by Jessica Lee
A key rattled in the lock. Elle stood and rounded her bed, going to the other side of the room. She’d eaten yesterday, so it shouldn’t be Christian back so soon. Was it Markus? She hadn’t seen him since the night he’d turned her. Not that she was aware of, anyway. She scanned the room for about the hundredth time for something she could use as a weapon. Nothing.
The door swung inward, and Markus glided into the room. His gaze zoomed to the corner where she stood. He looked every bit the commander of Marguerite’s colony in his black, form-fitting trousers and cobalt blue silk dress shirt. A lazy smile appeared on his lips. But that’s where it ended. His dark eyes carried none of the faux pleasantries found on the rest of his face. The eyes staring back at her lifted every hair on her body.
Complete and utter emptiness.
She shivered. It was as if she could hear the last cry of help from his soul as it spiraled downward, lost in the inky depths.
“You’re looking well tonight,” he said, pushing the door closed behind him.
“What do you want, Markus?” Her heart ran wild in her chest. Pissed her off. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But the memories of what he’d done to her wouldn’t leave her alone. Not with him here, standing with her in the same room.
His procession into the room didn’t stop at the door. He kept coming. Shit. Why hadn’t she gone to the other side of her square box? She could have at least gone inside the bathroom and slammed the door on him like some scared girl in a horror movie. Ugh. Even the thought of reacting that way didn’t sit well with her stomach. That wasn’t her. She’d been transformed against her will, but that didn’t mean she’d lost everything that was innately Gabrielle Stevens. The human version had never given up. And neither would the sequel.
Standing in front of her, Markus suddenly reached out and brushed his fingertips along her cheek. She flinched and jerked her face away from this touch. “Don’t,” she hissed.
His fingers curled inward, and his arm dropped back to his side. “Yes, you two are definitely sisters.” Maybe she was imagining things, but she could have sworn those dark, empty pits that were his eyes brightened for a split second. But it was gone so fast; she shrugged it off as stress playing tricks on her mind. “Being a vampire becomes you, sweet Elle.”
“Like I had a choice?” she spat. “Why would you do this to me?” Elle shook her head, her voice one notch above a groan.
“Decisions had to be made. And this happened to be the best option.” He pivoted away, twisting the ruby-studded gold ring on the pinky of his right hand.
“Best option for whom?” She flung his words back, and Markus ground to a halt.
“Your sister.” He whipped around, irritation written on his face. “You enjoy the fact she’s still alive. Or am I wrong?”
“What are you saying? How does kidnapping and turning me into a vampire keep my sister alive?” The man was seriously touched in the head.
“You’re a vampire so you couldn’t be traced.” He marched closer and lifted his hand, his fingers going for the side of her throat. Jumping back, she ruined his attempt at contact. A brief scowl twisted his features, and he lowered his hand. “Actually, this is your fault.”
“My fault?” She couldn’t keep her jaw from dropping. “You truly are mad.”
He shrugged. “If you hadn’t decided to go ahead and fuck your Enclave warrior and allow him to sample you, you might still be human.”
The offhand mention and reminder of Arran jabbed like a dagger into her heart. Did Arran’s heart ache as deeply for her as hers did for him? She bit into her lower lip, doing her best to keep it from trembling.
“But then again,” Markus lifted one black brow. “Marguerite wouldn’t be quite as pleased as she is now.” His lips formed a grim line. “My return was not going to be without punishment for my error. This way,” he said with a lift of one open palm, “I get to keep your sweet sister, and Marguerite…well, she gets the pleasure of having the Enclave’s pet female to play with for an eternity.” He leaned in, and she forced herself to remain steady. Intimidation would not win out. Her throat worked at swallowing the dry lump sitting in her esophagus, but it refused to budge. “You see,” he said, in a slow drawl, his breath hot on her cheek. “It’s the perfect plan.”
Dear God. A shudder ran through her. He was right. She could never allow Marguerite to murder her sister. Not if she held the power to stop it. Even if it meant her own freedom, or her life.
“Now.” He pulled back and then took hold of her upper arm with a jerk. Elle struggled against his tight grip. He wasn’t hurting her, but she hated being manhandled. He didn’t give an inch. “It’s time for you to meet our mistress. She’s been waiting for you.”
