Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire (2 page)

He found their fear impossible to resist.

As her kin released her and quickly left the pen, slamming the iron door behind them, the
veana
stood stock-still, her fingers fisting around the gray fabric of her gown, the key to his iron prison dangling from the middle finger of her right hand. True to his nature, Titus wanted to leap upon her and take what was his, but his chains wouldn’t stretch that far. Like all the others that came before her, she would have to yield and come to him. It was how it was, how it must be. Until she submitted, gave in to her fate, she would remain captive, hungry for blood, and desperate.

And the longer she waited, the more rabid Titus would become. It was better for her if she came to him, unlocked him, lay beneath him within the next hour.

“Breeding Male?”

She spoke clearly and without tremor.

“Look up, Breeding Male.”

Titus’s chin twitched at her voice, her calm, determined tone. Normally it took hours, days for the
veanas
who were brought before him, caged with him, to give in, give up, and beg for a gentle hand.

“Now!” she said, so sharply it caused his fangs to descend. “Look at me!”

Titus couldn’t help himself, not with such a bold, impassioned tongue before him. His eyelids flipped up and he took in the daring Scottish lass, the one who
carried no scent of fear on her skin or in her blood. She displayed fine curves and a heavy bosom. Her neck, though burdened with a thick strip of purity cloth, was the whitest, most luscious thing he’d ever beheld. And just a few inches north, long ringlets of honey blond hair framed a pale, pleasing face. But it was her pink mouth and her eyes—green flecked with black, staring straight into his, brazen as a demon goddess—that had his fangs dropping farther.

She lifted her chin and regarded him. “What say ye, Breeding Male?”

Titus could form no words. Instead, he growled at her.

The
veana
grinned at his animal-like response, flashing her own set of needle-sharp fangs. “That’ll do fer a start,” she said, her brogue rich and throaty as she looked him over.

His cock pulsed inside its iron prison—the one that kept his hand away when he was blindly desperate to mate—the one that preserved his seed. Never in Titus’s long life, in his capacity as Breeding Male, had a
veana
ever spoken to him in such a manner. Once beneath him, there were moans, yes, and cries, both in fear and in pleasure…but never this. This calm, this curiosity, this nearly lusty excitement…

“It has taken me quite some time, Breeding Male,” she said, walking toward him, her hips swaying gently beneath her simple gown, “not to mention great effort, to find myself here. I have heard the tales of ye, and those who were in fear of yer touch—but I am no silly lass. Aye, I may be
virgini
, but I have prepared myself for ye.” She smiled. “Many nights, many times.”

Fire raged through Titus and he strained against his
chains, the clash of metal echoing throughout the pen enclosure. His nostrils widened with every step she took, eager for more of her scent. How could it be? he thought desperately. There was no fear in her scent—not even a trace. It was impossible and yet it was how he had always wanted this moment to be. Just once. He despised himself every second of every day—but not today, not this moment. In this moment, the reflection staring back at him in her green eyes was not of the monster Breeding Male.

It was of a desired
paven
.

He ran his tongue over his fangs as she moved to within a foot of him.

The words of the
veana
’s father to Titus’s master last eve made sense now. She was six months into her Meta and in that time there had been no appearance of her true mate’s mark. Her father had claimed that she was unconcerned with retaining her purity, remaining outside in the eve without the watchful eyes of her kin. And just three nights ago, she had been found on her knees in the family barn, servicing an Impure field worker.

Disgusted and terrified that they would be burdened with the stain of an Impure
swell
, her kin had thought it time the
veana
visited the Breeding Male—time she had her womb filled with his Pureblood seed.

Titus watched hungrily as the
veana
stripped the purity bands from her wrists and neck, then started to work the buttons of her gown. He didn’t need clothing removed to do the job he was required to do, only the quick lift of her skirt, but as she slowly revealed her skin to him, each pale inch, he understood the true feelings of lust—pure, not purposeful, lust.

