Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire Page 10

  “Oh, there it is,” Lucian whispered against her mouth, his tongue lapping at hers.

  “Don’t go slow,” she called out as she started to move, her legs tightening around his waist now as she rocked her hips back and forth. “I know what I said, what I asked for, but it was before I knew…before I knew what you would feel like in me!”

  Lucian took a few steps, found his balance, gripped her tight, and anchored her against the rock. “And what do I feel like, Princess?”

  “Perfection,” she uttered. “And disaster. And everything in between.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, you too.”

  Her arms wrapped around his neck and she squeezed her legs and drove her hips upward. The buildup, the desire they’d shared, yet tried to hide for so long, exploded, and they just wanted to screw.

  Lucian slammed into her, making her moan and shake her head against the beauty of it—the painful, pleasure-filled beauty of it. He was inside her, Lucian—finally.

  “This is it!” he called out fiercely, his hands gripping her buttocks as he drew out slowly, then slid back in. Over and over he did this, relentlessly pressing against the walls of her cunt, driving her insane, making her shake. “The only time I’ll ever be inside you. Goddamn it!” His mouth covered hers and he kissed her hard and deep and with as much meaning as he could manage. “I’m going to make you explode, Princess.” He bit her upper lip and swiped at the blood with his tongue. “I’m going to stay in your tight little cunt until you come over and over again.”

  He crushed her to him, and the slap of hot, wet flesh was all that was heard for a moment. “You won’t forget,” he uttered. “You won’t forget.”

  Her mind reeled as her body quaked. She was on the verge of orgasm—her first since she’d taken his blood. She wouldn’t forget. Ever. But did that mean he would? Oh, God…Would he forget her?…Would he forget this?

  Her fingers pressed into his neck and she wanted to bite him. When she came, she was going to bite him.

  He pumped his hips into her, slapping against her—hard, delicious wet slaps. “It’s done, Princess. I fucking hate it. When we come, it’s done. I’m done. You’ll never see me again.”

  Anger rocked her insides, warring with the coming climax. She reached up and dug her nails into his skull, her eyes locked with his and she cried, “Maybe I won’t come, then.”

  “No!” He held on to her ass with one hand, slid the other between them. “You’re coming hard and long and loud. I’ll see to it. Right now, I’ll see to it.”

  His fingers found her core, slipping through her wet lips to her swollen clit. The second his thumb brushed over the hard bud, Bronwyn bucked. Oh, God…oh, God…His hands…masculine and unyielding. She was giving herself over to him now as he pumped slowly inside her, as his finger worked her clit like it was the sweetest gift she could give him.

  Breathing hard, her mind went blank, completely lost to the hot tremors climbing up from her feet, to her ankles, legs, thighs.

  “Oh, God, Lucian,” she uttered as her hips pumped and pumped against his hand, his thick cock tucked so tightly inside her. “No,” she begged, “Not yet. Not until you…”

  Her words died as her body keened, then exploded, shattered. Madly, she bucked her hips, moaning, crying, shaking her head against the beauty of what a climax truly felt like under this paven’s touch and power.

  Clenching his teeth, Lucian held her as she quaked and quivered, all the way until she trembled with the last waves of orgasm. Almost snarling at her, he declared, “That was your first, Princess. Now hold on, second one’s coming up.”

  Her arms wrapped around his neck, gripped him tighter, even though she felt weak as a balas. But even as her insides clenched with the end of her orgasm, they shimmered with the burgeoning need for another.

  His mouth covered hers again, and as they kissed and bit at each other, Lucian held her buttocks in his hands and guided himself in and out of her drenched core in a steady rhythm.

  Looking at him, into his eyes, Bronwyn felt something inside herself break. Not in body, but in feeling. She didn’t have a beating heart, so it couldn’t be that.

  Could it?

  “Wider,” Lucian whispered into her mouth as the speed of his thrusts intensified and sweat broke on his brow. “Open wider for me.”

