Blood Vengeance

by Tessa Dawn

  Tiffany’s eyes grew wide with wonder and surprise. “Oh my gosh,” she whispered, reverently.

  Ramsey smiled. “You ready?”

  She nodded, shook out her hands to release some tension, and then stared earnestly at her belly. “Yes.” Her hands became jittery once more, and she wrung them together a couple of times before forcing them down, against the bed, and holding onto the sheets for stability. “Yes.”

  The golden particles rose into a peak, just above the apex of her belly, and then gradual waves of light began to pulse, faster and faster, streaming above her, even as the ambient sound grew louder and louder. And just like that, Santiago Roman appeared.

  He did not begin as an outline.

  He did not slowly shimmer into view.

  He did not ease his way into this new dimension with subtlety and grace.

  Rather, and in true Ramsey Olaru fashion, he simply ramrodded his way into the room as if to say to all involved: “Hello, family. I’m here!”

  In a rare, unforgettable moment, so perfectly timed it could have been orchestrated, Ramsey, Santos, and Tiffany all laughed out loud. And then Tiffany leaned forward, clearly amazed as her large, swollen belly began to rapidly deflate, returning to pre-pregnancy form. “Well, hello, little guy,” she cooed. “I see you’re just like your father, not lacking for confidence.”

  The baby wriggled restlessly in Ramsey’s hold and reached out for Tiffany.

  “Ah, and I see you have good taste.” She immediately took the babe in her arms and cradled him close to her heart, her expression lit with joy.

  At a glance, Ramsey’s heart swelled with affection and pride: Tiffany was absolutely radiant, and her eyes shone with a gleam unlike anything he had ever seen before. They were positively brimming with love.

  And then the door to the private room swung open.

  “Is he here yet?” Julien Lacusta’s gruff, baritone voice pierced the inner sanctum, even as Saber Alexiares swaggered in on his heels.

  “Well, come on in,” Ramsey barked sarcastically. “Make yourselves at home.”

  “Aw, shut up,” Julien snorted. He strolled to the side of the bed, bent over Tiffany, which made the female flinch, and took a real hard gander at the babe. “Well, would you look at that?” he bellowed. “That sucker’s got silver-green eyes.” He threw back his head and chuckled.

  “And some blond-ass hair!” Saber added, gawking at the nearly opal locks adorning the child’s scalp.

  “Language, warriors,” Tiffany said in a no-nonsense tone. “Sheesh, his first word is going to be a swear word.”

  “Nah,” Julien said, reaching down to test the child’s grip.

  Ramsey rolled his eyes, and then he gave Saber a sidelong, questioning glance. Julien’s brusque, somewhat unorthodox entrance he could understand, but Saber strolling into the room? Now that was unexpected.

  The dragon shrugged one shoulder. “Hey, you said you loved me. I figured you wouldn’t make it without me.”

  Santos and Julien eyed Ramsey suspiciously, and the Master Warrior shook his head. “It wasn’t like that,” he grumbled.

  Santos’s crystal-blue eyes lit up with mischief. “Hey, your business, brother. As long as Tiffany’s all right with it—”

  Before he could rib him any further, and as if the room wasn’t crowded enough, the door swung open again. This time, Brooke Adams-Mondragon entered. She was sitting comfortably in a wheelchair, being pushed by her kingly mate, and both of her long, elegant arms were filled with newborn bundles.

  Tiffany shot up straight on the bed, careful to support Roman’s head. “Oh my gosh!” Her voice rose to a pitch that made all four males wince. “Bring them over here!”

  Santos, Julien, and Saber took several broad steps backward, instantly aware of the royal couple, that they were in the presence of their king and queen. Eyes were respectfully averted, and heads were gracefully bowed.

  Ramsey scowled: Oh, yeah, the vamps had no problem showing some decorum when it came to Napolean. He watched as Napolean wheeled Brooke to the side of the bed and thought absently that she must have been in the chair because the babies were a boatload to handle—her healing would have been instant and complete following “delivery.”

  Brooke leaned as far forward as she could, without shifting her balance in the chair or jeopardizing her offspring’s safety, and Tiffany met her halfway, holding Roman out toward her occupied lap.

