Nectar: DD Prince

by Prince, DD

  He leaned forward and planted his chin on his palm and stared, smiling. She glared harder. He chuckled. She wanted to throw something at him.

  “Have some coffee, Kyla. Lack of caffeine is making you grumpy.”

  “You’re making me grumpy. Just who do you think you are, anyway? What kind of an egotistical megalomaniac just scoops someone out of their life and keeps them prisoner for his own amusement?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I don’t wanna be here. I want you to let me go.”

  He blinked at her and said nothing.

  “Seriously!”

  “I know you’re serious.”

  “But you don’t care?”

  “I care. Surprisingly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Drink your coffee, Kyla.”

  Kyla let out a little “grrr” and took a sip of her coffee. She didn’t expect it to taste so good. She quickly took a second sip and then took a deep breath and closed her eyes, in coffee ecstasy. This was some seriously good coffee and she knew her coffee. She quirked up her brows.

  Wait a second…

  It tasted like the coffee from the shop down the street from the diner she’d worked at. Gramps’ diner had lousy coffee so every morning she’d sneak in a cup from the café down the street and pour it into the diner’s branded travel mug. Moe, the owner, knew all about it but let her away with it. It was a little joke among a few of the morning regulars who had seen her in the other café before her shift.

  “Coffee’s terrible today, Kyla,” one patron would say almost every day.

  “Coffee’s lousy, Moe,” she’d shout back over the counter at him.

  “Ack!” He’d always say, waving his hand at her.

  “I don’t know why yours is? Mine’s fine,” she’d wink at the regular and they’d share a knowing smirk.

  This was the good stuff. It had to be the house blend from the Bohemian café.

  “Where did you get this coffee?” Kyla asked Tristan, eyeing him suspiciously.

  Tristan was studying her quietly, still smiling. He didn’t answer.

  She avoided his piercing gaze and looked down into the courtyard. It was landscaped beautifully around the perimeter. Climbing vines with colourful flowers scaled the wall opposite her and there were baskets along the railing of the balcony filled with various ivy plants and flowers. She inhaled and her nostrils filled with scent in layers. Fresh coffee, the floral aroma, plus that Tristan smell, that desserty--- her breath caught for a moment and her train of thought halted. How could she even notice the beauty around her when everything was so messed up? Maybe avoidance was helping her cope. The coffee orgasm was screwing with her common sense, perhaps.

  She guessed she must be a good mark for a kidnapper, vampire or not. No one would look for her. She really didn’t have anyone who cared enough to look for her. And even if there had been someone who cared he’d just have hypnotized them anyway so what did it matter? All Tristan had to do was explain her absence to 2 bosses and a roommate. Yep, a perfect mark.

  “I guess I’m a good mark, eh? I disappear and hardly anyone notices? You just hypnotize any doubts away?”

  He snickered and sipped his coffee, “Good mark? You’re a pain in the ass, actually.”

  She shifted uncomfortably and tightened the sash on the robe, “Yeah, well let me leave and that pain in your ass will stop immediately.”

  She could feel his eyes burning into her and felt uncomfortable under his gaze but met his eyes, challengingly, “You’re taking this birthday gift thing a little too seriously, don’t you think?”

  He burst into laughter, “Levity,” he said, “Nice.” His phone let out the iPhone tri-tone text alert. She wondered where her iPhone was. Tristan’s was the latest model and hers was a one of the early models, one she’d taken after Daisy had broken it in frustration at a boyfriend. Kyla had paid to fix it. He picked up the phone and looked at the screen. He got up and swiped it and narrowed his eyes at it.

  “I’ll bring you some breakfast in a few minutes.” He walked back into the bedroom, staring at the screen and left her alone out there.

  There was a lump in Kyla’s throat. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream. Anger or exasperation, probably both, were rising in her and she didn’t know what to do with it. It was like she was on the verge of imploding, finding herself in a place she never wanted to be in. Paranormal stuff aside, once again, she had no control. This reminded her of when she was a child, being shuffled around from place to place with just a few belongings in a few bags or boxes and no control over her circumstances. Someone else ruling over her, her hopes, dreams, plans of planting roots, getting a degree, buying a home, getting a dog or a cat or even a damn goldfish fading into the background. Everything she’d been working toward and /or dreaming of was rapidly evaporating.

