Blood Possession (34 page)

And she knew that it was inevitable.

Imminent, even.

There was nothing at this point that could stop it—because she no longer possessed the willpower, or the desire, to say no.

Napolean Mondragon, the Ancient Master Justice and dominant leader of the most powerful race of beings she had ever known—the most commanding, and let’s just face it, sexy male she had ever seen—was on his way home to her…to be with his wife for the rest of the night. And one way or another, they would end up making love.

Brooke Adams tried to ignore the swarm of butterflies that fluttered around wildly in her stomach as she set about cleaning the bathroom, drying her hair, and lightly applying a soft application of makeup, all in record time. Relying upon her newly enhanced, preternatural speed, she stepped out of her cotton pajamas and into a tasteful yet form-fitting silk-and-lace nightgown: She wondered if it wasn’t a bit too obvious but decided to keep it anyway. She brushed her teeth, moistened her full lips with a hint of gloss, and dabbed on a few drops of her favorite perfume before finding a comfortable—albeit nervous—position in the lazy armchair beside their son’s bassinette.

She felt ridiculous.

Excited.

Nervous enough to pass out.

Drawing in a deep breath, she folded her hands in her lap and switched her attention from Napolean, the man—and what he was coming home to—to Napolean, the king, and what he was coming home
from
. Not only had he been in charge of the birth, having to call their sons from her womb while keeping her unconscious at the same time—as she had asked him to—but he had then been faced, alone, with the unthinkable: remitting the Dark One to the Curse for the sacrifice.

Brooke’s hand rose absently to her stomach in both wonderment and trepidation: wonderment because it seemed so impossible—a miracle, in fact—how her body could be so firm, fit, and perfect just hours after creating life; trepidation because it seemed so implausible—evil, without question—how that same magic could have used both her and Napolean to spawn something so abhorrent, so wrong, as the evil twin. For no other reason than to carry out a primordial, vengeful punishment that was ultimately much darker than the original crime.

She shut her eyes and shivered. Napolean had taken that dark being, disguised in a body of light, and seen to its end. And it was right. It was necessary. After all, death, one way or another, was inevitable.

The Curse had seen to that so many centuries ago.

Either the dark infant would be sacrificed, alone, or Napolean would be tortured, mercilessly, to death in the Dark One’s place.

And the latter would only buy a miniscule amount of time for the dark child anyway—releasing something so horrible into the world as a result, that the father’s sacrifice was hardly worth it.

She had read the annals of the house of Jadon, the detailed accounts, and she knew with certainty that the dark twin would grow up to murder, rape, and destroy…to prey on humans unchecked, unrestrained…that ultimately, the sons of Jadon would be forced to destroy it anyhow.

Brooke shuddered at the thought. Even though she understood the reality, she also realized that knowing and doing were two very different things. The bottom line was—Napolean had been forced to carry out the sacrifice alone, and that had to have been horrific for such a transcendent being.

Brooke shifted in the soft, leather armchair and hung her head as a new—yet just as disturbing—topic entered her mind….

Nachari Silivasi
.

The other burden weighing heavily on the king’s mind.

The young Master Wizard had saved Napolean’s life. He had died in order to free Napolean’s spirit—in order to wrench the blackened heart of that hideous thing, the dark lord they called Ademordna, from Napolean’s body. Nachari’s sacrifice had enabled the true soul of the king to return; and the other wizards, warriors, and his brothers had counted on bringing the brave vampire back to life, returning him to his own waiting body once the king was safe…

But something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Brooke hadn’t understood all of what Jocelyn and Ciopori had told her, but she had sensed enough in Jocelyn’s tone, seen the depth of pain reflected in Ciopori’s eyes, to know that the loss to the house of Jadon was beyond monumental. It was epic. According to Jocelyn, the Silivasi family had suffered the loss of Nachari’s twin only two months before, and the grief had almost destroyed them.

Before he had left the mansion, Napolean had tried to hide his turbulent emotions from Brooke, for her own sanity’s sake, but even a blind man could have seen the truth: The king was racked with guilt and remorse over what had happened to Nachari. He was overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness and determined to do all that he could to help the family…and his people. As it stood, all he could do was sit with the brothers and their
destinies
at the Dark Moon Clinic, wait and watch in solidarity—pray to the celestial beings for Nachari’s return—yet even Brooke knew that with every moment that passed, the chances of the wizard’s return grew slimmer.

Despite her total lack of experience with a newborn baby, as well as her recent emergence into the Vampyr world as one of their species, Brooke had urged Napolean to take all the time he needed with the Silivasis, to return only when he grew tired or needed a break.

“How is our son?” Napolean’s deep, husky voice echoed through the room, and Brooke almost came out of the chair in fright.

“Holy cow! You scared me!” she exclaimed.

She hadn’t seen him enter the room…or even materialize into the space. He was just suddenly there, standing on the other side of the bassinette, looking like silk and fire, stealth and grace—and utter male perfection—all wrapped up in a black muscle-shirt and dark jeans, leaning over their son as he slept.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his words wrapping around her like a velvet caress. “I didn’t mean to—”

All at once, his eyes grew wide. They swept over her body in an instant, and his mind seemed to…freeze…as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He stared at the small silk straps of her nightgown, and then his eyes roamed over her otherwise bared shoulders before following the sleek lines of her collarbone down to her breasts, pausing at her waist, and then settling on the exposed flesh of her thighs. His appreciation showed in his quick intake of breath as his gaze moved slowly back up the nightgown, lingered at her neck, and finally met her flustered stare. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it, seeming to have forgotten his words.