  The broken thing inside her squeezed, and she panicked. She left his mouth and found his ear. “Don’t come,” she said stupidly as her skin tightened and her muscles began to convulse. “I don’t want you to leave me!”

  Oh, God. Was that it?

  “Too late, Princess,” he uttered savagely. “You’re coming again, and I’m on my way.”

  He battered her hard and she writhed against him, the heat tormenting her again, the fire growing out of control. His hands squeezed her buttocks, his fingers moved down, moved purposefully down and between the crease, until one long digit eased gently into a narrow passageway that she never thought a paven should go.

  And yet it was her ruin.

  Her breath jumped, her body spasmed uncontrollably. Bucking against his cock, against his gentle hand, she cried out as climax slammed her over and over in its brilliant, glorious waves. Without thought, she turned into him and licked the inside curve of his ear, then bit down on his lobe.

  Mine.

  Lucian was too far gone now. All that came from his throat were male cries of torment and ecstasy, and all that came from his body were four last savage thrusts into her tight cunt.

  In the final moments, the final thrusts, final pulses of release, he held her so tightly she could barely breathe, his mouth finding hers.

  Before, during, and after.

  One final kiss, as he’d promised.

  12

  Lucian sat with his back against the rock, Bronwyn curled in his arms like the sweetest fucking thing in the world. It was a momentary blip of time, of bliss, and he couldn’t help wondering, as the wind blew cool air around them and the skies threatened rain, if he would be able to remember it when his soul died—if he would be able to remember her.

  He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, breathed in the scent of her hair. This wasn’t him, this tender paven, and yet it was—at his core. Clinging to each other in Cruen’s reality felt like the last moments before death; you did things and said things you wouldn’t have the balls to do and say if your life was guaranteed. For one second of time, Lucian was almost thankful for his fate because it had called on him to recognize the true feeling of affection for a female.

  He drew in air, quick and hungry, as she stirred against him, as she turned her head into his chest and nuzzled him.

  “How long?” she whispered, her breath warm on his skin.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Do you feel different?”

  Yes. But not in the way she meant. “Not yet.”

  She kissed his collarbone, and he wanted to tell her to stop, tell her to stand up and run—get the fuck away from him before it was too late.

  And then she tipped her head back and looked at him, her face flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses.

  Fucking veana. Didn’t she know what she was courting here?…

  “He’s won, Luca,” she uttered, her dark eyes the color of wet bark.

  Lucian’s nostrils flared and his fangs dropped. “Only round one, Princess.” Cruen would suffer greatly for this—all of this. Lucian would strip him—not only of his life, but of his skin, inch by inch. “It will be his only victory, I swear it.”

  She reached around him then and cupped his neck, drew him down to her, to her mouth. God, her sweet, perfect mouth. A wet, warm sheath, not unlike her cunt, that he could get lost in for days. He kissed her, a kiss so filled with desire and despair he nearly cried out in her mouth. But the sudden cry that was wrenched from him, the debilitating cry that echoed throughout the island, had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with the bone-shattering pain that had just slammed into his gut.

&nb
sp; “Fuck!” He tore away from her mouth. He was on fire—but from the inside. Everything burned—his bones, his organs, even his teeth.

  Bronwyn scrambled off of him, her eyes wide and fearful, her hands trying to find an inch of skin that wouldn’t hurt at her touch. “Oh, God, no…not yet…”

  Doubled over, Lucian howled like a wolf caught in a steel trap. Every inch of him felt as though it were being crushed beneath a semi truck, every happy feeling he’d had from a moment ago bled right out of him.

  “What can I do?” Bronwyn begged beside him, her voice panicked, terror-filled. “Lucian. What can I do? Please tell me!”

  “It’s coming,” he uttered, shaking his head—against the pain, against the future. “He’s coming. For me. Nothing to be done…” It was the pain of the world on his shoulders, the pain of the world reviling his presence—the pain of an animal that was dangerous and sick in the mind and needed to be put down before it bit again.