  “Santiago Roman Olaru,” Tiffany said proudly, and Ramsey chuckled inwardly, thinking what the moment would have been like had she murmured, “George.”

  Brooke sighed with appreciation and wriggled her nose at the child, since her arms were obviously full. “Nice to meet you, Santiago.”

  “Roman,” Tiffany corrected.

  Brooke exchanged a familiar glance with her best friend and nodded before turning back to the baby. “Nice to meet you, Roman.” She glanced down at her own precious cargo and turned her attention to the child on the left. “Prince Paris Mondragon, meet Tiffany and Roman.” She raised her arm upward to show Tiffany the baby, then turned her head to the right. “Prince Parker, this is your cousin, Roman.”

  Ramsey furrowed his brow and shot a questioning glance at Napolean. They’re not cousins. He mouthed the words.

  Napolean shrugged.

  Before anyone could reply, Kagen and Arielle Silivasi shuffled their way into the doorway and peered into the room, their obvious curiosity getting the best of them. “Everything good?” Kagen asked.

  “Oh… my… goodness!” Arielle exclaimed, unable to restrain from plowing into the room and approaching the babies.

  As the women repeated introductions and proudly showed off their children, Ramsey sank back into the shadows, taking a less prominent position next to Kagen and the king.

  “When’s the naming ceremony?” Kagen asked Napolean, his satiny, good-natured voice as soothing as always.

  Napolean shook his head. “Not for a couple of weeks.” He turned toward Ramsey and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Is that all right with you? “I think my hands are going to be very full for a minute, and it’s not like they don’t already have names.”

  Ramsey nodded, understanding. “I can wait a couple weeks for the formal naming as long as we work the mating ceremony in as soon as possible.” He gestured toward Tiffany. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t truly and indelibly his in every way possible, but still, she had just given him a son. He wanted it to be official.

  Napolean smiled, also understanding. “You get your brothers together, and I’ll stop by later tonight to take care of it.”

  Ramsey inclined his head with appreciation. “Works for me.” He turned toward the bed and smiled as he heard Tiffany tell Brooke how much she loved the alliteration—Phoenix, Paris, and Parker—wasn’t that creative?

  As if Ramsey and Roman weren’t sort of the same?

  He chuckled and waved his hand in a small arc to get her attention. “I still have something to take care of,” he said, ignoring all the bystanders in the room. He hoped she would understand what he meant, as well as the urgency. Saxson was still waiting, after all.

  Napolean placed a supportive hand on his shoulder, almost absently, and Ramsey couldn’t help but think that the king was lucky: He could just enjoy the birth of his sons this time around—there was no dark curse or dark twin to concern himself with.

  Tiffany nodded, clearly understanding, and then she met his eyes in an intimate stare, smiled like there was no one else in the room, and gestured him over to the bed. “Come here,” she added for emphasis.

  Ramsey sighed with relief, not realizing until that moment that he had been feeling a bit left out. He made his way to his destiny and child, and stopped just short of brushing up against the bed.

  “Closer,” she whispered, peering at Roman, who was now lying peaceful and still in her arms.

  Ramsey bent over and took a long, critical look at his son for the first real time. Indeed, his eyes were a pale, almost si
lver-green, as if they had merged somewhere between his light hazel and her sea-green hue, picking up a faint sliver tint from Tiffany’s hidden blue. If his hair were any more blond, it would nearly be white, and his features… they were already so refined, so polished. Lords, he was a good-looking kid with a serious hint to his demeanor. He bent down and kissed the child lightly on the forehead, and the vampire sighed contentedly, settling deeper into his mother’s arms. Tiffany reached out and wrapped her free arm around Ramsey’s shoulder, pulling him gently forward into a private embrace, and then she mouthed the words I love you and sealed it with a kiss.

  Ramsey’s breath caught in his throat as she pulled away, and he stammered over his reply. He had hoped for a more romantic moment, but—

  “Thank you for this gift,” she whispered in his ear. “I have never felt more content than I do right now.”

  He pressed his forehead to hers and simply drank in the moment.

  What could he say?

