Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire (21 page)

Lycos shook his head, his dark blond hair, which was streaked with gray and brown, kissing the edges
of his muzzle. “My brother would not betray you, Father.” His ice blue eyes were sure and even. “He knows what was given to him—and that is deeper than blood, I assure you.”

“I hope you’re right,” Cruen said, waving them all away, just as he had Erion after the
paven
had granted him a moment of affection—the first affectionate touch the favored Beast had ever given his father. It was truly suspect. “For I would hate to have to show him the fate of an unprotected, unloved Beast.”

“Well?”

Sitting against the wall that contained him, Lucian looked up from the cup in his fist, the cup that held the Order’s blood. “It sure as hell ain’t yours, Princess,” he grumbled.

Bronwyn shut the front door and sighed. “I know that, but is something wrong with it?”

He glanced down at the remaining blood and snorted. “It’s cold.”

“Lucian—”

“And then there’s the aftertaste…”

Her brows came together as she walked over to him. “What aftertaste?”

He ran his tongue over his fangs in a mock attempt at contemplation. “It’s like a cross between ancient, piece-of-shit bastard and foul, motherfucking liar.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Not funny.”

“Come on. It’s a little funny.” But Lucian wasn’t laughing—he was way too freaked out to laugh. The difference in swallowing the Order’s cold, unappetizing swill compared to the sweet, fragrant blood of Bronwyn’s was night and day, heaven and hell—and
yet he had hoped that by some miracle, it would work, that it would calm and soothe the pissed-off beast within.

It didn’t.

It had been twenty-four hours since Bronwyn’s blood had entered his veins and sent the demon Breeding Male to hell to wait. Now he could feel it scratching at the walls of its cage, trying to get out, get between the next female’s thighs and plant more of his seed.

“Try it again,” she urged him, her concerned gaze running over his face, perhaps looking for something, some change of mood or pain in his countenance. “Just to be sure.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, as much to himself as to her. In actuality, he did want this to work, to be the answer to his massive problem.

The shackle rattled as he lifted the cup to his lips once more. There was nothing in the world he wanted less, but he shut his eyes and drank it down like a good little
paven
. Soon as it cleared his throat, his nostrils flared and his tongue protested. Gahhh…
Metallic Ass d’Order
. And though he felt mildly stronger in body, he also felt the newly familiar rain clouds moving over his mind and mood.
It
was returning.

He threw the cup at the door and growled. “This is bullshit.”

“Must you get violent?” Bronwyn scolded, though her dark eyes betrayed fear as she stood over him. She knew something had changed in the past hour or two. She knew it was coming back, and that the Order’s blood wasn’t doing a damn thing to quell his monster.

“The Order always makes me feel violent,” he said, his eyes trained on the rug he sat atop. He wasn’t looking
at her, shouldn’t look at her—not with the Breeding Male clawing at his belly, his throat, his fangs—his cock.

“The Order didn’t turn you, Lucian.”

“Not directly, no, but they are responsible for this whole fucking thing.”

“It was Cruen,” she said hotly—too hotly. “From beginning to end.”

His gaze lifted and he tried not to breathe too much, too much of her into his lungs. “Cruen was the Order, Princess. Who do you think hired him to do the job of creation way back when?”

She dropped into the chair behind her, her eyes the darkest he’d ever seen them. “I’m not defending the Order. I’d never defend those creatures. With my misguided parents’ consent, they sent my sister to her death. I’m just saying that Cruen was the one who made the weapon. He…” Her gaze trained on him, her expression changed to one of concern. “You’re panting.”

“I know.” His control was slipping again, the fog of uncensored lust shoving his mind into a corner where it would be locked down, forced to watch in helpless rage as he did things that belonged only in nightmares.

Bronwyn scrambled down from the chair and came over to him, sat before him on her knees.

“Not so close!” he roared, shooting back against the wall, knocking his shoulder into the metal bolt that held his chain. He cursed. “We have no Bel, no guards—no one to help you if I cannot.”

