Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire (27 page)

Bronwyn shook her head, but he persisted.

“She wanted him, Bron,” he continued, his tone pained now. “She kept wanting him.”

The weight of his words, the implication of his words battered her insides. She almost couldn’t speak, and yet she had to. “I gave myself to you. On the island, here beside the fire. I gave myself to you and I liked it. What does that make me, then?”

Lucian stood motionless, his breath coming heavy, his nostrils flaring as he stared down at her. He couldn’t answer—he didn’t have an answer.

“What does that make me?” she pushed him, her tone almost frantic.

He looked up, away. “Goddamn it! It makes you different.”

“No.” She shoved him away. “I’m no different.” She turned away from him.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

She needed to get out, get away from him and this house, the fire and his warm pallet, and figure out what she was doing. “I’m getting dressed; then I’m going to town. Perhaps we need the guards more than I thought we did.”

He cursed. “With your blood inside me, you have no need of protection and you know it.”

“Yes, Luca,” she said, heading for the hall, “but what about when my blood’s not inside you anymore?”

“You won’t go without me, goddamn it!” he called after her.

“Watch me!” What was she doing here? She had a life—a whole life outside of this cottage—and a future. Why was she protecting him? Saving him?

She heard him snarling, heard his chains clanking loudly as he tried to yank them out of the wall and free himself.

Why did she care if he turned into the Breeding Male for good? She dropped on the bed, put her head in her hands. Perhaps because she had become an even bigger fool than he was—perhaps because she had fallen hopelessly and desperately in love with him.

Synjon Wise could remain still as stone for longer than any
paven
on earth—or so he believed. It was one of his skills, his strengths—total control over his body and mind. Problem was, in Cruen’s laboratory from hell, he’d stood unmoving for over thirty minutes now while the
veana
he had believed dead for over a year sat nude and shaking in a cell barely twenty feet away.

It took supreme control not to run at her, tear down the walls of the cell with his teeth, and snatch her away.
But if he did, neither one of them would be getting away alive.

There were guards, several of them—and the Pureblooded tossers were heavily armed.

Syn hadn’t believed it was her—even as he’d slipped inside the compound, moved silently past the guards, tunneled through pipes, even when he’d emerged into the lab’s epicenter. Even then, he’d thought his mind had conjured her image. He’d thought he was an even bigger sod than he’d believed himself to be. And then…
Fuck!
—and then, a scent so raw, so delicate, so unmistakably
her
, had snaked its way toward him, slowly drifting up into his nostrils, until it all but encased him.

Juliet
.

His Juliet. The love of his crapper of a life. Bloody hell, he’d had that scent infused inside him from the moment they’d met, then imprinted on his mind when they’d shared their blood, and again when his body lay beneath hers, holding on as she’d rode him into beloved oblivion.

Synjon’s teeth ground together as he stood frozen in his hiding place. Once he’d recognized her scent, he’d run, vigilant as ever, but unbearably desperate, toward it, stopping only when he’d met with a circle of guards—where he now remained unmoving.

Pain and need shot through him as he watched her writhe against the floor of her cage. His poor
veana
. She was hot, her cunt so wet he knew every male in the room could scent it. She was in heat, desperate for a
paven
to climb atop her and put her out of her misery. His insides shuddered with a need to protect her, bring her back home with him where she belonged. How
had he not felt her? How had he not known she still existed in this world? No, they weren’t true mates, but wasn’t love—deep and returned—just as strong a bond?

Maybe it was Cruen’s doing. Yes. That had to be it.

A low growl rumbled in his chest. What
had
that piece of shite done to her to not only dampen her scent, but send her into this state of sexual frustration and desperation?

Whatever it was, that ancient cock-up would die by his hand, slow and with grave, long-lasting pain. Then, after taking what belonged to him and any innocents who remained, Syn would plant explosives in every crevice of this laboratory and blow the sodding thing to bits.

Juliet moaned then, a sexual moan, a need so painful and frantic, his own body inflamed, his cock, hard and anxious to get out of his jeans. Bloody hell, he had to help her, had to take her pain somehow. Bugger the guards—he’d kill them all—and yet he knew he had to be thoughtful if he wanted her to live, to come home with him.

