Blood Possession (10 page)

He waved his hand again, and blue streams of fire shot forth from his fingers. The blaze roared back to life.

Brooke gasped and jumped back on the couch. “How did you do that?”

“Your teacup,” he said.

Despite her fear and revulsion, she quickly glanced downward, her eyes riveted on the simple clay mug, and she jolted when it began to rise from the coffee table and slowly move across the room, floating effortlessly into Napolean’s hands.

“Forgive me,” he said next, “but you must understand that my words are true.” She heard a sharp crack, like the sound of wood splintering, and a brilliant pair of enormous wings sprang forth from the center of his upper back and spread out behind him. When he turned to look at her, his eyes were glowing red once again—just as she remembered from the hotel parking lot—and his canine teeth began to grow.

Two sharp ivory fangs extended from his mouth, and he turned his head to soften the visage. And then he simply vanished out of thin air, only to reappear once again across the room, looking like an ordinary, handsome man in a pair of blue jeans and a black silk shirt.

Brooke had seen more than enough.

She leaped up from the couch and bashed her shin against the coffee table in a desperate attempt to hurdle it on her way to the front door.
To hell with this!
Her lungs burned from the sudden exertion even as her heart pounded in her chest.

Then just like that—he was there. Standing in front of her. Blocking the door.

Holy shit
, she hadn’t even seen him move.

A shriek of unbridled terror escaped her throat, and she back-pedaled as fast as she could, heading for the other side of the room. She stopped abruptly. He was there, too. Once again, standing in front of her, blocking her path.

“Nooo!” She screamed like a madwoman, striking out wildly with a fist that landed somewhere between his chest and his right bicep.

A window. She had to get to a window.

Snatching an ornate glass vase from an art niche on her way to the window, she tossed the heavy object as hard as she could against the glass and ducked as it exploded outward, shards shooting in every direction. A sharp piece of glass embedded in her thigh, but she was too frantic to feel the pain. Yanking desperately on her jacket, she wriggled out of it, wrapped it around her fist, and began to punch out the remaining shards of glass.

Napolean was there in an instant. He grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her away from the window. “Brooke, don’t. You’ll cut yourself.”

Panic overwhelmed her. “Let go of me!” She spun around swinging violently, her eyes wide with fright. She reached for a jagged shard of glass and thrust it at him, lunging with all of her might. The sharp tip caught the inside of his forearm and instantly drew blood.

Now was her chance.

She kicked at his groin, and he instinctively
flew
backward…avoiding her foot and releasing her. To hell with the glass. It was now or never.

She climbed into the small window pane, praying she was small enough to wriggle through it, and started to shimmy out the hole, wincing in pain as the sharp, pointed edges sliced at her body, and then—as if a pair of invisible hands had grasped her—she was forcefully pulled out of the window…only Napolean stood several feet away.

Dear God, was he doing it with his mind?

Moving
her
with only a thought!

She didn’t stand a chance against this…
thing
.

Rage consumed her. She reached for a nearby brass candlestick and hurtled it at his head. Then she followed it with a set of stone coasters, tossing them one by one, screaming her defiance as they flew.

“You can’t just take a person!”

Crash!

“You can’t just have me because you want me!”

Boom!

“Do you hear me?”

Thud.

One at a time, Napolean blocked each object in midair, side-stepping as they crashed to the floor. He took a step toward Brooke, and this time, he didn’t just look like a fierce, dangerous predator. She knew, unequivocally, that he was one.

“No!” she shrieked, shuffling backward and tripping over a pile of glass. He caught her before she hit the hardwood floor, and she beat at his chest. “Let me go!”

He restrained her arms effortlessly. “Brooke, stop! You’re hurt.”

“
No!
”
She struggled valiantly, twisting this way and that—kicking, turning, dropping to the floor—and trying desperately to crawl away.

“You’re bleeding,” he whispered. He pitched his voice in a soft, sultry lilt that clouded her head. “Please, stop.”

“No,” she whimpered as he knelt down on the floor beside her and reached for her hands. “
No.
” Tears ran down her face in rivers, and her shoulders shook from the weight of her frustration—the overwhelming helplessness she felt. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this…again.”

He turned her hands over and studied all of her wounds. As she shook from the pain, frustration, and exhaustion, he began to pull thin shards of glass from her palms, her arms, and her legs…removing each one with exquisite gentleness and care.

She blinked up at him, confused by the compassion in his eyes, but desperate to make him understand. “Don’t you get it? I can’t fight you. I can’t! I can’t struggle to keep you away…and lose. I can’t be a victim again—only to have to tell the whole world what happened someday in a courtroom. I’d rather die.” She sobbed. “I
can’t
do this.”

Napolean reached out and cupped her face in his hands. “Brooke, look at me.”

She shook her head and tried to pull away.

He tightened his grip and tilted her head upward. “
Look at me.
”

Her eyes met his, and she shuddered. “Please—”

“I am not your stepfather.”

She grew pale. “What?” Her voice was a mere whisper, sounding foreign even to her own ears.

“I am not your stepfather. And I am not going to harm you. Ever.”

How in heaven’s name did he know about her stepfather? She had never said anything. Well, she had
thought
about it in the truck, but—

Did this creature read minds?

Could he possibly hear her thoughts?

“Yes…and yes,” he whispered.

“How? How is that even possible?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“Shh.” He caressed the side of her cheek with his thumb. “Be at ease.”