  What now? What next? Was she going to be kept like a doll in a dollhouse? A sex and blood slave in his bedroom until he got the test results back? And what would his blood tests even reveal? Would they give him the ability to mesmerise her so that she lost herself? Would the results make any difference to her future, her fate? And when he lost his taste for her, what then? Would he kill her? Or even if he didn’t intend to kill her, would he kill her out of his rage if she didn’t do what he told her to do?

  She got to her feet. She had to find a way out of here. She didn’t want to wait around to find out what bizarre things would happen next. She leaned against the railing and stared off into space.

  She needed to take the time to assess things before making another move. He’d threatened to physically restrain her and that wouldn’t help her escape, obviously. And she knew there were at least two other men in here. The dark haired guy she saw this morning --- he must be the ‘Sam’ Tristan had mentioned. Then there was Joe. Despite how sweet and protective Tristan sounded she had seen another side of him, too. Psycho!

  She felt the nerves prickle on the back of her neck, that feeling you get when you’re being watched. She cast her eyes down toward the swimming pool and saw Joe standing there, by a door, staring up at her, arms folded across his chest, his blond hair in his eyes. He lifted his sunglasses up and pushed his bangs back with them and let them rest on his head. She swallowed hard when she saw that his dark eyes were coldly focused on her.

  She gripped the railing tight, feeling very uncomfortable with the intensity of his stare. No, more of a glare. He didn’t look the same as yesterday when he’d come in to bring the walkie talkie. Now he didn’t look like the fresh-faced boy next door. He looked pissed off and he looked dangerous. He was probably furious about the vase incident and the fact that, by the sounds of it, Tristan attacked or almost attacked him. He looked like he wanted to inflict pain on her. He flashed his fangs at her. Her heart skipped a beat.

  Tristan burst out onto the terrace, “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  Kyla’s eyes darted back to him, confused, and then her gaze moved back to Joe. Tristan’s eyes followed, then he moved swiftly behind her, leaning directly against her back and circled her waist with his arms possessively. She craned her neck to look up at him. He was staring steel-eyed down at Joe, whose fangs had already receded. The look on Tristan’s face was absolutely menacing.

  Tristan’s fangs shot out. He lifted Kyla’s chin off to the other side a little and sank his teeth into her throat right beside yesterday’s wound. She was paralyzed with fear and her veins started to hum as he drank. He drank just a small amount and then kissed her throat and let go, then looked back down at Joe, baring blood-drenched teeth and looking even more fearsome than she’d seen him look so far. Kyla’s body was rigid with tension, feeling sheer terror at the show of dominance. Tristan clutched her against his body possessively. She could feel his erection poking her lower back. He inhaled at her hair and exhaled slowly. Joe’s head dropped to his chest, clearly a sign of submission. The scene seemed so… primitive.

  Tristan squeezed her shoulders reassuringly, f
licked his tongue across the neck puncture wound, kissed it again, and then let go of her and grasped the railing with one hand and then swiftly jumped over the balcony as if it was a hurdle. He landed softly on his feet and sauntered to Joe. Kyla was flabbergasted at the move and was white knuckled, gripping the railing to keep herself upright because her knees were buckling.

  Tristan pushed Joe up against the stone wall and had Joe’s throat in his grip. He spoke slowly to him. Kyla couldn’t make out what he was saying but he looked so dominant, so much bigger and stronger than Joe, and Joe wasn’t a small or meek-looking guy. At all!

  After a moment he let go and Joe shuffled into the house with his head down, looking almost like a scolded child or a dog heading off with his tail between the legs. Tristan strolled, nonchalantly, to below where she was and jumped up and grabbed the bottom of the terrace railing with one arm and then hoisted himself up and then back over the railing, almost effortlessly, like an Olympic gymnast or a comic book superhero. Kyla was frozen in place, in shock, but her whole body was trembling.

