Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire (28 page)

“You asked the Breeding Male for a boy?”

“Aye.” Her eyes, her exquisite emerald eyes, sparkled. “I wanted the
balas
. I wanted him so much—just as I wanted the
paven
who gave him to me. The Breeding Male,
my
Breeding Male, was not forced upon me. I wanted to mate with him, lie beneath him, and whenever he was brought to our
credenti
I sought him out again. I will defend my desire for him.” Her eyes clouded over. “But I didna think at the time how it would affect my wee one. I didn’t—I
couldn’t
imagine him becoming a Breeding Male. If I had…” She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “So ye see, lass, he has good reason to hate me. But I’ll keep trying to gain his forgiveness.”

Bronwyn’s emotions were riotous and plenty, and
she wasn’t ready to stop the discussion with this
veana
who had explained so much. “His brothers…their mothers either despised them or used them, and Lucian—he has a mother who loves him—”

“His brothers had more simple, understandable outcomes to their conception and births,” Mai pointed out, swiping at her eyes. “Lucian’s is far more complicated.”

“The school you sent him to…?” Bronwyn began, an unfinished question.

Mai sighed. “The
balas
in the
credenti
were so ruthless, so cruel. I thought it better to send him away to school, with human males who knew nothing of who and what he was.” She shook her head. “It was not. I have made many mistakes, and Lucian is paying for them. But”—she paused and locked her gaze to Bron’s—“one thing I am certain of. Luca is no mistake.”

Bronwyn could hardly take it all in, understand the divide—the choice Lucian was making to hate this
veana
. He had to know all of this, had to know Mai wanted him, loved him.

“Would you care for a seedcake?” Mai offered, taking a handkerchief out of her bag and unwrapping it. “I make them myself from the garden behind my cottage.”

Bronwyn took one of the small cakes, though she felt no hunger inside her, only thirst for more stories of Lucian. “Thank you. I’m trying to start a garden near the cottage.”

“Ah, that’s lovely, lass. If Luca wouldn’t be opposed to it, I’d be happy to help,” Mai said kindly. “After all, ye shouldna exert yourself overmuch.”

Bronwyn smiled, confused. “Why not?”

“Keeping yer feet elevated above yer fangs ain’t just an old
veana
’s tale.” Grinning broadly now, Mai’s eyes dropped to Bron’s midsection. “So…how far along are ye?”

“With what?” Bronwyn asked, a little harder now, her eyes narrowed.

“Yer
swell
, lass.”

Bronwyn’s smile died and she stilled. “I’m not pregnant.”

Mai’s expression went dry and a bit worried. “Oh dear. Oh my. I thought…”

“I’m not pregnant,” Bronwyn said again, rising from the bench, her seedcake dropping on the ground.

“Bronwyn. Lass.” Standing, Mai attempted to explain, attempted to calm her. “I thought I sensed something back at the cottage…I thought I scented myself in yer blood. Lucian too…I thought ye were here because ye wished to talk…”

“I came here to look for the guards,” Bronwyn stated, her breathing uneven and quick.

Mai looked worried now. “My dear, I didna mean to upset ye. I’m so sorry.”

Bronwyn waited, shock buzzing in her ears, her mind tumbling with confused thoughts. “It’s fine,” she said, her hand shaking as she lifted it to brush the hair out of her eyes. “I’m fine.” She eyed the older
veana
directly. “I’m not in
swell
, Mai. He would know. Lucian would know if he’d…done that.”

“Only if he was a Breeding Male when it happened.”

The buzzing got louder. Bronwyn’s eyes widened. He hadn’t been the Breeding Male…not then—not on the island.

Mai looked utterly bereft now. “Lass…”

This was insanity. Just the suggestion. A
balas
?
Swell?
No!
That was her sister’s fate, not hers. Breathing heavy now, Bronwyn glanced over her shoulder, looked all around. The square seemed crowded all of a sudden. Everyone looking at her, seeing her lose her mind right out in the open. “He would know now though. He would scent it now.” Her gaze shifted back to the older
veana
. “Right?”

Mai swallowed tightly. “Aye. He would.”

She had to go, had to run. “Thank you for the cake,” she muttered stupidly. “I have to get back.” She turned around and started walking.