The guards were gone, headed to town and to a vampire doc in the
credenti
. The guard Lucian had tossed around wasn’t improving, and Bel thought it right to bring him in. Until they returned, Lucian
thought he and Bronwyn needed to remain far apart. Hell, he should send her outside into the coming evening. She could work on her garden under the moonlight while he gave in to the change, transformed into that fucking Breeding Male monster again.

“You need to go,” he said tightly. “Go. Outside or in your room, just get out of my sight.”

But Bronwyn was heeding nothing—as usual.

He flashed her a weary, yet feral gaze. “Why is it you refuse to listen to me,
Veana
?”

“Force of habit, I guess.” She moved closer to him. “Perhaps when you say something interesting, I will.”

“You’re being a foolish little shite,” he muttered, her scent inching up his nostrils.

“No, that wasn’t all that interesting either.” She rolled up the sleeve of her shirt. “You know you’re starting to use a brogue. Being home has its effects on you, doesn’t it?”

“No.” He started panting again, like a fucking dog. “I’ll work to remove it from my voice.”

“Don’t,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes so bright with fear and concern. “I find it quite handsome.”

“Oh,
Veana
,” he uttered on a sigh, his gut clenching like there was a hand fisting inside of it. She was so near, so goddamn pretty—her skin, her pale, scented skin moving closer to him. Why couldn’t he just have her, take her for his own? Just for a moment?

Unbidden, his hand—the very one that was chained to the wall behind him, the very one that was shaking like a human adolescent male—lifted, and he touched her face. The skin was so soft, like the petal of a rose. “Princess…”

For a moment, one extraordinary moment, Bronwyn leaned in to him, in to the curve of his palm. They were close, too close, but Lucian was beyond hope now and he told himself to screw it. To screw caution and let her look at him that way, let her breathe in and out, back and forth against his face, his mouth. Then the pain struck, deep, like a hundred knives stabbing into his organs all at once and he clamped his eyes shut and groaned—groaned like a fucking gutted animal.

Bronwyn pulled back and her expression shifted from soft to serious in seconds. “Do it, Lucian,” she said. “Do it now. Drink from me. Whatever the reason, my blood calms you.”

His nostrils flared, jacking her scent into his lungs as the pain continued, pulsed, quicker and quicker. He knew the reason her blood drugged him so thoroughly, knew that it couldn’t be from her—from a
veana
alone—or every Breeding Male who took the blood of the female they bedded would be “cured.” No, this had to be from the
balas
inside her, and yet he refused to say the words out loud. He couldn’t say it…

Shit, he was a worthless
paven
—and a truly worthy Breeding Male.

“Stop thinking!” she commanded, her tone somewhere between resolute and pleading. “This is your one and only solution—don’t be a fool. Take it!”

He looked up, into her forest green eyes, his vision starting to blur. “I could rip your arm from the socket. I could attack you. I just don’t fucking know—”

“You’re doing this now,” she said with deadly calm, “while I know you’re still in there, that you won’t hurt me. Because once you lose control, I’m not going to be within reach.”

Hunger raged within him, the uncontrollable kind. He feared himself in that moment. “You are mistaken if you think even the sedated Lucian Roman is not to be feared. I need your blood, crave your blood, but there will always be an unrelenting desire to get you on your back again. A desire that has nothing to do with the Breeding Male.” He swallowed, his breathing growing even more labored as he fought for sanity. “You felt that good, Princess.”

Bronwyn felt her body kick and hum and heat with awareness. Even as she sat beneath that hungry, animal-like stare. It wasn’t an easy thing to admit, but she and this
paven
were linked in more ways than just a choice of survival she’d made on an island. He couldn’t stay sane without her. And, God help her, she would never allow him to go hungry and feral again—even if it meant risking her own safety, her own life.

Without another word, she reached up, cupped his neck, and slammed his head down upon her wrist. Then she waited, one second, two. “Do it!” she cried. “Take me, take it. Now!”

She gasped as his fangs plunged into her wrist, straight into her vein, deep inside where her blood flowed raw and heavy. But the pain was quick, and soon the nearly sensual pulls of his hunger found a rhythm. She released the breath she was holding and tried to cool the pulsing heat that nipped at her breasts and squeezed the walls of her cunt.