  Tristan’s fangs were still out but when he reached her, he took her shoulders and turned her to face him. They retracted slowly.

  He stared directly into her eyes, “He needed to know that you’re mine.” The anger started to smooth out and his gaze softened. He touched her throat. He was fingering those marks now with a look on his face that she couldn’t quite read. Was it pride, smugness? He reached up for the knot of hair on top of her head and undid it so her curls cascaded down around her shoulders. Then he tangled his fingers with the length and pulled her close as if to kiss her.

  She leaned away from him, blinked at him several times in quick succession, confounded, “I’m not.”

  “Would you rather be his?” he spat, annoyed.

  She winced, wanting to curl up into herself and disappear.

  “Look at me,” he demanded. She closed her eyes and let out a series of staggered breaths, not wanting to get caught in those intense blue headlights again. He leaned forward and kissed each eyelid softly and took her face by the chin, one hand still in her hair.

  “Please look at me,” he said, his voice softer.

  She stayed still.

  “Will you ever pick the easy way?”

  She opened her eyes. Her breath caught at the expression on his face, at the timbre of his voice. She shook her head, “Probably not.”

  He inhaled again and rolled his eyes, “Stay with me and don’t try to get away. Just… let me figure things out and then we’ll take it from there. Okay? He needed to see me mark you as mine. Now he won’t dare bare his teeth in front of you. I’ll protect you.”

  He kissed her quickly on the mouth, “Okay?” Fingers woven into her hair on both sides now, he held her jaw between his hands as he kissed her softly again. She didn’t respond with her lips but opened her eyes and let out a sigh when she saw how his eyes were smoldering, like they were pleading with her.

  “Mark me as yours? But I’m not yours, Tristan,” she whispered, “and who’s gonna protect me from you?”

  He let go of her and lifted his hand over his heart and gave her a little pout like she’d wounded him. She folded her arms, trying to ignore the goose bumps all over her skin. She had recently agreed with a conversation by a group of her work friends at the bar who had a lengthy chat about the fact that getting kissed by a guy who held your head or face in his hands while he kissed you was a fairy tale, happily ever after kiss; probably the most romantic way to be kissed, and Tristan had just kissed her that way. Almost everything about him screamed sex and romance. But to Kyla it also screamed Danger!

  She could totally see how easy it would be to let herself get swept away by this dashing and powerful man here in this beautiful mansion. But this was all so…so wrong. And he wasn’t always gentle. Then, of course, there was the whole blood-sucking thing. He was controlling and psychotic and had just claimed her as his or something messed up like that. It was too much for her to comprehend. She wanted off this merry-go-round --- stat!

  “Come,” he said. He put his arm around her and guided her back inside.

  When she entered the room and Tristan closed the door her eyes landed on the stack of boxes. Behind them were also 2 large industrial sized trash bags.

  Clothes? Underwear? A ponytail holder? A freaking bra, please! She hoped.

  “Go ahead,” he said, pointing to the boxes. He walked over and picked up a box and then slid open a pocket door to a walk-in closet that she hadn’t noticed earlier. He flicked a light switch inside the door and carried the stack of boxes in. She stepped in behind him.

  The closet, if you could call it that, was huge. Bigger than her bedroom at home. This room had racks, shelves, and drawers around the perimeter. It was filled with his clothes and more pairs of shoes than even the average fashion-conscious woman owned. In the centre sat a dressing table and dressing room mirror. The closet must’ve been designed for a woman.

  “I’ll make room in here for your things.”

  “Why would I keep my things in here?” she scowled.

  “Where else would you put them?”

  “If I were a guest in your home, some of my things, but not all of them, would be in a guest room. But then again, I’d have brought them here voluntarily if I were a guest, wouldn’t I? I’d be allowed to leave if I were a guest, wouldn’t I?”

  He rolled his eyes and yawned.