  The only reason he didn’t end it now, stab himself in the neck or smash his brains in with the very rock that had ended his life with its cruel message was that he’d meant what he told Bronwyn—animal or not, he would get revenge on Cruen.

  “Let me help you,” she begged him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. “Can I hold you? Anything, please!”

  He pushed her off. “No. Get away!” The pain was too great, as was the fear of what he could do to her. Fuck, her scent was already stronger in his nostrils.

  Where was Cruen? Why hadn’t he grabbed his white ass out of this reality and got to work on whatever scheme he had planned?

  Bronwyn hovered over him, unwilling to heed his words. “Lucian, please!”

  “Swear to me,” he grunted over a new wave of pulverizing pain. He felt it…he felt it now…

  “What?” she asked, tears in her voice.

  He looked up, blinked through the endless suffering, saw the grief and guilt in her eyes for the paven he was barely holding on to.

  “As soon as we arrive,” he uttered, his fangs…they were moving inside his mouth…growing…expanding.

  “Arrive? Arrive where?”

  The rain began. Tiny drops on his back. But they were anything but soft and soothing. It was like shards of glass entering his skin, over and over.

  “Promise me you’ll run!” he cried, cursing—at the pain, at Cruen, at the one who bore him and the one who’d made him.

  “I don’t understand.” She shook her head violently, trying to get close to him, but he kept moving away.

  “When we get…out of here…Promise me you’ll run away!”

  “From you?” The rain started falling heavier now. “No! Lucian, you’re not like that! I won’t believe—”

  His eyes flipped up and she gasped at his face. “Oh, God, you have the brands. On your face. Circles, empty.”

  “The Breeding Male!” His voice. It had changed, an animalistic howl echoing through his brain.

  He saw Bronwyn reaching out to touch him; then her eyes went wide and she disappeared.

  “Princess!” he uttered hoarsely, then collapsed on the ground, his call met only by the sound of rain hitting the forest floor before he too was flashed away.

  Synjon Wise stood before the Order and demanded payment of another kind for his years of service. “You owe me.”

  “Take great care, Lieutenant,” the white-haired veana warned him, her lip drifting upward to display a fine pair of bloodred fangs.

  “Snarl all you want to, love.” He walked forward, didn’t stop until he hit table. “My life has belonged to you for decades—”

  Her gaze was cold. “That was your choice, not ours.”

  Since Cruen’s defection, it seemed that this veana was now in charge. And while she played the game in a far fairer fashion than her predecessor, she was anything but sympathetic or trustworthy.

  Hell, none of them were.

  “I find it odd,” he began, his gaze moving down the table of wine-colored robes, black circle brands, and ancient flesh, “that with all your great wisdom and power, you cannot find one Pureblood veana.”

  “It is unfortunate,” she agreed, looking thoughtful. “Cruen’s powers have been underestimated by the Order before. We cannot let this continue unchecked.”

  The members nodded in unison.

  She fixed her dark eyes on him. “You will make sure that it does not.”

  Syn chuckled. “I came here for your assistance, not the other way round.”

  She joined him in laughter, as did a few of the others. Not surprisingly, it was far from a joyful sound, but something one would hear before the blows of death were upon him.

  Which meant, Syn realized quickly, that these sodding bastards were going to try to work out a deal with him. They were going to barter his mate’s safety. And if he didn’t pucker up and kiss arse, he was either screwed or on his own.

  “Cruen has taken something that belongs to me,” he said brusquely. “And I want it back.”

  More than something that belonged to him really. Bron was the closest thing he would ever have to a friend, a real love of the heart, and he would protect and care for her with everything that was in him—for as long as life remained in him.

  The veana placed her hands on the long table before her and asked in a soft, curious voice, “Does she belong to you?”

  A growl shot from Syn’s throat, and he leaned on that very same table in a brazen, didn’t-give-a-shite-about-his-own-life sort of way. “Careful, Veana.”