“Lass, wait,” Mai called. “Please! He has become the one thing he never wanted to become,” she shouted after her. “Perhaps he didna tell ye because he was afraid ye would hate him for it.”

Numb, eyes wide as a frightened animal’s, Bronwyn kept walking. She looked at no one, acknowledged nothing as she walked out of the square, past the farmland and trees, her head down, tears in her throat.

Or perhaps he didn’t tell me because he doesn’t want me,
she thought wildly—
or the
balas.

Because that would certainly make her hate him.

D
illon couldn’t flash. Hell, she could barely move. Every bone in her body felt broken, her muscles felt pulled or torn apart. The senator and the six or seven bastards—she’d lost count—he’d hired had done a bang-up job of teaching her a lesson. Like, a) You don’t punch a politician in the face without expecting to be punched back. And b) You don’t punch a politician in the face after refusing to give him the same ride as you’ve given his wife.

Not if you want to keep your bones unbroken and your skin intact, anyway.

But Dillon had always had a problem with authority, especially when that authority became a total dickhead. She didn’t lie down and take it from anyone—unless they beat her so badly she couldn’t help it, unless her body couldn’t help it and gave out without her permission.

She tried to move her arm, close her fist, but ended
up sucking air into her lungs, the pain was so fierce. No quick blow job was going to fix these wounds. Her hand, it felt so heavy. It hadn’t felt that heavy in a long time, not since…

Sudden fear pummeled her, mixing with the acute pain running up and down her frame. No…Fuck no…Not now. Not ever! She needed to feel her—no! She needed to
see
her face. Gathering every ounce of strength left inside her, she fought to peel herself off the ground, off the stinking, ice-cold cement.
Get up, you stupid bitch!
Get up before they come back and see you
. Shit, maybe they already had—when she’d lost consciousness.

Her fingers tore into the concrete, but she had nothing left in her. She let her head fall and her hands go limp. Maybe she could just curl up and disappear. Curl up and die. Right here, bleed out on the concrete like roadkill.

She heard something then—inside her bloodied ears, or was it in her brain? She couldn’t sense where anything was coming from, or even what position she was lying in. But there it was again. A male voice. It was coming closer, she could feel that in the rise of the skin on her arms.
Shit
. Her fingers dug in again and she pressed her torso up.
Come on!
Goddamn it. She had to get up, get out, before anyone saw her.

“Took you long enough,” the male voice said with deep aggression and concern. “Where is she?”

The scent of Impure blood shot into Dillon’s nostrils and she flinched.
Have to get up
.
Have to fight
. But her muscles refused her, rejected her. Assholes, she thought dazedly.

“Oh, shit. You didn’t tell me it was this bad.” She felt hands on her back and the voice again. “Easy, D.”

D
.

The name…barreling through her mind as she fought to make sense of it. Who called her that? Not the senator, not his bastards for hire. Oh, God.

The Romans.

Someone was lifting her—the male—so gently it felt like slow motion.

“No,” she mumbled between torn-up lips.

He cursed, whispered, “Who did this to you?”

Couldn’t be the Romans. No scent of pure blood. She shook her head, or tried to.

“I want names,” he said fiercely, but his voice wasn’t soft anymore. It traveled, maybe to whoever was there with him. “I want to make sure I kill the right people.”

“You got it, Gray,” another male said.

Gray
.

“Where…taking…me?” She barely got the words out. Her throat was so tight, as if she’d been choked.

“Home.”

“No…home…”

“You’re coming home with me. Don’t try to fight me, D, ’cause you’ve got no fight left in you anyway.”

“I can’t…Impures. They…won’t want me.”

“I want you.”

Her brain was going fuzzy. She was going to lose consciousness soon. “Fuck. Gray…”

“Shhh,” he soothed. “Don’t talk anymore, baby. Just rest.”

Always hated that word, “baby.”
But not today, not right now.

She felt his grip on her shift, scented leather and gasoline; then she was tucked against his chest, his heart beating hard and strong against her cheek.

“You can’t let anyone see me,” she uttered, her throat so pained, but she had to get this out. “Not like this.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” he said, gripping her tighter. “I’ve got you. No one’s going to hurt you again.”

“Gray,” the other male voice called out.

“Yeah?”

“They’re coming.”

