The Warrior Vampire (3 page)

Focusing his breath, he managed to slow his pulse and quell his panic, if only slightly. He needed a calm head if he was going to get himself free. His head bobbled on his neck as he lifted it to look down at his feet—
yup
, awesome—secured to the footboard with gods-damned chains and cuffs. Several more deep breaths helped to calm the panic that once again stirred his pulse to a frantic rhythm. The loss of control in this situation, the thirst that consumed him, the inability to move or free himself made him feel like bursting right out of his skin.
Deep breaths
.
This is nothing. You're fine. Don't jump to conclusions
.
Chill the fuck
out
.

He let his head drop back to the pillow—damned thing felt like it weighed a thousand pounds—and closed his eyes in hopes that it would stop the room from spinning. Whatever had happened, it must have been one hell of a night. The deep breathing helped as much as focusing his thoughts. Already his pulse began to slow, and the urge to mindlessly thrash against his bonds abated.

First things first, try to get his head in order. Then he'd worry about the chains. Unpleasant memories washed through his thoughts, pulling him back into the past like a riptide dragging him out to sea.
Leave the past in the past
.
You're not in that place; you burned it to the ground
. No, he wasn't in that damned room, bound, beaten, and held prisoner by those who sought only to exploit him. But he was still chained, still a prisoner, only in an unfamiliar place. The pounding behind his eyes wasn't helping him to focus. At. All. His brain felt like someone had spun it around a blender set to “liquefy.”
Stay in the present
.
Worry about now
. Details of the previous night seemed to float just out of his grasp, like a word at the tip of his tongue.

Okay, buddy, get your shit together.

Name?
Ronan Daly.

Age?
Well, the age on his ID stated his was thirty-three. In reality, he was much, much older. Centuries older. But that he knew this fact about himself was a good sign. He hadn't completely lost his mind.

Focus on the present. Don't think about the manacles on your wrists
. Location?
Crescent City, California.
He'd come to the city from Los Angeles.
On business? No.
His reason for being here was personal. Fog settled on his brain, the fire in his throat choking him. His secondary fangs punched down from his gums and Ronan could think of no time that he'd ever felt so desperately starved for blood.

What was he here for?
Who?

Ronan shook his head as if he could rattle the information loose. A face loomed in his memory, one with flawless dark skin, deep brown eyes, and a fierceness that made him mad with want. Was she the reason he'd left L.A.? Or the reason he was going out of his fucking mind tied to this bed? Hell if he knew.

Okay, moving on … Whereabouts?
Ronan slowly lifted his head and took in his surroundings once more. A bedroom, too lived-in to be a rented room but not lived-in enough to be a permanent residence. The furniture—including the bed he was chained to—looked custom-tailored to whoever lived here. Nothing hanging on the walls, though. No personal photos on the dressers or end tables, but no generic aesthetically pleasing art, either. The entire space was pretty drab, actually. Sort of utilitarian, and didn't give him a clue as to where he was. Whereabouts:
undetermined.

Situation?
He tugged the chains securing him to the headboard and winced at the searing heat of silver against his skin.
Probably hostile.

All right, so Crescent City.
When did he get here? He could remember driving into the small town under the cover of night, but that was it. Everything between then and now was a dark haze in his memory.

The doorknob turned and Ronan made his body go completely slack. He closed his eyes and focused his breathing so it would be deep and even. The hinges creaked as the door edged open and the near-silent whisper of footfalls on carpet made his stomach coil into a tight knot. He let his senses do recon on the situation as his captor advanced. The footfalls were too light for anyone of substantial size and sounded more like tennis shoes or bare feet than the heavy thud of a combat boot, which didn't rule out Sortiari involvement, though he'd yet to see a slayer pad around in bare feet. If Ronan could manage to free himself, he had no doubt he could at least physically overpower his captor. He'd take what he could get at this point. It might be the only factor to swing in his favor.