  He was at a loss for words.

  Sometimes a moment spoke louder than a phrase, a thought was too expansive to condense into sound, and a feeling was too deep to identify with language.

  This was one of those times…

  And Ramsey could only hope that Tiffany felt it all, that she felt him all around her, within her, beside her.

  That she felt the forever of it all.

  twenty-eight

  One week later

  Tiffany could hardly believe that Princess Vanya had offered to take all of the babies for a day—all five of the babies, including her own—in order to give Brooke and Tiffany, and their respective mates, a much-needed break. While Brooke had the whole nanny thing locked up, it would still be nice for the queen to have the manse to herself for a day. Tiffany, on the other hand, was quickly discovering that she was very hands-on, incredibly particular about Roman’s care, a little too possessive to share him with a nanny… just yet.

  Things with Ramsey were coming along.

  There were only brief moments of fear now, when she looked at him and saw a pitchfork-wielding predator, fewer and fewer instances of awkward silence or push-and-pull between them. In reality, the male had an incredible sense of humor and a heart that was larger than life, once one looked past the domineering, blunt exterior long enough to see the brother, warrior, and father within. He had agreed to let her take Roman with her to the Prime daycare a couple days a week, without Ramsey present, and she had agreed to let him implant a few extra memories in her parents’ minds so they didn’t freak the heck out when they learned of her “marriage,” which Ramsey and Tiffany were going to present as an elopement, and the newborn babe that went along with the blissful package.

  There was really no other way around the conundrum.

  Now, standing in the spacious, elegant living room, wearing only her stilettos, panties, and a bra, Tiffany sighed. The whole seduction scene was a little nerve-racking, but she was ready to show her vampire that she was truly all in.

  As the back door opened—Ramsey was returning from dropping Roman off at Saber’s—she grasped the handle of his pitchfork in her right hand—it was the most appropriate prop she could think of—copped a sexy lean to the side, with one foot crossed over the opposite ankle, and tried to look inviting.

  Ramsey rounded the corner like the crafty sentinel he was, moving in that silent, vulturine stride, and then he came to a sudden halt. His jaw went slack. His mouth fell open, and he literally purred in a deep, gravelly rumble. “What are you doing, destiny?”

  She smiled, trying to match his wicked grin, decadence for decadence. “Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinking”—she placed the tip of her forefinger in her mouth in suggestive contemplation—“someone once promised me some down-and-dirty, soul-searching, hair-pulling, name-calling, ecstasy-inducing animal sex.” She took her finger out of her mouth and sighed. “But I can’t remember who it was.”

  Ramsey nearly swayed where he stood. “Oh, gods of Gemini.” His already wicked smile turned into a broad, wolfish grin, even as his fangs slowly descended from his mouth of their own accord. He immediately strode forward.

  “Stop.” Tiffany held up her hand in playful protest. “Wait.”

  Ramsey froze in mid-step, eyeing her from head to toe lasciviously. He shook his head in a rapid, brisk fashion, as if trying to clear his vision, and then swallowed hard, tightening his jaw. “For what?”

  She laughed, playfully flicking her hair out of her eyes, and then she rotated her weight to the balls of her feet, gracefully raised the pitchfork off the floor, and started to twirl it at her side. Praying that her new vampiric dexterity would carry her through the whole twirling-seduction scene, she spun it faster and faster around her wrist. “Did I ever tell you that I used to twirl baton in my high school marching band?”

  Ramsey’s gorgeous hazel eyes grew five shades darker with lust. “You did not,” he drawled.

  She picked up the speed with her wrist and raised the pitchfork over her head. “Mmm… well… a pitchfork is hardly a baton, but I think it’ll do.”

  Ramsey sank into a predator’s stance and began to stalk forward once more, growling as she started to back up. “It’s a trident,” he corrected her, his thick, sculpted lips growing feline and taut.

  She squealed.

  Despite the fact that this was precisely what Tiffany had wanted—she had planned on it, prepared for it, and even tried to incite this primitive reaction—his looming, animal presence was overwhelming… otherworldly.

  Unnerving in its power and grace.