Dillon started, her fingers flinching against Gray’s chest. “Who?”

“Romans,” Gray told her, moving quickly now.

Shaking her head against that awful truth, Dillon clung to Gray as he climbed into the backseat of a car. “How…did you find me?”

“Your blood.”

“What?”

“That night I drank from you. Remember? You rescued my nearly blood-castrated ass from the Paleo?”

He slammed the door shut and Dillon groaned. Did she remember it? The shower, the kiss, the bite? Or had she blocked it out like she did everything good that happened in her life?

A car screeched to a halt beside them, doors opened.

“Go,” Gray commanded.

The car lurched forward, took off at high speed.

Dillon felt herself shutting down, but before she gave in, she whispered, “Did they see…me?”

“No,” Gray uttered. “But they saw me.”

The words entered her ears just seconds before her brain shut off and she succumbed to the blackness.

Lucian had loosened the bolt on the wall.

Around the metal fastener, stone was breaking off in
small, dusty chips, falling onto the soft pallet by his feet. It hadn’t been a picnic in the park to make that happen. He was pretty sure his motherfucking shoulder was dislocated, if diabolical pain in that area was any indication. But it didn’t matter. He had to get to her. He had to see her face, shield her from the
credenti
that had nearly destroyed him, and, if his father’s words were true, protect her from a mad vampire and his Beasts. He had to know she was breathing and unhurt and that the life he’d put inside of her continued on. It was illogical, instinctual.

He lifted the chair again, yanked it high above his head, then sent it falling back down against the bolt, pounding the shit out of it like a hammer to a nail.

“Arrrr,” he groaned, the vibration ricocheting up the chain, into his shackle, and through his entire system.

Fuck
. The pain sucked ass, but more chips of stone dropped away, loosening the bolt a little bit farther. He grinned, growled his appreciation, and again brought up the chair and again slammed it down on the bolt. This time the chair’s arm smacked the shackle on his wrist and he felt the bone crack.

He screamed a curse and pitched the chair across the room.

“What the hell are you doing?”

His head came around so fast it took his eyes a moment to adjust. But he didn’t need his eyes; he had his nose—his scent.
Bronwyn
. She stood in the doorway, her eyes narrowed with a mixture of shock and fear as a light rain dropped behind her. Relief poured through him, but all he wanted to do in that moment was laugh, sneer. His
veana
thought he’d turned Breeding Male, when all he’d really turned into was a fucking idiot.

“Afternoon, lass,” he called through gritted teeth, the pain sucker punching him with every breath. “Did you bring the Impures back with you?”

“No.” She closed the door. “They’re gone.” She came over to him, stopped a few feet away, her gaze running from the chair near the wall to the bolt in the stone, to his ripped jeans, to his dirty, sweaty chest and shoulders. “Is this the Breeding Male or just you?”

“Just the asshole trying to get to the princess,” he said, breathing heavy, nostrils flaring as he locked eyes with her. “Where are the guards, Bron?”

“I don’t know,” she said, dropping her damp sweater on the table near the fire. “No one knows.”

He studied her. Her expression had changed since entering the cottage a moment ago. She wasn’t fearful anymore, but there was something there—something dark, like anger—or worse. What was it? he wondered. Had she been attacked, chased—

“I saw your mother,” she said, remaining near the table.

Or worse.

Lucian felt his face go rigid, and the pain in his broken wrist no longer registered. “Why would you do that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said quickly.

“Like hell it doesn’t.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I just wanted to spend some time with someone who understands, you know? A
veana
I have something in common with.”

He chuckled bitterly, the movement sending shock waves of pain through his system.

“Don’t laugh at me, Lucian,” she ground out.

“Why not? That was damn funny, Princess.”

She pointed a finger at him, her green eyes brutal, and hurt. “And don’t call me that anymore. You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

The Lucian Roman of a few weeks ago would’ve walked away from a conversation like this one, wouldn’t have given the time, energy, or care to fight for a female. But Bronwyn Kettler wasn’t just any female. She was his. All his. Every inch, every breath, every movement—it all belonged to him. It wasn’t a pretty package of a reality—her falsely mated to another
paven
and him the goddamn Breeding Male, but there it was. He had claimed her. He had claimed the shit out of her!