired of playing with his lab rat and decided to end it all. She could only hope that he would wait until Sunday, give her a chance to climb out the window on Saturday night.
Kiera had overheard Owen speaking to Travis about an upcoming gathering, a group meeting of vampire-hunters planned for eight o’clock P.M., in two days’ time. They were buying liquor, repopulating the heavy-metal playlist for the digital surround-sound system, and ordering catered food—that meant Kiera would likely be locked in her room, ignored for the duration of the meeting, and the noise would be sufficient to drown out the racket of her escape.
Or at least she could hope.
What she really needed was to convince Owen Green to allow her to take another shower, or better yet, a bath; to lock her in the room without tying her to the bed or a chair. She only needed five minutes to knock out the screen, tie the ropes to the window frame, and overcome her fear of heights. Come hell or high water, Kiera was climbing out that window.
And if she fell or got caught?
Well, then at least she’d die trying.
She ran her hand over the hazy glass above the vanity to clear away the steam, shrinking back in alarm at the reflection of her black-and-blue eyes, at the swollen knots above her bruised right cheekbone. Despite her best efforts at valor—her determination to remain focused and strong—she choked back a sob and shivered.
What the hell was going on?
The entire universe was topsy-turvy.
Nothing made any sense!
Vampires and werewolves…
Sadistic generals…
Humans who hunted creatures from gothic-fiction novels.
Her sister being involved in it all.
As her tears fell freely, her attention turned to another implausible subject: Saxson Olaru and Xavier’s cryptic words: “She is a vampire-hunter, Kiera, and she has taken your place with Saxson. She delivered you to me in order to achieve that goal.”
Kyla took Kiera’s place with Saxson—just what the hell did that mean?
Kiera stared once again into the foggy mirror as if the answer might come out of the glass.
Who was this Saxson, and what was his role—in the past, in the present, or going forward?
A part of Kiera wanted to crawl into a hole and hide from the entire nonreality: It was all just too fantastic. Another part of her almost wished it were true, at least the part about Saxson being a vampire. After all, if anyone could conquer a lycan general, it would be another supernatural creature…
Her head throbbed and she winced, partly at the pain, partly at the absurdity of her thinking: There were no such things as werewolves and vampires, and the only humans who hunted the latter had to be on drugs, demonstrably psychotic, or acting out some demented role-playing game.
Nothing—absolutely none of this—made any sense!
A brisk knock on the door brought her back to her current circumstances: reality or no, she was a prisoner in Owen’s warehouse. “Kiera!” His caustic voice reverberated through the panel. “What the hell are you doing in there?”
Kiera cleared her throat and glanced once more at the window, double-checking to ensure that everything was neat, tidy, and back in place. “Nothing,” she said, sounding innocent. “I was just coming out.” She heard him curse on the other side of the door, and she balled her hands into fists.
Not so much out of anger or resistance, but to steady her racing heart.
To channel all the desperate energy.
Glancing upward, toward the heavens, she whispered a plaintive prayer: “Dear Lord, please…please get me out of this. Help me somehow. Give me strength and courage. Help me make it until Saturday night.”
What happened next could only be described as an auditory—or visual—hallucination.
Perhaps a stress-induced delusion, conjuring mental impressions of a sea monster, much like the mysterious design on the occultist tattoo her captors had stamped into her wrist.
But it was as if a cosmic force answered back: a deep, rumbling, celestial chime that didn’t sound altogether human, a thunderous echo originating from within, resounding from the tarnished cavern of an overwrought mind.
“Try to reach Saxson. Your bond is strong. He may be your only hope.”
Owen Green retrieved the stylish smartphone from his front hip pocket and prepared to draft a text. He was disgusted with Kiera Sparrow and her whole princess routine—the untouchable captive taking baths and showers, playing her violin and her classical music—the off-limits property of the Head Hunter, Xavier. She needed to get her ass out of the bathroom.
Obviously, Xavier didn’t give a crap about the female—he’d beat her black and blue—and he obviously didn’t love her music that much because he’d given The Society the thumbs-up. Apparently, the tyrannical Head Hunter had gotten all he needed from his trip to the lab on Wednesday…
A cruel, iniquitous smile curved along the corners of his lips as he pressed the microphone icon and began to dictate his text in a muted tone of voice:
“Travis, it’s O, and I’ve got good news. This Saturday’s meeting will be more than a get-together, more than a catch-up assembly. Xavier gave us the go-ahead—we can get rid of Kiera! And to my way of thinking, we can make this a party for the ages. An opportunity for the newest recruits to finally slay a vampire, however indirectly, by taking out its destiny. We’re gonna do it old-school, Travis. Ritualistic killing. Slow. Methodical. Painful. And full of gothic symbolism. By the time we’re done, the bitch will wish that Xavier had killed her”—he actually inserted a smiley face. “So get here early, because you and me, we need to prep. Oh, and delete this shit the moment you finish reading it. Here’s to The Society! Here’s to the demise of the undead.”
Chapter Nineteen
It was ten o’clock, the night was unseasonably warm, and a soft, nocturnal breeze swept gently through the canyon as Saxson Olaru strolled leisurely beside Kyla in their rose garden, answering curious questions about Dark Moon Vale, describing the various species of roses, and occasionally taking her hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.
He was doing his best to be both a friend and a confidant.
To make her feel at home.
To give their Blood Moon the effort it deserved.
As they approached a particularly exquisite arrangement of baby-blue Suntory roses, a feat that took fourteen years of experimentation by Japanese and Australian researchers to create—they’d implanted the gene that led to the synthesis of blue pigment into Delphinidin pansies—he felt a curious tingling at the base of his spine. It traveled upward, along the vertebrae, until it radiated across his thoracic, then cervical regions, and he suddenly jolted.