His soul ached, she looked so broken, so far from the
veana
he had known. Guilt swam in his blood at the thought of how he’d failed her. His mind ached for her, to hear her voice—see her face, her eyes locked with his. He hadn’t been able to give his life for hers until now.

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

The gun pointed at his temple didn’t worry him. Didn’t even cause him to flinch. No, it was the anger, the feral anger that was spiraling inside of him at the moment—out of control—that concerned him. Not
only would he kill this guard, but he might very well rip him to pieces, then eat his Impure heart.

In under a second, Syn was on his feet, the gun was on the floor, and the bastard’s chest was gutted.

She’d dreamed of going to Scotland, the land of her ancestors. In fact, she’d even contemplated traveling there for her mating trip—when she finally found her true mate, that is. Then her Meta had hit, and she’d had to cease thinking romantically and had to start thinking practically.

As blue sky fought with white clouds for space in the heavens above, Bronwyn trudged up the hill, the world so green around her even in early spring. It was a warm day, with a light breeze, and as she came down the other side of the rise, she breathed in the fragrances of the beautiful wildness of the Scottish Highlands. The air smelled so fresh, so new it should have renewed her spirit as it entered her lungs, taken away a trifle of the melancholy she had left behind in the cottage with him. But it didn’t. Lucian’s words were too deeply imprinted on her mind for solace to take hold.

She wanted him
.
She kept wanting him
.

The length of Bronwyn’s strides increased, her breath coming in heavy gasps as she leaped over a thin stream and made her way down the hill into the valley where the
credenti
had their village, hidden from view as they all were. Lucian could’ve been speaking of her with those words. She wanted him—the Breeding Male. She still wanted him. Did that make her a whore in his eyes?

A cloud covered the sun then and bathed the surrounding farmland in a peaked, gray light. What did it matter? she thought, moving through the tall grasses.
What did his opinion matter? She didn’t belong to him, did she? They could play all they wanted, say what they wanted in the throes of climax, but she was Synjon’s.

Synjon…

She stopped in front of the
credenti
gates, a stutter in her thoughts, a reality check in her mind. Syn may have been able to forgive what had happened on the island, what they’d had to do to escape. But there was no way he was going to forgive what she’d allowed, what she’d wanted and begged for since. And she was fooling herself if she thought otherwise. The truth of her future, of her choices, was a life lived in censure now. Not unlike Lucian’s.

She bit into her wrist; the pain she felt was not for herself, but for the loss of a lifelong friend.

All for the love of a hypocrite
paven
who no doubt thought her a whore.

The blood ran from her bite marks down her wrist and she lifted it to the gate, ran it across the lock, and waited.

She would find the guards, bring them back to the cottage, and…and what? she thought as the gates opened with a rousing creak. Leave? Leave Lucian to the fates, to a downward spiral back into madness again? Groaning, she walked past more farmland toward a grove of trees, a stream, and finally a single lane with homes and businesses on either side. She could no more do that than stop loving him. He had sacrificed himself and his life to get her out of Cruen’s reality, and no matter where this all ended up, she would do no less for him.

The center of the
credenti
, of the small village, was
charming and rustic, so different than her home in Boston, and she fell in love with it instantly. Every
veana
she passed and every unmorphed
paven
waved hello and wished her a good day. Even the Impures appeared happy and well cared for as they worked side by side with their masters on the land, in the shops, and in the open markets. Spying a bustling food cart situated between a blacksmith and a potter, Bronwyn headed that way with her questions regarding the guards. But just as she approached, a voice called out from behind her.

“Bronwyn Kettler?”

Bron turned to see Lucian’s mother walking down the road toward her, her hand in the air in greeting. Bronwyn waved back. The
veana
was still in her plain blue dress, but under the glow of the sun, she looked anything but plain. With all her honey blond curls and full, pink lips, and that welcoming, open demeanor, she seemed like a goddess on earth. As she approached, Bronwyn couldn’t help thinking about Lucian’s statements and beliefs and opinions. Was it true? she wondered. Had Mai actually told her son that she liked the Breeding Male, had wanted the Breeding Male—and still did? And if so, why? Why would a mother tell her child such a thing?