“I would be content with a wee
paven
, Breeding Male,” she said, stepping forward, taking the key she had been given and unlocking the iron cup between his legs.

Her hand shook slightly in her work, but it was not from fear. He knew this. He scented this.

He let loose another feral growl as his rod sprang free.

She licked her lips at the sight. “But dunna be quick about it. They willna come for me until daybreak. We have much time together.”

Stripped bare, she lay down on the hard stone floor before him, displaying her pale, young body, her long legs, her glistening cunt to his ravenous gaze.

His cock stood straight up and ready, and as she opened her legs for him, the cry—the howl—that erupted from his throat could be heard all the way to Edinburgh. He was Titus Evictus
and
he was the Breeding Male. In an instant, he was on top of her, his fangs striking into her shoulder as his cock slid deep inside her hot, willing body.

Boston

Present Day

H
er fangs had been inside him only once, and yet they had left an unseen mark on his skin, his blood, even his breath. In consuming his blood she had consumed his very soul and now—every day, every moment he existed, she moved inside him, her unending hunger deafening as she searched and slithered through his veins, circled his muscles, squeezed until his brain threatened to explode.

Lucian Roman sat perched, as he had for the past seven nights, on the snow-crested roof of Bronwyn Kettler’s brownstone. Still and menacing as a gargoyle, he ignored the vibration of his cell phone in his coat pocket and stared without purpose into the heavy snowfall, which dropped bride-white over the silent Boston
credenti
landscape. An hour ago, the streets had been alive with
Impures running about, adorning the doors of their master’s dwellings as well as the gates, fences, and lampposts leading up to the Gathering Hall. The tasteful bunting and subdued winter flowers were a testament to how the Boston community viewed the binding ceremony of its true mates—with serious and reverent celebration.

Now the streets were empty and silence reigned, as did the snow, and Lucian sneered in appreciation as the decorations for tomorrow’s Veracou were quickly being buried in heavy white frosting. Would a blizzard annul the binding ceremony between Bronwyn and the
paven
who claimed her mark? Lucian thought not. But he would remain, affixed to the roof to watch. To wait. To see the binding done and over. Or—if his blood had its wish—to see Bronwyn run from her true mate, reject her body’s choice.

As another wave of longing, of desire-ladened torment pulsed in his bones and brain, Lucian’s fangs slowly descended and the blade in his fist trembled.

There were only two ways to stop this madness.

Fuck her or kill her.

And yet he could do neither and remain free. The former would turn him into a Breeding Male one hundred and seventy-five years before his time—a rutting animal with no conscience, no control, only a hunger to claim. While the latter would send him to Mondrar, the vampire prison, for all eternity.

Again he felt the vibration of his cell phone and again he ignored it. He knew Alexander would never give up looking for him, and in fact had seen his brother walking the streets below once already this week. But the eldest Roman had never looked up, and down below had found only snow and the censure of a community who
reviled anything with a matching set of Breeding Male brands.

A sudden rush of sound, a faint cry, like air released from a balloon, stole Lucian’s thoughts and left him with nothing but a raw, feral craving. He sprang to his feet, his entire body going forest-fire hot as a growl sounded in his throat.

Damn her. With one bite, she had made him into this, this animal, this creature of destruction, and though perhaps it hadn’t been her intention to ruin him, he would make her pay.

His hand fisting the knife, Lucian moved like a panther down the pitched roof and over the edge, dropping to the small balcony attached to her room in near silence. The window was a large square, and in the handful of times he’d stood there watching her sleep, he’d surmised rather easy to maneuver through.

Darkness blanketed her bedroom, the only light coming from the streetlamps below. But to Lucian’s keen gaze, it was enough to make out the furniture, the artwork on her walls, and the
veana
lying in her bed. As usual, she was on her back, her dark hair spilling out over her stark white pillow. In nights previous, she had slept soundly, unmoving, like the princess Lucian had insisted on labeling her.

But tonight, she moved.