Ronan took a deep breath and held it for a brief moment. The scent that filled his lungs reminded him of the forest after a heavy rain. Clean. Naturally sweet. It stirred his body into awareness, and remaining still became much more of a problem than it had previously been. Gods, that delicious scent. It drove him out of his fucking mind. He wanted to bury his face in it. Roll around on it. He wanted to
drink
it. Thirst punched at his gut, scoured his throat, and Ronan swallowed against the sensation. How long had it been since he'd fed? His heart still beat, his lungs still functioned, so it couldn't have been too long ago. But the scent invading his nostrils now made his entire body ache with bloodlust.

The urge to crack his lid and steal a peek was overwhelming. An impulse built inside of him, one that, once unleashed, could do some serious damage. And hell yeah, did he want to do some damage. But he'd spent years squashing that impulse, trained too well to act rashly. To fight blindly. He refused to lose control. It didn't matter if his situation was dire and his existence might very well be in danger. And so he swallowed down that impulse that was as much a part of him as his own limbs—and waited.

Something cracked in front of his nose a split second before the noxious odor hit him. Too bad he was already conscious, because that smell made him wish he were passed the fuck out. He jerked his head away from the smell and let it loll to one side as if he were just barely coming to. The sound of a heavy sigh gave him another clue to his captor's identity: too light and airy to be male.
Situation? Too soon to tell, but maybe not
altogether
hostile
.

A dazed moan escaped Ronan's parted lips. His acting skills were killer. The soft staccato of a toe tapping on the carpet broke the silence, followed by the sound of liquid being poured into a container—great, now he had to take a piss—as his kidnapper took a long swig of something. The suspense was killing him, and so he cracked one eye, just in time to see a sheet of water splash down on him. He gasped at the icy chill, choking as it splashed up his nose. Yeah,
so
not the wake-up call he wanted.

“Good. You're awake.” As if she couldn't stand to waste any of the water, the female standing over him shook the empty glass, sending a few stray drops onto his face. She seemed a little pissed.

Ghosts of sensation whooshed through Ronan, filling his chest—his entire body—near to bursting. Emotion, strong and hot, choked the air from his lungs and the emptiness that had consumed him vanished in the presence of this female who stood above him, her dark eyes flashing with indignant fire.

His back bowed off the bed and Ronan's teeth clamped down as his secondary fangs punched down from his gums. The thirst that burned in his throat raged. An inferno burning too hot to quench. Desire took him in its grasp, his cock hardening as his need for this female's body warred with his lust for her blood.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.

This unknown female had
tethered
him.

Situation?
Proceed with extreme caution.

How could this have happened? Though still hazy, Ronan knew that this female was the one from his memory of the previous night. She had returned his soul to him, made him whole in an instant. Whether or not she knew it, this female was
his
. Ronan cocked his head to the side, all thoughts of being bound and held against his will forgotten. Maybe the chains were left over from a wild night with a little light bondage? Doubtful, considering his aversion to being bound. Damn, he wished he could remember. It would take one hell of a woman to convince him to allow himself to be tied up. Then again, would he not do anything for his true mate? He let his gaze roam slowly from her knees up the curve of her slender thighs and well-rounded hips and paused at the swell of her breasts. Her V-neck tee provided the perfect amount of cleavage and he let his eyes linger for a bit before he met her eyes. They reminded him of onyx, almost black, and sparkling despite the meager light. Her skin was deep brown and flawless. Warm. Her mouth … Jesus Christ, her mouth was gorgeous. Full—her bottom lip only slightly fuller—and set in what he assumed was a perpetual pout. Had he kissed that mouth last night? Taken that delicious-looking bottom lip between his teeth? His want of her only intensified with the thought. Had he sunk his fangs into her throat while he fucked her?

Situation?
Maybe not as dire as I'd thought.

“How do you know my name, vampire?”

