Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire Page 4

  Again he flashed, this time to Bronwyn’s house—dark and empty—then back again to the front of the Veracou Hall. His eyes moved over every inch of the credenti landscape. Not that he expected that Breeding Male mongrel to be hanging around anymore, but Syn would make sure. Just as he’d make sure he flashed to every square inch of earth until he found her.

  He was just about to hit the airway when his eyes skidded to a stop. Ire flared within him, and in that moment, the Boston credenti winter wonderland went from wide-angle-lens landscape to pinprick-hole focus. And in the very center of that hole? Leaning back against a tree that was as white as the paven himself?

  Lucian Wanker Roman.

  Synjon growled low in his chest and flashed directly in front of the paven, his arm already yanked back, his hand already clenched into a steely fist.

  Crack. Right across the paven’s jaw, nothing but power and pain.

  Lucian’s head snapped back into the tree and he cursed loud and dirty.

  “Where is she, arsehole?” Synjon demanded.

  Lucian heard nothing inside his rapped skull, but he sure as shit saw red. Blood red—and the sudden death of this vampire who had sucker punched him like a little bitch. Recovering quickly, he shoved the paven back, followed up by pummeling him with a quick set of jabs to the abdomen, then one clean, hard shot to the face.

  Pow. Crack.

  The paven’s dark head snapped back and he staggered a couple of steps like a drunk. That’s right, dickhead, Lucian mused blackly, his nostrils flaring with deep intakes of breath. Fall down, drop to your knees, and take a few more knocks to the skull like a good little bloodsucker. But the vampire wasn’t into taking. Clearly the giver, he shook the fog off and leaped in the air, just a few inches, cocking one knee back. Before Lucian could sidestep the coming blow, a foot shot straight into the flesh below his left knee.

  Fuck.

  The pain exploded inside him, and the blow sent him flying back, past the tree. He dropped like a stone on his back, disabled for a moment. But a moment was all the black-haired paven needed to get down and dirty. He dropped on top of Lucian, his hand clamping around Lucian’s throat. Oh, hell no, Lucian mused, recovering quickly and reaching up to lock his right hand around the other male’s thick neck. Grinning, he squeezed with all the built-up rage he had inside himself for this pretty-boy vampire who had claimed his princess.

  Both breathing heavy and feral into each other’s faces, like animals after a hunt, the blue-eyed paven chose to speak first. “You know who I am.”

  “Got a good guess,” Lucian uttered, his chin hard as he fought the paven’s grip. “But since your dick is pressing against mine, maybe we should introduce ourselves proper-like.”

  The grin Synjon Wise flashed him had all the charm of a snake. “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Frosty.”

  “Are we talking about Bronwyn?” Lucian laughed darkly. “You lose your veana already, Brit Boy?”

  “Only one paven who lost something today, and I’m looking at him, mate.”

  In under a second, Lucian released Synjon’s throat and shoved the base of his hand up and straight into the paven’s nose.

  “Ahhh, fuck you,” the male cursed.

  “Another time,” Lucian said, grabbing Syn by the arms and rolling them both over. He had the black-haired bastard on his back now, blood streaming out of his nose like water from a hose.

  Synjon glared up at him. “That was a mistake.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t really give a shit at this point.”

  “Tell me where she is and we can end this play.”

  “I don’t have your precious mate,” Lucian returned with ice. Never did. Never could.

  Synjon’s tongue emerged and swiped at a pool of blood near his upper lip. “Your brother showed up a moment ago inside the hall. Bronwyn went to have a bit of a chat with him.” His brow arched. “She never returned to me.”

  “Maybe she ran back home. Maybe she had second thoughts. Maybe it’s all that cologne you’re wearing.” Lucian said the words with all the sarcasm he could muster, but something inside him started to churn at the words Brit Boy had just uttered. It wasn’t anxiety, but it was close.

  “She’s not at her home,” the paven said, his eyes serious as a heart attack to a human now. “I checked. Your brother took her—flashed her away. I saw the bloody sparks.”