“It’s good to see ye again, lass,” she said, a trace of grief in her green eyes. “Is my
balas
all right?”

Bronwyn nodded, her throat suddenly tight. She knew horrible people, wicked people who knew nothing of love. This
veana
, this one who stood before her with unchecked vulnerability in her eyes, was not a mother who didn’t love her son. “He’s fine. Stubborn, but fine.”

She gave Bron a soft smile, then asked, “What are ye doing in town, then? Can I help ye find something?”

“I’m actually looking for the guards we came with. One was ill, and was brought to town to see the doctor. We haven’t heard from either of them.”

Suddenly wary, Mai stepped closer, her tone dropping to a whisper. “I’m afraid yer guards are no longer here.”

Bron’s gut tightened. “What do you mean?”

Mai bit her lip. “They were at the doc’s up until last eve,” she said, glancing around to see if she was being overheard. “This morning, she found their cots empty. No one has seen them since. It was assumed they went back to ye.”

The air around Bronwyn suddenly felt flat and her chest constricted as if she wasn’t being allowed to breathe properly. What did this all mean? Did the guards run off? And if so, why? They knew they had a job to do, and commissioned by the Order, no less. No vampire, Impure or Pureblood, would deny the Order, save the Roman brothers.

This wasn’t good…No one to protect them from Cruen—nothing to keep her and Lucian apart.

“Are ye all right, lass?”

Bronwyn glanced up, saw the concern in Mai’s eyes, and forced a nod. “Fine. Just concerned. For Lucian…”

Mai smiled, her fangs so white they nearly glowed. “We have that in common. Please. Sit with me for a spell.” She led Bronwyn to a nearby bench that overlooked the winding stream Bron had jumped over earlier. It was far thinner here and the water flowed at a gentler pace.

Folding herself onto the wood bench, Mai sighed.
“It pains me that I cannot reach him, cannot make him understand.”

Though Bronwyn’s head spun with concerns over the guards, it also spun with questions about Lucian, and she sat beside his mother and prepared for the intimacy of their discussion. “How could you make him understand? Anything?” she added plainly. “He won’t let you explain, and the moment you try he says awful, cruel things.”

“Don’t feel bad, lass. He has his reasons for feeling and acting the way he does.”

“His reasons are shite,” Bronwyn said suddenly, then felt embarrassment creep up into her cheeks. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

The
veana
smiled. “Don’t mind at all. I see yer ire comes from the same place as my grief. The love of our Luca.”

Our Luca
.

Bronwyn’s entire body melted at those two words, swooned over their significance and weight, and she felt tears behind her eyes.

Mai covered her hand with her own. “Lucian had a difficult time of it in the early days,” she explained, looking out at the water moving downstream at a slow, bubbling pace. “My feelings about the Breeding Male were revealed to one friend who didna keep my secret, and the word spread like a plague through the village. Lucian was a wee
balas
then, and the other bairn in the village picked at him like a bunch of hungry hens.”

Bronwyn shook her head against the image in her mind; she could see a little white-blond child wanting to run from his tormentors, but standing his ground. She could see a little blond
balas
attempting to defend
his mother, but wondering in the back of his mind if it were truth his bullies were spewing.

“There’s a part of him that canna make sense of his birth, his existence,” Mai continued. “Breeding Males are to be reviled, feared, despised, and exalted at the same time.” She opened her bag and rooted for something inside. “A child of the Breeding Male is already reviled, and his mother is pitied. Yet Lucian’s mother—me—I wanted the monster. He didna feel like a monster to me.” She laughed softly. “I know it’s impossible for anyone to understand such a thing.”

“No,” Bronwyn said, squeezing Mai’s hand. “It’s not.”

Mai looked over at her and smiled. “I chose the sex of my
balas
, ye know.”

Bronwyn stared, shocked, yet fascinated. “He let you choose—”

“No,” she said quickly. “I asked.”