Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire (26 page)

But the
paven
he had become, the pureblood Breeding Male that he was now, refused to drop his gaze.

“Is this a proud moment for you, Mama?” he asked, his fangs descending over his lower lip as he stretched out his arms and let her take a good look at what she’d wrought on the world.

Her gaze started at his shackles and traveled the length of him. Horror, sadness, fear, regret all glistened in her evergreen eyes, and she shook her head. “I am not proud of this, surely.” Her eyes lifted to meet his own. “But of ye.”

He laughed, though buried deep within himself was an adolescent wish for her arms around him. “Don’t pretend you care,” he uttered.

“I pretend nothing,
Balas
,” she said fiercely.

He inclined his head, spoke through gritted teeth, “I am no
balas
. Not anymore.”

“Stop, Lucian.” Behind his mother, Bronwyn closed the door. She came to stand beside his mother and spoke clearly and gently. “Can I get you something? To drink? A chair?”

“She’s not staying,” Lucian stated flatly. “She’s seen her little circus freak and now she can go.”

Bronwyn turned to him then, her eyes as fierce as his own. “You need to calm down before you say something you’ll regret.”

“Not possible.”

“Or do something you’ll regret.” She lifted her brows. “Like implode.”

Lucian growled at her and turned, headed for the wall. He wasn’t going to sit around and watch her entertain his mother with tea and tales.

“What is your name?” Bronwyn asked.

“I was born Maidan, but I have been called Mai for nearly as long,” she said, her tone relaxing a hair. “And ye are Bronwyn Kettler.”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like a right good Scottish name. Where do ye hail from, lass?”

“Boston,” Bronwyn said. “But I am part Scot.”

He could practically hear his mother smile. She would not make an ally here, not from her—not from his Bron.

“And a very pretty Scot ye are,” she said, a touch of the sadness leaving her tone. “Our Luca has brilliant taste, does he not?”

“There is no ‘our,’” Lucian said, whirling around,
his ire once against provoked. “There is no conversation with my
veana
—you will be no friend to her. You need to leave now before the Breeding Male returns.” His brow arched. “Or perhaps that is why you came. Too witness my descent into madness. Did the Order contact you directly, let you know your piece-of-shit
balas
has returned with the disease you forced upon him?”

“Lucian!” Bronwyn said, shocked.

“’Tis all right, lass.” His mother kept her eyes down as she walked to the door and opened it wide. “I know ye wish me not to bother ye again, and I’ll try to honor ye, but it willna be easy. I do love ye,
Balas
.”

The blood inside Lucian began to churn, the blood of her, the blood of Bronwyn, the blood of his father. His veins felt tight and constricted, as if all the oxygen were being sucked out by a force he couldn’t see or control. Then everything hit at once, the hunger, the lust, the anger, the pain, and as his mother walked out his door into the day, his head fell back and he let loose the mournful wail of a
paven
who truly had no life, no love, and no chance for either in his future.

Maine was fucking cold.

Witch’s tit kind of cold.

After stuffing the driver’s pockets with cash, Alexander jumped inside the sleek black town car that hovered in the circular driveway and grabbed the seat opposite Nicky. Sara remained in the front, her weapon at the ready in case the male driver decided to get greedy. All three of them had just received the brush-
off from the senator’s staff, and Alex hadn’t thought it wise to get physical with that many witnesses inside the politician’s home. They were able to get one piece of needed information, though—Dillon was on detail with the senator.

Now, all they needed to do was find the man.

Alexander scented the human woman before she even had a stiletto inside the car.

He nodded to Nicky, who moved in, close to the door, ready for the woman to step all the way inside. She barely had her ass to the leather before the door slammed shut and the car took off.

Mrs. Senator gasped and dropped back against the seat, looking like she’d just shit an icicle. Her chest rising and lowering at a clipped pace, she looked from Alexander to Nicholas, then to the driver and Sara, her knuckles white as she clutched her purse to her chest.

“Please don’t scream,” Alexander said easily. “The driver’s paid not to hear you, and I will be far friendlier if you remain calm.”