  “Not possible.” But he pushed off the Pureblood and stood up. He was antsy now—like he hadn’t had blood in a week.

  “Where is your brother?” Synjon asked, snapping to his feet too and meeting Lucian eye to eye, grave stare to grave stare. “Where is Nicholas Roman?”

  “None of your motherfucking business,” Lucian snarled as his brain squeezed inside his skull and his ears rang with bells that clanged the march of death.

  “If you care for Bronwyn at all, you’ll answer me,” the paven said with controlled venom as he wiped the last drops of blood from his nose.

  Lucian wanted to tell the guy to fuck off and die, wanted to tell him he didn’t give two shits about Bronwyn and never would—but those words wouldn’t come out easy or true.

  “Nicky’s in France, all right?” he said tightly. “Has been for three weeks.”

  Lucian barely had the last bit out before Synjon grabbed him, hauled him into a tight embrace, and flashed him from the cold, hard ground outside the Veracou Hall.

  As soon as her feet hit sand, Bronwyn screamed and started flailing her arms, punching at anyone or anything that held her. But nothing did. She was alone. On a beach—the sun setting impossibly and beautifully all around her. From cold, snowy Boston to gentle breezes and warm sand—it was a complete shock to her system, to her mind, and she couldn’t catch her breath.

  Where was the paven? she thought, panic clinging to every cell, every inch of her skin as she turned in circles, making herself dizzy. Where was the monster who’d abducted her?

  Her eyes scanned a section of beach, the water, then darted right to a stand of palm trees and beyond that a hill, green and lush, its very top kissing the sky.

  Paradise.

  Perhaps it should have calmed her. Perhaps that was what it was designed to do. But she just stood there in her Veracou costume and felt the salty breeze caress her terrified features. What the hell had happened? Where was she?

  She heard something behind her. Or was it in front of her? To the right? Damn it! A rustle.

  Maybe just the wind tossing the palms.

  Maybe not.

  Her feet dug into the sand and she ran. She ran hard and fast down the water’s edge until her lungs ached, until her body forced her to stall. Nicholas. At first, seeing his frame in the hallway, she’d been so sure. But it wasn’t Nicholas. It was something wrong and unearthly.

  Her chest hurt, struggled for breath, but she couldn’t get the air in.

  What did that thing want from her? Why had she been taken from her home, from her Veracou—from Synjon?

  Oh, God—Syn—he had to be losing his mind right now. She belonged to him, and he was old-school protective that way.

  Something flashed directly in front of her, dark hair, diamond eyes that lifted at the corners like a cat. Him! She knew it was him. God. Please, she silently begged no one in particular, but anyone who might be listening. As her feet refused to move, her manic gaze ran up and down him, taking in his thickly muscled frame. Back in the hall he’d looked exactly like Nicholas, but now…Now something had changed—something had changed him. Morphed him into this half vampire, half monster. He was male in form, yes, but his face was covered in scars and had an animal’s shape to it—almost like a lion.

  He reached for her. Bronwyn screamed and tried to turn around and run again. But he had her now, held her to face him, made her look up into his ruined face.

  Breathing heavily, forcing her mind to calm down and think of a way out, a way to claw and kick and bite herself to freedom, Bronwyn st
ared into diamond eyes and the scared, ravaged skin of an animal, a monster.

  “Calm yourself, Veana,” he said, his voice low and gravel-like. “We want no bruises on you.”

  Bronwyn found her voice through her fear and whispered, “Who are you?”

  “A Beast,” he uttered. “A defender and servant to my father, and the gemino of your Nicholas Roman.”

  As soon as they landed, Lucian smashed his elbow into the paven’s neck and pushed him off. “You are a motherfucker.”

  “No. I am Synjon Wise, Bronwyn’s true mate. And I will have her returned.” He said the words with deadly calm. “Now, your brother? He in Paris, then?”

  “No,” Lucian said, glancing around at the city lights against the night sky. “But we are, and I’m about to stick the Eiffel Tower up your ass!”

  Synjon ignored him. “Where is he?”