  Her brow lifted. “After what has transpired this eve, I am beginning to have doubts about your union with Mistress Kettler.”

  Heat started in Synjon’s chest and starting churning until it spiraled out of control. What was it they thought they knew? Whatever suspicions they had, he dared not show uncertainty. “She bears my mark. She belongs to me.”

  “I hope so,” said the veana. “For everyone’s sake, I hope so.”

  Synjon leaned in, feeling the magical weight, the supreme power of the other Order members surrounding her. “Make no mistake, love. I will defect right along with your previous leader if you dare to question or interfere,” he returned with venom. “Do you have another like me in your political arsenal? One who will kiss, kill, or capture at the drop of a hat?” He raised both black brows. “I doubt it.”

  Up and down the table came hisses and low, angry chatter, but the veana in charge sat back. She spread out her arms and called for calm. “It would be grave to lose you, Lieutenant.”

  He sniffed and stepped back.

  “But.” The word jumped in the air between them and remained. She arched one white brow. “We would manage.”

  His snarl cut into the desert heat of their reality. “Send me back.”

  “Not yet,” the dark-skinned paven beside her interrupted. “We have a job for you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “We do not ‘kid,’ as you well know, Lieutenant.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “You arrogant sons of bitches. Oh”—Syn pointed at the white-haired veana—“that goes for the daughters too.”

  She barely registered his insult. “We want Cruen.”

  “You and me both,” he uttered. “And if I bring him to you?”

  She took a breath, touched her face thoughtfully. “Well, then. Bronwyn Kettler, as far as we and any who are controlled by us are concerned, belongs to you.”

  He fixed her with a challenging stare. “Who the hell else would she belong to?”

  “Lucian Roman, of course.” Before he had a chance to reply, she lifted her hand and waved it over him. “Now, get to work.”

  Cruen had felt the surge of power even from the depths of his laboratory belowground. The Breeding Male. It was as if a switch had been turned on, as if the world had colored and beamed, and he instantly walked away from the table and the blood samples he was testing and went over to the four caged ones along the wall.

  With his eyes closed and the many strings of his min
d unleashed, he locked on to the pair of new lovers in his reality and summoned them home. To him. To their new life.

  The fifth cage was ready for Bronwyn Kettler, just as the female was ready for Lucian Roman.

  The chants that flowed from his lips were thoughtful and pure, and they needed to be. It was no easy feat summoning Purebloods to an interior location, and even more difficult the deeper into the ground you attempted to call them.

  But Cruen let the dark magic flow through him, the darkest of blood magic—it was his greatest ally, and after several moments, he felt the floor below him shift and shudder like an earthquake. He grinned at the surge of power inside and beneath him, then chuckled as the Pureblood tester rats before him held tight to their metal bars and cried out in fear.

  His eyes flipped open. He inhaled sharply, expecting to see the shocked pair in the empty cage on the far wall, the large cage—big enough for two. But there was nothing, no one. Fear scuttled through Cruen as the chemical scents of the laboratory suddenly grew thicker, harsher in his nostrils.

  He moved to the cage, empty—EMPTY!

  A growl escaped his throat, wicked and unearthly. Where were they? Where were his two prize rats?

  He slammed his eyes shut. He could not lose them. Lucian’s seed was vital to his plan, and the Kettler veana—she had all the genetic information he needed inside that thick brain of hers. He would try again. Then again, if necessary.

  Heat suffused his limbs, his organs, and he reached out to the reality and tried to lock on to their scent, their heat patterns—anything…

  Fuck!

  He growled again, low and deadly. How was this possible? How was it that he felt nothing? It was as if they never were—had never existed—as if they’d been erased from the planet.

  He slammed his eyes open and called to his eldest son.

  The Beast flashed to his side in under a second, towering over his father like the Pureblood son of a Breeding Male that he was. “You have need of me, Cruen.”