“What do you want?” she asked, pure terror in her tone as her gaze caught and held on Alexander’s facial brands. “If it’s money, my husband won’t pay. Can’t. Negotiating with kidnappers or terrorists isn’t done in American political families these days, or haven’t you heard?”

Nicholas chuckled softly. “We’re not here to terrorize or kidnap you.”

“Then what do you want?” she demanded, her pulse pounding against the vein in her throat.

“Information,” Alexander said simply, watching her
press herself back into the seat as far as she could go. He was across from her, knees splayed, arms resting on the back of the seat with absolutely no interest in making her feel comfortable in his presence. “Where’s your husband tonight?”

She swallowed hard, shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“You’re wasting our time,” Nicholas said, leaning toward her. “Please don’t do that. We have a tendency to get irritated rather quickly.”

“I rarely know where my husband is these days,” she said disdainfully. “He was picked up at the airport by his bodyguard—”

“His female bodyguard, right?” Alexander interrupted sharply.

Her expression changed dramatically. From one brand of fear to another. “Yes. Why?”

“She is the one we seek,” Nicky said, as the world rushed by outside the window. “What airport? Public or private airstrip?”

The woman didn’t answer him. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her face was a mask of concern. Far more concern than she’d shown when they’d asked for the location of her husband, Alexander mused drily.

“What do you want with Dillon?” she demanded. “How do you know her?”

“She’s a friend,” Alexander said, feeling Sara’s growing anxiety in the front seat. “We need to speak with her immediately. We can’t get ahold of her. Haven’t for quite some time, and we’re…concerned.”

Going for the sympathy card was the right move,
Alexander realized as Mrs. Senator leaned forward, her hand to her neck.

“You think she’s in danger?” the woman said, fear threading in her voice. “She’s so strong, so tough. He wouldn’t hurt her; he—”

“What?” Alexander said, cutting her off. “He? Who is ‘he’?”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She glanced down, at her left hand—at the band of diamonds encircling her finger.

“Are we talking about your husband?” Alexander pushed, his skin tightening. “Why the hell would he hurt his bodyguard?”

She shifted in her seat, bit her heavily painted lower lip.

Alexander leaned forward and snarled, “Speak, woman.”

She gasped and the words came out in a rush. “It’s nothing. My husband had someone watching me—watching us. But it’s impossible. I’m sure she’s fine. She can’t be hurt. Not with what…she…is.” Her eyes flipped up, locked with Alexander’s.

Fuck me!
Alexander growled inwardly. And he heard Sara and Nicholas tossing off a few choice curses as well as they got wise to what the woman was saying. Unbelievable…Dillon had told this woman what she was.
Stupid
veana
!
Shit
. How could that horny little vampire be so fucking foolish?

His eyes narrowed on the woman in front of him. “Your husband’s cell number. Now.”

She rattled off the number, and as she did Alexander eyed Nicholas.

“Take the memory from her—all of it.”

Nicholas nodded.

“I’ll get a location.”

Nicholas moved toward the woman, his fangs extending. “Won’t hurt a bit, female. In fact, after what you just told us, you may even enjoy it.”

B
ronwyn closed the door with more force than was necessary, the action indicative of her mood. Nostrils flaring, she turned to face the albino
paven
, her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with you?”

Pacing the floor, his shackles clanking angrily, Lucian spat out, “I don’t know, Princess. Perhaps I’m just an asshole. Is that what you wish to hear?”

“Yes,” she said, her gaze following him, watching as the skin on his naked chest pulled against the hard muscle. “And arrogant and foolish and cruel and—”

“When you’re done running down the list of my less esteemed qualities”—his head turned and his eyes lanced through her, rabid with heat—“I need you.”

A momentary wave of fear rushed at her. Was it back—the claws of the Breeding Male? Or was this something else? Desire? Anger?

“Your blood,” he said, stopping and reaching out
for her. “I need it.” He growled low and irritated. “She riled me up.”

Bronwyn took a deep breath, attempting to channel some patience. No, this wasn’t the Breeding Male. She saw the control in his eyes. This was about his mother, his anger, his resentment. This was about Bronwyn giving him comfort, drowning the memories of his past with her blood.

“No,” she said evenly, calmly. “Not yet.”