He led her by the arm from her small quarters. Markus nodded to the male who must have been standing guard outside her door. At a brisk pace, he took her down a short corridor lit by a few white sconces on the wall. Part of her was grateful to be out of the confined space. Her other half realized that her life was about to become a living hell. The knowledge settled like a ship’s anchor in the pit of her stomach, making her legs feel like dead weight.
How was Arran, or the Enclave, ever going to find her like this? She had no clue where she was.
“Wait!” She planted her heels. Markus ground to a halt and tossed her an exasperated glance.
“What?”
“I want to see my sister first.”
“She’s fine.” Markus tugged on her arm, but she dug her heels in harder. She needed to see Alex. Had to see her. She could get through this if she knew with all certainty that her sister was safe. Alex’s mind might not be her own, but as long as she was alive, there was hope.
“No. I’m not going anywhere until I see for myself.”
“Elle,” he growled as his grip tightened. “This doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”
“Alex,” she insisted. Her pulse surged, and her fangs elongated, stinging her gums. He could do whatever the hell he wanted to her, but she would see her sister.
Frustration drew deep lines across his forehead. His jaw ticked. “Five minutes,” he dictated, his voice deep and gruff.
Nearly dragging her, he led her up the flight of stairs from the basement. Two steps from the top, a male dressed in loose white slacks and a matching white short-sleeved polo appeared in the doorway, bringing them to a stop.
“Commander, pardon the interruption, but there is someone in your office who insists on speaking with you.”
“Not now.” Markus tugged on her arm and began to move.
“But, sir.”
They brushed past the minion. “Sir. Your visitor is Jean-Claude Desportes. He is quite insistent that he speak with you, now.”
A low rumble vibrated off Markus’s chest. “Fine! I’m heading in that direction anyway.”
From what she could tell, Marguerite occupied a large home. Make that a mansion. Markus weaved them through two corridors lined with soft cream walls and glistening marble tiles dressed by massive white pillars at each end, then past a kitchen that would make Gordon Ramsay, the famous chef, weep. It was a shame that the majority here probably never ate real food.
They neared the front of the house, judging by the two large stained-glass doors and the round foyer that loomed up ahead. Markus slowed his pace and stopped before a set of French doors.
“In here.” He rocked his head in the direction of the closed doors. Markus grabbed the handle and opened them. She peeked around and saw Alex sitting on a window seat, staring out into the night. Stepping aside, he allowed her to move farther into the room. “As you can see, she’s fine,” he reiterated.
“That’s debatable,” she said, not taking her eyes off her sister. Something like a snort came from behind her as the door clicked shut, followed by the clink of a secured lock. She didn’t know why he insisted on bolting them inside. Even if she and her sister made a run for it they wouldn’t get far with all of Marguerite’s guards looming at every corner of the mansi
on.
Elle leaned back against the cool glass and wood. Her sister hadn’t moved an inch at the bay window. She doubted Alex even knew she was in the room. Elle pushed herself away from the door and headed across a portion of the exposed pale hardwood floors in the direction of her sister. Brilliant oriental rugs covered most of the floor space, and built-in shelves lined with books filled the walls around the room, along with various displays of period weaponry.
Elle joined Alex on the bench. She itched to wrap her arms around her and tell her everything was going to be fine—she would make sure of it. But based on her last experience, she knew Alex wouldn’t tolerate her touch.
An explosion of voices and chaos sounded outside the library doors. Elle jumped to her feet. Her pulse strummed through her veins. The sound of breaking glass and cries for backup echoed through the walls.
Arran and the Enclave.
It had to be them. Elle swung back around, facing her sister. “This will work, Alex. Somehow, we’re going to get you back.”
A second later, Markus materialized in the center of the room. Before she could draw a breath, he was at her throat. A large clawed hand encircled her windpipe, the tips of his nails biting into her flesh. Holy shit! Elle went to her tiptoes and gulped for air. Both of her hands sprang to the one threatening her next breath. A small trickle of air squeaked past his hold.