Leaning closer to the glass, his insides still blazing with heat, Lucian narrowed his gaze on her lower half, specifically on her legs as they stirred beneath the white coverlet. It was as if she were running a race in her sleep, and yet, as his gaze trailed upward to her thighs, to the outline of her hips, he realized that the race she was running was the one that ended in climax.

Madness splintered his mind once again, and instead of pushing away from her window and returning to his rooftop perch as he normally did, he quietly broke the lock on her window, eased up the frame, and stole inside her room. Instantly, the scent of her yet unclaimed orgasm washed over him, and he flew to the bed and coiled over her like a snake, any last shreds of stability he may have had upon entering now dead, drowned, forgotten.

The white coverlet blinded him from the act she performed, but Lucian could imagine her hands working her core, just as he could scent the dance of her fingers inside her cunt.

He snarled softly at her, at the pale, perfect face that was framed with long black hair.

No
veana
had the right to be this beautiful
.

No
veana
had the right to hold him captive
.

Held in her own state of captivity, Bronwyn’s eyes remained clamped shut, but her cheeks held the delectable stain of desire, and her pink lips were parted just enough for the ragged breaths of her building passion to escape. Like a dog in heat, Lucian leaned in and took one long sniff.

The mistake of it hit him instantaneously.

His fangs dropped to needle sharpness against his lips, and all he could see was blood, and all he could taste was sex.

All he could do was place his blade to her throat.

Bronwyn’s eyes slammed open at the feel of cool metal. “You.”

“Not who you were thinking about, Princess?”

Her arms shot out from beneath the covers; her fingers
wrapped his wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t move.”

“Get off me, you bastard!”

The scent of her fear did nothing to stall him, only pushed his madness further. “Don’t talk. Even your breath on my face makes me want to scratch at your skin to get inside.”

Her gaze narrowed on his. “What’s happened to you? You look—”

“I said don’t talk!”

“If you’re here to kill me,” she said, her nails digging into his skin, “don’t expect me to die easily or quietly.”

Her lips pressed together, fear tensing her jaw and the skin around her eyes—though the scent of arousal still lingered temptingly in the air.

The blade still held to her throat, Lucian’s fangs dropped even farther as he uttered, “I hate you.”

She stared up at him, unblinking, her nostrils flaring as she breathed in and out. “Hate me or yourself?”

He leaned in closer. “You’ve turned me inside out,” he whispered near her mouth. “Do you understand that? I can’t feed. I can’t fuck.” His head began to pound, his muscles too…Damn it, he wanted her mouth under his, her blood rushing over his tongue—her death on whatever was left of his conscience. If he pressed the knife just a hair closer, he could have it, have it all…“That night you came to me—”

“I didn’t plan it, Lucian,” she interrupted fiercely. “Goddamn it! I didn’t plan to feed—”

He cut off her words, pressing the blade nearer to
her throat. “Another word and I will be feeding from you.”

“Release the
veana,
Lucian. Now.”

Before Lucian even had the chance to respond, the knife was ripped from his fist. For one brief moment, the cold metal hovered in midair, then shot past his face and disappeared behind him.

Lucian whirled around to face the intruder, in the back of his mind hearing Bronwyn slip from the bed, taking her freedom. But his gaze, his focus was pinned on the hooded figure lurking in the shadows near the window. He snarled, “What do you want?”

“To keep you from harm,” replied the ancient
paven
.

Lucian sneered at his father, the Breeding Male—the Order. “Too late.”

“It will be if you continue on this path.” Titus raised his hooded head toward the corner of the room. “I am sorry for this, Mistress Kettler.”

Lucian turned and narrowed his eyes on the
veana
who, even in her fear, stood tall and imperious.

“I thank the Order for its help in this matter,” she said, nodding at Titus. “Now, pray, get him out of here before my parents awake.”

“Come with me, Lucian.”

Instantly, Lucian felt the pull of his father, magnet to iron. It was a solid yank, and yet Lucian was immobile, his eyes locked on Bronwyn. He uttered a pained, “I cannot.”