Before she could panic anew, his incisors elongated in his mouth; he lifted her hands and dripped a clear fluid into her palms. It was then that she realized the mind-reading was not going to be a problem—she would die of a heart attack before she had time to process that latest bit of information. The man had just dripped…saliva…on her hands. On purpose!

She watched in rapt fascination, and more than a little terror, as his fangs receded and he began to rub the saliva—no, venom—into her wounds.

The cuts healed as she watched.

She sniffled and sat extraordinarily still as he repeated the process, healing one wound at a time…easily. Effortlessly. And then all at once, it occurred to her:
Napolean was a vampire
. And she was a human being—who was clearly bleeding in front of him.

Why wasn’t he biting her?

“I’ve already told you. Because I
will not
hurt you.”

Brooke looked up at him then—really stared—assessed the sincerity in his eyes. They were soft with compassion, heavy with concern.
Genuine
. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

He smiled then, faintly. “I know you don’t, but you will…in time.”

She shook her head absently. “But I want to go home.”

Napolean grasped her hand in his, raised it slowly, and held it to his cheek. “This is your home now, Brooke. I am sorry this is so hard on you. It is what the gods have chosen—for both of us.”

She sighed in exasperation. “Well, why can’t you—why can’t
we
—just choose something else? I mean, you could let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

Napolean shook his head. “You don’t understand. I cannot. To do such a thing would cost me my life, and it would cost you yours as well.”

“Mine?” She drew back like he had burned her. “How would your letting me go endanger
my
life?”

Napolean seemed to weigh his words carefully. “I have powerful enemies, Brooke. Now that I have claimed you, you must remain under my protection.”

Brooke’s head was spinning. Claimed her? What did he mean by claimed her? And what kind of enemies could this…vampire…possibly have? What in God’s name could be a threat to
him
? She reached up and grasped her head with her hands as if she could simply will the thoughts—the reality of the situation—out of her mind. “No.” She shuddered. “No, no, no…” She shut her eyes and began to rock slowly back and forth, displaying the soothing behavior of a child. She was beyond all adult reasoning—this just wasn’t real.
It couldn’t be real.

Vampires didn’t exist.

Napolean didn’t exist.

None of this was real.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity—Brooke rocking back and forth while Napolean lightly caressed her shoulders, her arms, her cheeks—she finally opened her eyes and spoke timidly: “And what if I would rather die than be your…hostage? Will you deny me that choice, too?”

Napolean did not dismiss her words, nor did he frown at them or try to argue with her reasoning. He actually considered her feelings. “I have many warriors in my care, and all are strong, valiant males who would die for their families, for the house of Jadon…for me. And it is a nobility I respect infinitely, but I do not live for myself alone. My death would have enormous consequences—just as your life does now. So no, I could not allow such a thing.”

Brooke shook her head. “I still don’t understand.”

“I am not just a vampire, Brooke.”

She shook her head, confused.
Just
a vampire?

“I am the only remaining male from the time of the original curse. I am the appointed leader of the house of Jadon; I am their king.”

Brooke sagged against the wall, and then she began to laugh rather riotously. After a time, she quieted down and simply sat with the information. When Napolean stood and extended his hand, she took it and allowed him to help her up. He immediately stepped back, placing ample space between them, but if he was hoping to appear nonthreatening, it wasn’t working.

“Would you like to shower and change? Perhaps you are not up to eating quite yet, but I could make you another cup of tea.”

Brooke looked down at her bloody, disheveled clothes, and considered how badly she needed to be alone for a minute. “I don’t have any clothes.”

“Ramsey brought your luggage,” Napolean offered.

Brooke sighed and forced herself to remain in the moment. To stay calm. “You will let me go…shower…alone? Because there’s no way—”

“Of course,” he assured her. “I will be close by, but your privacy will be respected.”

Brooke swallowed a lump in her throat and slowly nodded her head.

Napolean raised his eyebrows. “Yes, then?”

Brooke ran her hands up and down her arms as if warming her body from a sudden chill. “Yes.”

Napolean gestured toward the hall. “Come then: Let us go get your bags.”

Brooke gathered her courage and forced her feet to move, intentionally placing one in front of the other, concentrating on the rote placement of each step in a straight line.

Just walk, Brooke.

One foot in front of the other…just walk.

She sent up a silent prayer to God:
Please let me be doing the right thing
.
Please don’t let this vampire hurt me.
She hesitated briefly before heading toward the hall, careful to keep a moderate distance between the two of them. As they rounded the corner, she glanced over her shoulder once more to look at him: He was watching her carefully, like an owl or a hawk, a bird of prey with wise eyes…always surveying…

What?

His carrion?

“Napolean,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He waited.

“What are you going to do with me?” There was no hiding her trepidation. She had to know.

The vampire closed his eyes and pointed toward a black and burgundy suitcase sitting in the hall just outside of a bedroom. “Should the gods allow it—and should you give me even the slightest opportunity—I hope to spend every ounce of my considerable power making you happy.”

She bit her lower lip and drew in a sharp breath before completely turning around to stare at him in wonder. When after several seconds, he neither spoke nor turned away—just held her gaze with a steadfast promise in his eyes—she slowly exhaled and reached for her bags.

Napolean rested against the bathroom door, his head falling back against the sturdy wood.

Brooke.

Brooke Adams
, according to the name affixed to her luggage
.

His
destiny
…at last.

Despite the impossibility of the situation, a tentative smile curved along the corners of his mouth. How had this happened? When had this happened? When had the gods finally decided to bless him?