“This is not how the game will end, sweet Elle. I do have the advantage,” Markus breathed at her ear. “Alexandria. Come to me.”
Elle rolled her eyes left, then right, but she couldn’t see what was happening. But judging by the shift in Markus’s stance, Alex had moved to his side. A loud crash brought Elle’s gaze forward. Her heart lurched behind the wall of her chest. But was it joy or fear that had her pulse racing? Arran stood before her, feet braced apart, his dagger drawn and aimed straight for Markus’s head.
“No!” Elle tried to yell, but the word came out more like a shrill. Arran’s gaze switched to hers. “Please. Arran.” God. No. She diverted her eyes in the direction she believed her sister stood. “Alex.” If Arran killed Markus without him releasing Alex… Elle’s mind whirled. From the lack of oxygen, or desperation? She didn’t know anymore.
“Think about it, warrior,” Markus said. The ominous timbre of his voice clenched her stomach.
“Gabrielle.” Her name sounded tortured rolling off Arran’s lips. “How do I…”
…
Every neuron in his brain screamed, Kill the bastard.
The muscles in Arran’s arm twitched, aching to release his dagger and claim vengeance. But the look on Gabrielle’s face, and her desperate plea… Fuck! She was his. And Markus had hurt her. His gut cramped. What in God’s name should he do? He couldn’t—wouldn’t lose her. Yet, he could see it in her eyes: she would choose her sister’s life over hers.
A rush of air stirred the hair at his neckline. Arran tensed, and then a sudden blur of movement came out of nowhere. A body slammed into his and sent Arran careening sideways. He stumbled, regained his balance, and spun back around. Logan was on the ground. In the very same spot where Arran had been standing. Blood ran in a steady stream and pooled beneath his torso. Son of a bitch. Marguerite stood over Logan’s body, one clawed hand extended, drenched from the tips of her nails and up beyond her wrist with the warrior’s garnet essence.
Logan had saved his life.
Marguerite cocked her head in Arran’s direction, her long raven hair swaying at her hips. A sadistic smile played on her red lips. “My, you are a treat for the eyes, warrior,” Marguerite crooned, swaying the rest of her body in his direction. “It’s a pity I’m going to have to kill such a fine potential fuck.” She tsked, shaking her head. Her British accent treated each word as if she’d just spouted a national address.
Gabrielle groaned. His gaze darted in her direction. Gabrielle’s feet shuffled under Markus’s hold. Her eyes were panicked, wide, and fixed on him.
Like a one-two punch, Guerin and Kenric appeared in the center of the room. Their clothes were ripped and bloodied, but to Arran, the two had never looked better. Hell, yeah.
Marguerite whirled, her sheer red gown brushing the floor. She lunged at Markus, tearing Alexandria from his side.
“What are you doing?” Markus roared. Markus’s gaze followed Marguerite’s every move, but his hand remained wrapped around Gabrielle’s throat. In an identical move, Marguerite latched onto Alexandria’s exposed throat. Arran could have sworn Markus flinched.
Kenric’s gaze dropped to Logan’s crumpled body. A pained expression flashed across his features before he glared at Marguerite.
With every hostile angle covered at the moment, Arran dropped to his knee beside Logan. His eyes were closed, but Logan’s chest rose and fell in short, rapid bursts. He was still alive. But dear God, there was so much blood. Son of a bitch, he didn’t have the luxury of time to treat Logan’s wounds.
Thank God, Jean-Claude had phased David out of there the moment they’d materialized in Markus’s office. Arran couldn’t allow his attention to sway from the battle, or they’d all lose. Arran stood, keeping his weapon solid in his palm.
“History does have the nasty habit of repeating itself, doesn’t it my love?” Marguerite sent Kenric a seductive smile. “Here we are again with yet another woman between us.” She glided forward, bringing herself and Alexandria closer to Kenric. The tips of her claws sank into Alexandria’s neck. Alexandria cried out as if jarred from her stupor, and for the first time, grappled for release. Crimson droplets oozed from the punctures and trickled down her throat.
“Let her go, Marguerite,” Kenric commanded. “She’s nothing to you.” He stepped closer. Guerin mirrored Kenric’s movement as Arran kept his gaze centered on his target: Markus and Gabrielle.