He looked shocked and displeased. “What do you mean, not yet?” he ground out. “I need you, Princess.”

“Tough shit,
Paven
.”

Lucian’s brows shot up.

She pointed a finger at him. “I have something to say to you first.”

“Can you say it in my arms?” he said, his eyes softening with a gentle lust. “Lying beneath me? With your blood fusing to mine?”

She released a loud, frustrated groan. “You lied, Lucian. You lied. To me—to all of us.”

Her words killed the lust in his eyes and he walked forward, as far as his chain would allow. Bronwyn didn’t move, though her insides clenched, waited. He stopped a foot away from her, his chin tilted up. She could feel his tension, his trauma. It was as if the sun had suddenly gone running to the clouds for shelter, leaving only gray streams of light to enter the cottage windows.

“All of us?” he ground out, his lips lifting into a daring sneer.

“I’m assuming your brothers think you had a horrible mother and
balas
—”

“Don’t assume, Princess,” he growled. “As I said,
I’m
the ass here.”

“I don’t get it.” She shook her head. “Why would you do it?”

In that moment, his gaze moved over her face, her chin, her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth. He looked almost capable of confiding in her. Almost. Then he uttered, “My business is my own.”

“Wrong answer if you want my blood.”

His fangs descended and he cursed. “I have a horrible mother, Princess. Whether you want to believe it or not.”

“That
veana
”—she pointed to the door—“who was here a moment ago didn’t seem all that horrible to me.”

“Your opinion,” he returned.

“In fact, she seemed rather lovely.”

He snorted.

“She seemed kind, and nice, and grieved over your—”

“That’s enough.”

“She seemed like a mother.”

“She’s a whore!”

Bronwyn gasped. Truly gasped, because she couldn’t have heard him correctly—she prayed she hadn’t heard him correctly. She knew Lucian was capable of saying all kinds of things, the worst of the worst, but this—this was about his
mother
. A body, a soul who had given him life. She never thought he’d go that far. She never thought the
paven
she had come to care about so deeply would go that far.

She stared at him, her eyes wide, praying he’d take it back so she wouldn’t have to stop caring about him as she did. But he just returned her stare, defiant as the first day she met him, looking down at her from the
library balcony in SoHo. “That is…God, Lucian…How could you even say something like that?”

“Because it is truth,” he answered, passion in his tone now—the passion of one who hates. Perhaps he didn’t like what he was saying, but he sure as hell believed it. “She lay with the Breeding Male. My father, the animal, the monster, the rapist.”

“So did many,” Bronwyn countered fiercely, ire replacing any thread of melancholy as she thought of her sister—her poor sister. “They had no choice. My sister had no choice. Would you call
her
a whore?”

He slammed his body forward, and the chain pulled. “No!”

“Why not?” she demanded. “Why is your mother any different?”

His lip curled into a sneer, but he didn’t answer—refused to answer.

Bronwyn wanted to slap him, hard and several times in succession. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said, despising him, loving him, not understanding him in the slightest. “Who are you to judge her? Her reasons, why she felt she—”

“She liked it, okay?” he snapped, his face contorted into a mask of hatred and pain and the worst kind of despair. “Christ!”

Bronwyn stood there before him, frozen like a statue, except she could feel. She could feel the heaviness of shock, the weight of disappointment, the dread of more questions on her tongue—and the blind idiocy of wishing the past hour hadn’t happened. She closed her eyes and inhaled. “What did you just say?”

He cursed. Then again. “She liked it, Princess,” he
ground out. “She liked it so fucking much, she went back for more!”

“No,” Bronwyn said, shaking her head.

“Don’t tell me no,” he said. “Fuck!” He reached for her hand, clasped it. “I need your blood,” he said, impassioned. “I need you! Right now, goddamn it!”

She let him pull her into his arms because she was weak and confused, and, God, it felt so good. “Where would you hear such a thing?” she asked him, feeling almost drunk, her head spinning, her skin aflame in his arms. “Someone in the
credenti
, someone awful and spiteful, someone who probably had a grudge or—”

“Stop it, Bron,” he urged, almost pained, his hands on her arms, his eyes locked hard on hers. “I heard it from her. I heard it straight from her.”