  “My brother’s been in France for days,” Lucian countered, despising this paven and the power play he was working on Lucian’s body and mind. But he couldn’t shake the fact that Bronwyn was gone, taken—in the hands of someone who wouldn’t treat her kindly. He may have been the biggest asshole on the planet, but he wouldn’t have that. Wouldn’t ever have that. “It’s impossible that Nicky took her. He’s with his mate, and has no interest in yours.”

  Synjon snorted, uttered a terse, “Well, at least that’s one Roman brother not interested in Bronwyn.”

  Lucian snarled, his blood reacting with anger. “Whoever you saw was not Nicky. Just another vein for your new bride to suckle at.”

  Synjon moved so fast Lucian didn’t have a second to block the punch to his neck.

  “Fuck,” he gasped, tasting his own blood, dislodging his fangs from his tongue. “You are going to pay for that, you piece of sacro…” Lucian’s voice trailed off, his words and his threat too, because in that split second of time, of pain, it hit him—it hit him hard and sick.

  Who might have Bronwyn.

  He looked up at Synjon and the dread in his eyes must’ve been blatant. “Wasn’t Nicky.”

  Synjon cocked his head to the side and said slowly, “Bronwyn said—”

  “She didn’t know.” Lucian spat blood. “Wouldn’t know. Not until she got close up anyway.” His gut clenched and rolled. This was serious now, not just busting the balls of Bronwyn’s mate.

  “What the bloody hell are you going on about, Frosty?” Synjon said with harsh impatience.

  “Call me that again and I will gut you,” Lucian spat back. He needed to think, to plan—to get to his brothers. Shit, Bronwyn had to be scared to death. Why would that paven take her—?

  “Wake up!” Synjon glared at him. “Do you know where Bronwyn is, or not?”

  “I know who she’s with.”

  “Share with the class, please,” Synjon said through gritted teeth. “How big of a problem are we talking?”

  “We need to get to my brothers. Now.” Lucian stepped right into the paven’s face. “They’re in Provence. Touch down near the center of Lorgues. Go!”

  “You’d better have answers as soon as we drop.” Syn’s arms wrapped around Lucian and they were gone from Paris, the Tower, and the blinking city lights in a flash of time and color.

  Shaking, sweating, and terrified, Bronwyn stood with her feet buried deep in warm sand, facing the Beast who had ripped her away from her Veracou. “You’re Nicholas’s twin.”

  “You should know that,” he said, his diamond eyes flat, contained. “You were the one who discovered and announced my existence, were you not?”

  How did he know that? Bronwyn wondered, her breath coming fast in and out of her lungs. How did he know what went on in the Romans’ home? Or hers? Her eyes moved over his face. “You are like your brother and yet…”

  “There is no brotherhood,” the Beast interrupted. “The paven and I share DNA, nothing more.”

  In her fear, Bronwyn fought for understanding, but there were so many questions in her mind, and none more important than this one: “What is this place?”

  “A reality.”

  Reality? Her mind spun back, gathering and circling information—things she remembered from her research, from all of her years of study. Realities were the territory of the Eternal Order. Were they behind this madness? What the hell was going on? “Why am I here? What do you want with me?” The panicked trill in her voice was evident and she hated it. It wouldn’t do to have a breakdown or show this animal her tears. She had to fight—fight her way off this reality and get back to her own.

  “You have a purpose, Veana,” the Beast said to her, still holding on to her arms—not painfully, but solidly, resolutely. “You have been brought here to lay with the one who will be the next Breeding Male.”

  Bronwyn’s face drained of blood. “What?”

  She mentally shook her head against his words. She hadn’t heard him. Hadn’t heard him…This couldn’t be! She’d mated with Synjon! She belonged to him—only to him. Did her parents or the Order—someone in the credenti—find out that she’d tricked them? That Syn wasn’t her true mate?

  She locked eyes with the Beast, and for one brief moment she swore she saw a trace of humanity in his gaze. But it was gone in an instant.

  “The Breeding Male will come for you,” he said without a trace of emotion.