It was no longer a faint, buzzing tingle, but a shock so intense that he gasped from the pain.
Kyla immediately turned to face him, her dark-brown eyes flashing with concern. “Saxson?” she whispered hesitantly. “What’s wrong?”
And that’s when he heard the second voice.
A faint, garbled sound that was so obscure and faded, he had no chance in hell of placing it. It sounded like a far, distant static crossing a radio wave, like something one might have heard over an old transistor radio.
But there was music...that song!
The one he had heard in Phoenix.
And then there was that dim, indistinct voice, ringing again, practically humming inside of his ears: “Saxson, can you hear me? It’s Kiera.”
He rocked on his heels and staggered to the side.
That voice—that name—it cut through him like a knife.
He closed his eyes and sent his senses seeking, trying to lock onto the telepathic bandwidth, but it was closed as quickly as it had opened.
Saxson, can you hear me?
It’s Kiera.
Every instinct in his primal, vampiric body surged with an influx of adrenaline—his protective instincts shifted into overdrive, and his territorial nature came alive.
A deep, primal snarl reverberated in his throat, and he suddenly felt restless and desperate.
Shocked.
Reeling.
And lost.
He suddenly felt inexorably lost.
“Saxson!” It was Kyla this time, bracing her hands on his biceps and trying uselessly to shake him. “What’s happening?” Her voice was laced with panic.
He stared into her seeking eyes, trying to anchor his body—and his mind—in the present space and time, trying to lock onto her presence. “I don’t know,” he said ominously, angling his head to the side, trying desperately to hear that voice…one more time. “I heard something,” he muttered.
Kyla frowned. “What do you mean?” She glanced over her shoulder and surveyed the greenhouse, as if the two of them might be in danger.
“No,” he croaked, registering her angst. “Not in the greenhouse—not outside. I heard something…in my head.”
At this, she appeared momentarily taken aback. “You mean, like voices?”
He bit down on his lip, trying to make more sense of it. And then he studied his destiny’s expression with more scrutiny than he had ever applied before. He took in all her features, her stance, and her demeanor, and then he absently scanned her inner left wrist, tracing every line of the enigmatic markings—the brand of Lord Cetus—Saxson’s visible claim. His tongue snaked out to wet his bottom lip, and he frowned. “Who is Kiera?”
Kyla’s face turned ashen as she quickly shook her head. “What? I…I don’t know what you mean.”
He steadied himself and rephrased the question. “Have you ever heard the name Kiera?”
Kyla’s expression grew inscrutable. “Um, I don’t know. Maybe at some point in my life, I have. But no, I don’t know anyone personally by that name.” Her eyes softened as she regained her composure. “Is that what you heard? A name?”
Saxson rubbed the bridge of his nose as if assuaging a headache. “I…I’m not quite sure. I think I heard—”
Kyla rose to the tips of her toes, cupped his cheeks in her hands, and gently massaged his jaw with her thumbs. “You’re under too much stress,” she whispered. “I didn’t hear anything.” She glanced around the greenhouse, scanning every corner, as if to check for enemies. “There’s no one here but us.” And then she smiled, ever so faintly. “A vampire and his destiny.”
His eyes locked onto hers, and she held his gaze like a temptress, willing him to delve deeper, to come closer. “Saxson,” she whispered huskily. “Let me take away your stress.” She drew an instinctive circle in the center of his chest, right over his heart…seductively. “Let me ease your anxious mind—you’ve done so much for me.” She looked down, shyly, and her high cheekbones blushed. “And I know what I said in the past, but I’ve changed my mind.” At that, she took a calculated step back, smiled like a vixen, and looped her thumbs beneath the dual thin straps of her tank top, sliding them off her shoulders, along with the straps of her bra.
She didn’t stop there…
She moved her hands lower, to the waistband of her leggings, and shoved them over her hips. Stepping out of the pale-green bottoms, she allowed her tank top and bra to follow suit, and stood brazenly—half-naked—before him, in a pair of V-shaped lace panties and slippers. “I think,” she whispered cautiously, “if you reject me now, I’ll die. I don’t think I could come back from that.” Her complexion reflected th
e stark vulnerability in her posture—and her words—and her bare breasts rose and fell with each insecure hitch in her breath.
Her eyes searched his, almost desperately, beneath long, liquid lashes.
Saxson fought to catch his breath.
She was a vision, to be certain, but his mind was still reeling.
His heart still felt like it was…breaking.
His soul was so confused.
Yet and still, the woman the celestial gods had chosen as his destiny was standing before him: naked, vulnerable, and unguarded. Asking him—no, entreating him—to take her to his bed. She was completely defenseless and totally exposed, and he was just gawking at her like a passive observer.
He pushed all other thoughts out of his mind as he reached for Kyla’s hand and gently tugged her forward, folding her into his arms. He slipped his fingers into her hair, pressed a kiss against her throat, and slowly trailed upward, along the slope of her neck, lingering along her jawline, until his mouth finally sought hers and he answered her pleading with a passionate kiss, putting all her doubts to rest.
She gasped, and shivered, and kissed him back with unfettered, wild abandon.
He lifted her into his arms. “Not here,” he breathed huskily, gazing down into her eyes. For reasons he couldn’t comprehend, he did not want to take her here—not in that sacred rose garden. Despite the fact that he had built it for her, it somehow felt like treason.
Commanding his body to respond to his female, he let his aboriginal instincts take over…
Saxson knew how to please a woman, how to make her cry out with pleasure.
And like a robot, one that had been programmed well, he placed one instinctive foot after the other: strolling out of the greenhouse, climbing the cliffside staircase, and heading for his bedroom.
Kyla clung to Saxson’s shoulders, shocked by how good it felt to be in his arms, praying that her distraction had worked.