“You’re so right, love,” Marguerite’s voice held a laughing edge. She tilted her head and studied the female in her hands, her expression resembling someone who studied a lab experiment. “She’s nothing to me.” Marguerite brought her gaze back to Kenric. The cold stare she shot the Enclave’s Master dipped the mercury below zero. “But she is mine,” Marguerite added, and her hand flexed. Alexandria’s mouth fell open.
But the scream that filled the room didn’t come from her throat.
Marguerite’s palms clutched at her chest, and Alexandria slumped to the floor. The tip of a long blade jutted from under Marguerite’s breasts.
“Motherfucker.” Arran’s gaze flew to the man standing behind the impaled vampire and holding the hilt of a sword. Markus. He hadn’t even seen the bastard move.
With his face twisted in a tortured grimace, Markus leaned forward at Marguerite’s ear. “That’s where you’re mistaken.” The words spewed from Markus’s lips. “She was never yours.”
A howl tore from her. She whipped around, the sword protruding from her back like some horrid version of a windup toy. With her clawed hand, she slashed at Markus, ripping open the flesh at his neck in long, deep grooves. His head kicked back under the impact of the blow as blood sprayed from his open wounds in a shower of red.
Gabrielle.
As interesting as that little display was, he was here for one reason only. Arran spun, searching the room. He found her sitting crouched on the floor, one hand clutched to her throat. But alive. Thank God. She was alive.
His legs surged in her direction, but before he could reach her, pull her into his arms, and never let her go, battle cries erupted inside the room. Arran glanced over his shoulder in time to see two of Marguerite’s vampire minions charging Kenric, while another materialized in front of Guerin. Both men battled, blades clanging, blood flying.
Two more minions appeared, and Arran pulled his second dagger. Guess it was his lucky night. One leaped into the air, doing some crazy Jackie Chan spin. What the fuck? Arran ducked and missed the sweeping blow of the vampire’s blade. The other vampire phased mid-step and then reappeared a half second later next to Gabrielle. Shit.
From her crouched posi
tion, she swept out a leg, clipping the dark-skinned minion and dropping him to the floor. Hell, yeah. His blood raced in his veins. God, he loved her.
“Gabrielle!” Arran shouted. She jerked her head in his direction. With the flick of his wrist, he tossed her his second dagger. She snagged it midair then gave him a nod. He spun and jammed his boot into the chest of vampire Chan. A moment later, she followed his lead, driving the silver-plated blade into her vampire attacker’s heart.
It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. Scanning the room, he located Kenric battling with two more minions. About five feet away, Guerin smoked his last vampire and then locked his gaze on Arran. As one, both males honed in on the biggest prize: Marguerite.
She’d made it to one of the wall units. Her bloodied hand gripped the edge of a white shelf in a vain attempt to remain standing. On the floor behind her, Markus had managed to drape Alexandria over his lap, stroking her dark hair. At the rate blood poured from his neck, he wouldn’t be upright for long.
A millisecond after Arran had made it to Marguerite’s position across the room, Guerin appeared beside him. Marguerite’s legs wilted from beneath her, taking her to the floor. Arran grabbed her shoulder and shoved her back. He wanted to see her face when she died. The antique sword’s hilt bumped the wall, ramming it deeper. Marguerite hissed.
“Game over, Marguerite,” Guerin uttered. Both males raised their daggers, readying them for the short trip to her heart. She shot them both a defiant glare. Her head lolled in Guerin’s direction. Blood leaked from the corner of her mouth as a smile played on her lips. Totally insane.
“Eve will have your heads for killing her mother,” Marguerite said, her voice wet. In mid-swing, their arms staggered to a stop. What was she rambling about? A daughter? Impossible. “Especially the head of her father. She will come for Kenric. You’ll see…”
Arran swung his gaze to Guerin’s. The warrior’s eyes were wide, the sheer magnitude of what she was saying hard to comprehend.
“Eve…” Marguerite’s voice drifted to a near whisper, and her eyelids closed. The smile, though, hadn’t left her bloodied lips. “She is her mother’s daughter.”