Her body coiled around him like a snake, and as she listened to the sounds of his suckle, his feed, the erotic swallows of him draining her life force, she fought the urge to lean down and kiss the top of his head, scent his hair, connect with him as she wanted to—in a way
she’d always wanted to connect with a lover; something beyond desire, beyond lust, something monumental, yet peaceful and true and abiding.

As if he sensed her thought, Lucian’s eyes drew up to meet hers and Bronwyn held his gaze. But his gaze wasn’t soft, wasn’t satiated, it was confused. As though he were trying to work something out in his head. Losing the battle with herself, attempting to comfort whatever was worrying him, she brushed his hair out of his eyes and touched his face, his high cheekbones with their empty circle brands, the curve of his ear, the roughness of the skin around his mouth and chin, then down to his neck. His growing power, his visible strength made her smile with satisfaction, as did the feeling of his throat as he swallowed her blood in hard, hungry gulps.

How was this possible? she wondered dazedly. That her blood could control the Breeding Male? And if so, could it control all the potential Breeding Males? In her work, she’d never heard of anything like it.

Her head began to feel heavy and dizzy from the blood loss, and as if sensing this, Lucian pulled out of her and sat up. His eyes locked on to hers and held. “You are like the sweetest drug imaginable.”

Bron inhaled, loving and hating his words. “Once a day, then,” she began, watching his tongue dart out to lap at a few stray drops of blood on his lower lip. “You will feed from me. Then perhaps we could remove the chains.”

He cocked his head. “Drugs can become addictive if they are taken too long.”

She shrugged, seeing his eyes grow heavy as they blinked up at her. “I see no other choice, do you?”

“No,” he whispered.

“You’re tired. Sleep.” She started to rise, but he caught her arm.

“Lay with me.” His eyes flared with strength and heat, but behind his gaze that same wonder, same confusion glistened. “I took much of your blood; you need rest too.”

Her entire body shivered. “I cannot.”

“I won’t touch you.”

No
, she thought, her gaze drifting downward to where his manhood strained against the fabric of his trousers.
But I may touch you, and I won’t stop there.
“I have given my body and my blood,” she told him with as much earnestness as she could manage. “The intimacy I must save.”

“For your mate?” The words weren’t tainted with bitterness as she would’ve expected, but with an ease that surprised her.

“Please don’t,” she said.

He dropped back against the wall. “What about when your true mate shows up someday? What are you going to do then?”

“I will have to explain to Synjon that—,” she began, but he cut her off.

“No, Princess.” He lifted one pale eyebrow, and the look of confusion that had lingered behind his eyes only a moment ago now flared with something far more worrisome. “Your
real
true mate.”

L
ucian’s words—his accusation—hit her like an iron pole to the head, and at first didn’t exactly register. Then, slowly and awfully, she felt the blood, the little amount of blood left inside her, drain from her face. How could he possibly know? Maybe he was just baiting her…Maybe this was all his idea of a joke.

“You still wish to play this game?” he asked.

Or maybe not.

“I—I have no idea what you mean,” she stammered stupidly, coming to her feet.

He snorted. “Guess that’s a yes.”

“You should rest, Lucian.” She went over to the window and lifted the curtain. Night was coming in waves of blue and gray with strokes of purple streaking across. She wanted to run, run away from his accusations. How the hell could he know the truth? Was it written in her blood?

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” he muttered behind her.

“You are dead.”

“No, I’m the undead,” he called out with a touch of sarcasm. Then he released a heavy breath and his voice softened. “Come here, Princess.”

She turned, looked at him—his ungodly, beautiful face. All hard angles and full lips under a heady rush of white hair. He sat on his pallet against the stone wall like a prisoner, a beautiful, fearsome angel prisoner.

“I’m fine,” he said, flashing that charming, boyish, wolfish smile her way. “The beast is dead—for now. My belly’s full.”

Didn’t he get it? This wasn’t about fear of him attacking her. It was the raging, desperate feelings of desire running through her body that wouldn’t calm down. It was about him knowing her truth and her refusing to acknowledge it, admit it—admit anything that could tie herself any closer to him than she already was.

“You look pale,” he said, his expression grim, overly concerned. “If you’re not going to come to me, then sit down at the table.”