  His heart was beating deep and steady, like a resounding bass drum, and his gaze had turned positively feral, crimson with hunger and desire.

  Oh shit, Tiffany thought, her own heartbeat increasing.

  And that’s when her palms grew sweaty, the pitchfork began to wobble, and she lost control of the weapon. “Watch out!” she screamed, but her warning was too late. The ancient weapon shot through the air; pierced Ramsey through the palm of his raised right hand; continued to bisect his left bicep; and anchored both appendages to the living room wall, spearing the Master Warrior like a stuck pig to his own domicile.

  He grunted in pain, and then he grew instantly still, trying to keep the prongs from vibrating.

  Tiffany stared in horrified shock as three rivulets of blood seeped down the vampire’s arm, he rolled his head back, and he groaned.

  She sprinted across the living room, trying like hell not to break her ankle or slide across the floor in her six-inch heels; she’d already made a colossal ass out of herself as it was. “Oh Ramsey,” she breathed in distress, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

  Gods, he looked angry…

  “Get it out,” he grunted, remaining perfectly still as she studied the prongs, traced the entrance wounds with her finger, and tried to figure out the best way to extract the implement without causing more pain.

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she murmured, regretfully, “to spear you with a pitchfork.” Her voice grew in pitch as her heart grew in angst. “I’m so sorry, sentinel.” She hoped to appeal to his formal persona and invoke his professional nature. “Gods, you must hate me now.”

  “Get it out,” he growled again, this time narrowing his gaze on her quivering lips.

  She swallowed convulsively, grabbed the steel base, just above the prongs, with both hands, and started to tug—

  And that’s when he jerked his shoulder, wrenched free from the wall, and spun them both around, slamming her back into the plaster. “What kind of weapon do I use?” he snarled.

  She gasped. Holy Mother of Grace, he was going to kill her. “It’s… it’s a… trident.”

  “That’s right,” he purred. He flexed his right arm in a smooth, backward motion, dislodging the trident from his bicep, and groaned as if in…

  Pleasure?

  Tiffany’s eyes bulged as she gaped at the center prong—still protruding from his right palm.

  He reached around the i
mpalement with his free hand, grabbed the trident by the center tine, and wrenched it free, tossing it across the living room floor with a dismissive flick of his wrist. And then he slammed both palms against the splintered wall, pinning her between his arms, and pressed his hips into hers. “What’s my name, baby girl?”

  Tiffany drew in a sharp breath and stared at his tensed, angled jaw. His lips were set in a harshly erotic line; his fangs were positively gleaming in the lamplight; and his eyes were glowing with primal need.

  The male wasn’t ticked off…

  He was turned on.

  “Oh gods,” she groaned as he covered her mouth with his, kissed the thoughts right out of her head, and then pulled back to lock his gaze with hers.

  “Wrong answer,” he murmured. “What’s my name?”

  Before she could speak… or whimper… or even formulate a coherent thought, he grasped her by the waist, held her stationary against the wall, and tore through the center clasp of her bra with his fangs. And then he drew one breast after the other into his warm, punishing mouth, leaving her spinning and light-headed from the sudden sensation.

  His lips were utterly possessed.

  His technique was positively masterful.

  And his teeth traded places with his tongue as he nipped and swirled and teased her peaks into taut, stringent flesh, and her hips began to buck against his hold. Oh dear celestial deities; was he mad, crazed, or divinely inspired?

  She was practically mindless with pleasure, and he was doing it on purpose.

  He drew away from her breasts long enough to lock their gazes once again, release her hips, and slice through the outer straps of her panties with his claws. As the lacy garment fell to the floor, he ripped open his jeans, tugged them down, shimmied out of his boxers, and kicked all the offending scraps away from his feet. He pressed his hand to her throat and massaged her larynx. “I want you to get something straight,” he said as he continued to work her throat, dipped down to kiss her lips, and growled into her mouth. “I don’t hate you.” He traced the contours of her lips with his tongue. “There is nothing you could ever do to make me hate you.” He pricked her bottom lip with his fangs and swirled the droplet of blood around his palate, savoring the flavor. “I love you, Tiffany Matthews Olaru. And I always will.”