  Air left Bronwyn’s lungs. She tasted bile in her throat, felt blood thunder in her ears. Pounding, pounding the march of terror and madness. This couldn’t be true. Couldn’t be happening. She started to shake so violently that her knees suddenly lost their ability to remain solid and strong.

  “You will be his way home,” the Beast continued, holding her steady as he described her nightmare come to life, “to his creator and the one who waits for him.”

  She shook her head, tears burning her eyes, spilling down her cheeks—she couldn’t do a thing to stop them now. Just as she couldn’t seem to escape this nightmare. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  He nodded. “You will.”

  Then her adrenaline hit—flooding her body with the need to fight—and she struck out at him. Again and again, she struck, arms, fists, feet. Like an animal going to slaughter, she struggled. “I want off this beach, you bastard! I want off this reality! Let me go—NOW!”

  The Beast held her without effort, his lips flickering up, showing off his long white fangs. “Not until you have done your duty.”

  She wasn’t going out this way—going down this way. “I have a mate, you asshole! It—”

  “It matters not,” he finished for her.

  “I will not lay with anyone but my mate!” she screamed into the sea air, into his ravaged face. “No one will force me—”

  “No.” Smug certainty coated his voice. “No one will force you.”

  She stilled for just a moment, trying to process what he’d said.

  But he was looking her over now, her Veracou costume, and his brow grew tight. He sneered. “No. This will not do. He would not find you appealing like this.” Without another word, he released her. And with a wave of his hand, Bronwyn’s Veracou gown and everything beneath it disappeared. In a mere breath of time, she stood before the monster naked and vulnerable.

  Gasping, she groped at herself, trying to cover her body.

  The Beast’s diamond eyes leveled her. “Lucian Roman will be inside your tight cunt, Mistress Kettler. I suggest you prepare yourself for him.”

  And with that, he flashed away.

  5

  As soon as they hit dirt, Lucian broke out of Synjon’s grip and starting running, hauling ass up the moonlit road, away from the village. His head was heavy, his chest constricted. Maybe it was the air, which was colder than it had been in Paris. Or maybe it was just that he despised himself—despised the fact that he couldn’t flash on his own—or maybe it was the fact that the veana he shouldn’t give two shits about was out there somewhere and he couldn’t get to her.

  “Hey!” Synjon yelled after him.

  Lucian kept eating up cold
, wet ground. The paven behind him didn’t exist. It was only road and moonlight and heavy breathing, and the roofline of his brother’s villa in the distance.

  “This is bollocks and a waste of time,” Synjon growled, flashing in front of him every other second. “Stop, you daft bastard! I’ll flash us to the front door.”

  “No, you won’t,” Lucian said, picking up his pace, the world around him growing darker as he moved farther away from the lights of the town.

  “What are you playing at, Frosty?” Synjon demanded, sprinting with him up a hill and into a grove of olive trees.

  Lucian remained silent, focused, weaving in and out and around the barren trees. Once free of the grove, he sprinted forward, only about ten feet, then stopped abruptly. Synjon was right beside him, keeping pace, and without a warning, and with far too much momentum going, he hit hard—smack—right into the invisible fence the Roman brothers had magically installed around the perimeter of the villa.

  Lucian saw the paven fly back, heard him land on his ass somewhere in the ice-cold grass. “I warned you not to call me that.” He bared his fangs and bit into his wrist. This was a Roman brothers’ credenti, and Lucian let the blood run down for a moment before swiping it against the invisible lock.

  He felt the heat, the vibrating energy of shifting powers, shoot through him as the concealed gate evaporated.

  “Let’s go, Brit Boy,” Lucian uttered, coating the last two words with as much smugness as he could manage.

  “Could’ve warned me, mate,” Synjon grumbled, coming up beside him.

  “Now, why would I do that?”

  “I dunno,” Syn said as they cleared the gate and headed toward the house. “Maybe you’re really a decent bloke under all that thin, pale skin.”

  Lucian snorted. “Try again.”

  “For Bronwyn, then.”

  Lucian’s gaze snapped right and his lip curled with irritation. “Not sure your life really means all that much to her.”

  “You have no idea.”