  “Oh, I’m boring you? Really? You think I’m just going to unpack and move in here like I’m your…your…”

  He cut her off, “You’re here for now so get used to it. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some more things for you to make you more comfortable.”

  She tried to ignore the edge, the intensity in his voice, like he was daring her to do something about it, “I’ll go next door, back to the other bedroom, then. That would make me slightly more comfortable.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She pursed her lips and glared at him. He piled the boxes in. Kyla unfolded the lid on the box on the top of the pile. It contained papers and books. She shifted the heavy box onto the floor and peered in the next box, then opened the trash bag. Clothes! She looked expectantly at him. He got the message and backed out of the room and slid the door closed behind himself.

  Kyla found a pair of jean shorts, underwear, a bra (hallelujah!), and a black t-shirt with shoulder cut-outs. She found her hairbrush and a ponytail holder and a bottle of hair detangler. She quickly got dressed, thankful to finally have something to wear, especially a bra and underwear, and to be able to better deal with her mop of a head of hair.

  It was so odd to have her shabby belongings here in these lavish surroundings. She felt way underdressed, of course. But then again she’d been grossly underdressed before, too. She fingered the silky red robe and then lifted it and hung it on an empty hook on the wall beside the brown one she’d worn yesterday.

  His and hers? No! No way!

  How presumptuous of him to not only pick up her belongings but to put her robe on the end of his bed, like it belonged there. She huffed and snatched it off the hook and then dropped it back onto a box.

  She wasn’t going to just glide into a role as someone sharing his room, his bed, like she was his mistress or significant other or something. She was sure she wasn’t significant in his world, being that she was below his food chain link and all. She was a person and he was a vampire, vampire royalty, whatever that meant. She was a prisoner, a blood mystery, not his new girlfriend. This was all too much. She sat down at the dressing table and stared at her reflection. Way too much. Nope, no way was she was unpacking. She spritzed her hair and started loosening the knots with her fingers.

  She was just an ordinary girl in her mid-20’s. She didn’t think she was beautiful or extraordinary. She was slim with a fit and toned build because she was a runner and because she was so busy trying to survive that she didn’t stop long enough to get the opportunity too often to stuff her face with her favour
ite foods --- she’d love it if she could stuff her face with dessert on a daily basis --- and that she couldn’t was probably why she was so trim.

  She didn’t wear designer brands or very much make-up. She was lucky enough to have decent skin, big green eyes that she often got compliments on, and she had decent hair, if a bit wild and unruly. She certainly didn’t think she’d win any beauty contests. Maybe she was above-average in the sarcasm department as well as in the stubbornness department but that came as a result of her rough upbringing and need to be her own champion in life because no one else ever championed any of her causes.

  Kyla didn’t have the foggiest idea of why her blood tasted so special to Tristan. She didn’t know why the gorgeous vampire who smelled and tasted like varying desserts with those intense eyes and those adorable dimples was so into her. She was sure if he were a regular guy he’d probably not even look twice, or if he did it’d be to get her into bed once and then he’d be gone. If he were a normal guy he’d have definitely been top of the hot guy food chain and probably not paid much attention to some snarky chick with a chip on her shoulder who worked in a greasy spoon by day and a dive bar at night. She certainly didn’t know why she didn’t fall under his spell. Maybe that was all the allure was about, that she wasn’t a drone. She was just a challenge to him, a diversion. And how long would that last until he grew bored so would have to dispose of her because she’d remember what he was?

  Why did it feel like she was under at least part of a spell when he touched her, though? He insisted she wasn’t. Was he lying? Maybe that was just because she hadn’t been touched in any sort of sexual way for such a long time. She pushed the thought away.

  She was tired of how much time she’d spend in an angst-filled head in the past day and a half. It wasn’t like her to wallow in messy or counter-productive emotions. She was the kind of girl who refused to succumb to the lemons life gave her. She’d always just kept soldiering on. No, she didn’t make lemonade out of those lemons; she soldiered on, refusing to think about lemonade. Numbly sometimes, but always a soldier. That’s what she’d have to do here. Be strategic; figure out how to get out of this alive.