Whoever she was, his mate was damned sexy when she tried to appear tough. Interesting question, though. She seemed unfazed by the fact that he was a vampire. This female was no dhampir, though. Nor was she human. Beneath her spring-rain scent, Ronan caught the tang of magic clinging to her skin. It sparked on his tongue like champagne. She was his. The knowledge of it was embedded in his very DNA. But as far as her name … he had no fucking clue. “I'm guessing we didn't have a wild, drunken one-nighter, then?” he drawled.

He couldn't help a triumphant smile as his words seemed to infuriate her even more. If he'd thought she was alluring when she was perturbed, she was fucking irresistible when enraged.

“Look, why don't we start by unchaining me, yeah? I'm a lot more cooperative when I'm not tied to a bed and dripping wet.” He quirked a brow at her dubious expression. “You might want to at least try the polite approach first. Flies, honey, and all that. I
am
chained to your bed after all. Before I jump to any”—his gaze drifted to her cleavage one more time—“conclusions about what happened last night, maybe you should fill me in first.”

“Not a chance,” she said flatly. “You, answer
me
.”

“Considering I'm the hostage here, and the events of last night have, ah, slipped my mind, I think maybe you ought to go first and tell me what I'm doing here.”

She pulled a dagger from a sheath at her back and touched the point to his left pec, over his heart. The strange blade glowed like a damned canary diamond and practically screamed with energy. A warm tingle radiated from the tip of the blade as powerful magic flowed over his skin. The dagger was hungry for a kill. He didn't know how, but somehow he could feel it.

She put pressure on the dagger, as if readying herself to drive the blade home. A thrill rushed through Ronan's veins that he'd be at her mercy and the scent of her blood blinded him with need. “How 'bout you tell me how you know my name and why you're in town—
now
—or I'll run this blade through your heart?”

Situation?
Definitely hostile.

*   *   *

The song was unlike anything Naya had ever heard before. There was nothing corrupt about it, the notes pitch perfect and the harmony so beautiful it threatened to bring tears to her eyes. A power resided in the notes, something so intense that it commanded her attention and at the same time made her want to retreat in fear of that power. This was the song she'd heard calling to her last night, the melody that robbed her of her senses and stole her breath.

Naya's hand shook, the dagger becoming unsteady in her grasp. She'd known the first time she'd heard it last night that the music was too pure for the magic to be stolen goods. After she'd managed to get the bulk of his weight off of her, Naya had been prepared to extinguish the magic and call it a night. But his full lips had parted on a breath, revealing the porcelain points of his dual fangs. Vampires were supposed to be extinct. But there he was, his head resting on her legs, as real and tangible as she was. Curiosity had gotten the better of her. The magic's song too pure for her to simply end his life. So she'd dragged him to her safe house and secured him with silver cuffs and chains. If the vampire hadn't stolen the magic, then how in the hell had he come by it? And why couldn't she shake the feeling that somehow she was meant to find this amazing specimen now at her mercy.

Naya shook herself from her stupor and willed her gaze from the hills and valleys of sculpted muscle beneath the dagger's point. “Did you not hear me? I said, answer me or I'll drive this dagger through your heart.”

His calm demeanor scared her more than any shouts or threats might have. The vampire's brow creased in concentration as if he were trying to hold back a wall of water from a broken dam with nothing but the power of his mind. The way he looked at her was unnerving. Such deep intensity.

“I think a lot clearer when sharp objects aren't being jabbed into my skin.”

Her eyes darted to his and she was momentarily taken aback by the beauty of them. As vibrant and green as the rain forest. His brows were tawny slashes, made slightly sinister by the look of concentration on his face, and he had the longest lashes she'd ever seen on any male. Plenty of women—including her—would gladly give up a limb to have eyelashes like those. She'd save a fortune in mascara. His cheekbones were sharp and his nose a fine, straight line. His jaw was equally strong, shadowed with stubble. Gods, but he was magnificent.

He cocked his head to the side and studied her with those gorgeous green eyes. “I'm going to assume that your silence means you're considering my request?”