He cleared his throat, and his tongue swept over his full bottom lip, moistening his mouth in an inadvertently sexy gesture. And then a brilliant smile curved along the corners of his mouth.

“Dear gods, Brooke: You are devastating.”

twenty-three

Napolean could hardly breathe.

He had returned home expecting to find his destiny somewhat anxious, and maybe even a little bit upset, by his unavoidable, prolonged absence. Instead, he had walked in on a beautiful, heartfelt scene: the miraculous sight of his son, lying peacefully in an antique bassinette, his soft eyelids closed in contentment, his tiny arms and legs spread out to the sides. And his woman—his
destiny
—sitting lovingly in the large armchair beside the child, enchanting, like an angel, luminous and surreal, with her hands folded peacefully in her lap.

And then he had noticed what Brooke was wearing…

His body had hardened instantly, and he had scarcely been able to draw air through his lungs.

The soft, silk nightgown had rendered him speechless, but it was the look of flushed anticipation on her exquisite face—a look that he hadn’t expected to see for many weeks to come—that had caught him completely off guard.

He had told her she was devastating…because she was.

Now he wondered if he hadn’t been too forward with his eyes…his appreciation.

After all, their relationship was still very fragile. A lot had happened in a very short span of time. And they were still getting to know each other as friends.

Brooke shifted nervously in her seat and brought her hand up to her chest, partially covering the exposed skin that robbed him of breath. Clearly, she was uncomfortable, perhaps even a little afraid, yet she had dressed in the most beautiful scrap of silk—
for him?
—and her thick, dark hair smelled of lavender and vanilla, the soft tresses swaying gracefully just above her delicate shoulders as she turned her head to look at him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled tenderly, not wanting to disquiet her further with his words.

Unable to hold the very eye contact she had initiated, she smoothed a lock of hair anxiously with her fingers, swept a graceful hand into the bassinette, and straightened the corner of their son’s blanket. “He’s been sleeping most of the evening.” Her voice was a mother’s gentle caress.

Napolean followed her gaze then, reveling in the sight of the child they had created together—whether or not they had chosen the manner of his creation. “He also takes my breath away,” he said.

Brooke smiled, relaxing. “Mine, too.” Her eyes positively sparkled, and she sounded like a child, then—so full of uninhibited joy and wonder. “I have no idea what to do with a baby, Napolean.” She laughed. “But, I already…” She paused and met his eyes once again. “I already love him.”

The words settled deep into his soul.

With her hand still resting just above her heart, she added, “He’s already in here.”

Napolean nodded. “I know what you mean.” His eyes feasted on her beauty, and he knew he could not contain his passion much longer. He would try to be tender…and gentle…but she was fully converted now—completely and irrevocably his—and he wanted her in every way. Sending a strong psychic suggestion to the baby—imploring him to remain asleep—he held out his hand. “Come here.”

Brooke visibly paled, and she cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”

Napolean chuckled then, low and deep, not meaning to add to her consternation but unable to restrain his amusement. “Come to me, Brooke.”

She smoothed the skirt of her nightgown, and then her eyes nervously scanned the room, stopping to stare in desperation at the matching robe lying alongside the edge of the bed. “Um, let me go get my robe,” she muttered. She stood up and quickly stepped aside, walking slightly backward all the way to the bed, as if he might do something hasty if she turned her back on him.

What?
he wondered.
Pounce on her like a hungry lion?

Or a thirsty vampire…

He restrained a smile. “Are you still afraid of me, Brooke?”

She laughed insincerely. “No, of course not. I”—she quickly slipped the robe over her bare shoulders and tied the sash loosely around her waist—“I’m just cold.” She rubbed her hands over her arms. “I think I caught a chill.”

Napolean swallowed a chuckle. Indeed, he had noticed several goose bumps on Brooke’s arms—just before the robe had concealed them. It was true, she did have chills—but she wasn’t cold. His body heated with the knowledge. “You waited up for me?”

She shivered, but she didn’t respond.

“Thank you.”

He took a measured step forward, and she retreated, the back of her legs meeting the bed at just the right height so that her knees bent and she fell backward onto the mattress in a seated position. She looked up at him with enormous blue eyes. “I…I knew you would want to see our son.”

“Mmm…I see,” he murmured, holding her gaze.

As if the nonsensical explanation suddenly occurred to her, she abruptly changed tactics. “I mean…I knew that we would probably have…there were things we should talk about…about our son.”

Napolean’s heart skipped a beat.

She was lovely in her indecision.

Beautiful beyond compare as her desire warred with her sense of modesty…and her curiosity battled her unspoken fear.

Her perfect breasts rose and fell beneath the light, silk robe, and despite her reluctance to allow passion a foothold, her nipples hardened beneath the cloth. She was aroused and pulling herself in opposite directions: One wanted him to touch her—no, needed him to reassure her that all of this was real, that he would take infinite care of her heart as well as her body from this moment forward—and the other was lost and confused…and so overwhelmed by the power of their bond that she probably wanted to run.

“So,” she breathed, clearly searching for a distraction, “what happened? At the clinic, I mean.”

Napolean shook his head.

He wanted to tell her.

Gods knew he needed her comfort.

The weight of the grief he had encountered in that cold, sterile waiting room, the palpable terror that had radiated from the Silivasis and their
destinies
—from young Braden and even Kristina—had shaken him to the core. He shook his head again, forcing his thoughts from the clinic back to the bedroom. “Later,” he whispered. “I will tell you later. It is…too much…right now.”

Brooke looked up at him with so much compassion that he couldn’t help but close the short remaining distance between them, gliding as much as walking to the side of the bed. He reached down and took her hand in his. “I need you, Brooke.”