And then he kissed her.
Languid.
Hungry.
Deep.
Coaxing her response with his tongue.
Kyla shivered beneath his ministrations, her hands pressing back against his chest, but she didn’t pull away from his embrace. Rather, she deepened the contact and moaned into his mouth, almost as if she couldn’t help it.
Saxson swept his hands along the curve of her hips, up along the narrow of her waist, and just below her breasts, where his thumbs rested, erotically, beneath the natural swell. Her chest heaved with increasingly ragged breaths, and more than a little trepidation. He didn’t raise his hand any further; he just allowed the moment to linger. When she finally pulled away, he brushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings, Kyla. You are my destiny, and I want this to work—I need this to work—more than you will ever know.”
Kyla Sparrow struggled to get a grip.
To stop the room from spinning, her knees from quaking, and her libido from taking off and leaping.
The vampire’s hands were pure magic.
His voice was unadulterated silk.
And his kiss—that kiss—holy shit.
She had never experienced anything like it.
But she wasn’t there to play Scrabble or to make out on the living room floor. She had told Saxson the truth, at least partially, about Owen texting—mostly, because he had already seen Owen’s first name. Although the vampire-hunter’s contact information was not in her database, Saxson’s question had given her a moment’s pause.
A girl couldn’t be too careful.
In fact, the moment he had mentioned his brother Santos retrieving her personal items from her Denver apartment, she had immediately taken a mental inventory in her head:
Any pictures of herself and Kiera, together, in the living room or bedroom?
Nope.
Check that off the list.
Any vampire-hunting materials lying around, any books on Romania, ancient civilizations, or articles on Dark Moon Vale?
Not a one.
She was safe.
And now…
Now she had to keep her head about her.
She had to control her emotions as well as her libido.
“I have to use the restroom,” she whispered, wincing in feigned apology. “But I’ll be right back.”
Saxson nodded and turned her loose, watching as she walked away, and she couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking: A vampire’s instincts were powerful, and she knew there had to be a war raging inside his brain. Centuries of indoctrination, a lifetime awaiting one woman, pledging his soul to his destiny, waiting for that singular fate. And the reality of Kyla, an imposter, someone he didn’t quite trust—something he couldn’t quite name—had to be causing an internal conflict between his conditioning and those heightened instincts.
Meanwhile, Kyla was trying to navigate it all, stay one step ahead of Saxson’s angst.
The deep, blood-level connection wasn’t there, and he knew it—or he felt it—but every bone in his vampiric body was committed to claiming their love, to fulfilling his Blood Moon and the ancient Curse, to surviving beyond the month.
Kyla shut the bathroom door behind her, sat down on the closed porcelain lid, and tried to catch her breath. This was so much harder than she had anticipated—every moment was like Russian roulette, dodging a possible bullet she might never see coming.
She pressed her fingers to her temples and tried to concentrate on what mattered most.
What mattered next.
Owen’s text.
He had figured out that there was something going on with her phone when she no longer messaged him, and he had fallen back on their years of training, just as they had both been taught: The text was, in fact, about a vacation in New Zealand, replete with meaningless facts and descriptions, thick with a make-believe, getaway itinerary, yet it was all done with precise deliberation.
Every third word was a clue.
Every randomized CAP was a letter in a name.
Every semi-colon, where a comma would do just fine, meant to take the word as a whole and construct it with the next, sequential semi-colon in order to form a sentence.
There were half a dozen codes embedded in that message.
Did Kyla possess a photographic memory?
No, she did not.
But she possessed something even more important: hundreds of hours of practice, developing speed and proficiency over many years. Reading—and decoding—similar messages, until she could do it as a knee-jerk reaction.
The first time she’d read Owen’s text, she had lifted a list of random names, denoting various vampires’ children: Nathaniel’s son, Storm; Marquis’s son, Nikolai; Nachari’s son, Sebastian; Kagen’s son, Ryder; and their corresponding mothers: Jocelyn, Ciopori, Deanna, and Arielle. The Silivasi children were Kyla’s primary targets, along with a vampire named Braden; any of their deaths would be a great honor. Whereas, Saxson’s death would take care of itself—it would be a forgone conclusion—as long as Owen and Travis kept Kiera.
Kyla trembled, almost uncontrollably, keenly aware of the dangerous, lethal being no more than two hundred yards away, waiting for her to return to the living room.
She was playing such a dangerous game…
But it didn’t matter.
Nothing else mattered.
This was the moment, the situation she had been born for.
Somehow—some way—she needed to find out who these vampires were; she needed to get the women and the children together in one room; and—she recoiled as she acknowledged the revelation—she had to prepare for her own inevitable death.
There was no way she was getting out of Dark Moon Vale alive.
The objective, alone, told her everything Owen didn’t say: Xavier Matista had decided to sacrifice Kyla’s life for the cause, and she had entered the den of lions of her own volition. She hadn’t even given it a second thought.
She bit down on her tongue until the flesh began to bleed.
Could she really go through with such a sacrifice?
A suicide mission?
Jumping up from the toilet, she turned on the cold water and splashed it over her face. Saxson would be growing suspicious if she lingered much longer. Her best bet—her only option—was to take the mission one step at a time.
The next step?
She needed to get a pen and a piece of paper: write down the vampires’ names, and the names of their children, before she forgot. And she needed to hide it somewhere foolproof.
And then…
She needed to convince Saxson Olaru to help her meet a handful of specific destinies, however she pulled it off.
Chapter Twelve
Kiera Sparrow came awake in the dark, jackknifing off the mattress. Her head instinctively turned to the right and scanned the alarm clock as she distractedly made note of the time: two o’clock A.M. And then her heart slammed into her chest, the air left her body, and she froze like a calcified statue.
A pair of glowing amber eyes stared down at her, the pupils two menacing slits. The body of the man—no, the supernatural creature—hovering above her was something out of a horror film: hulking, brawny, and covered with dark, coarse fur.
She blinked several times to clear her vision, then gasped again as wet canine lips drew back into a snarl and flashed two rows of wicked-sharp teeth.
She started to scream, but the sound was instantly muffled by a hard, unforgiving hand pressed over her mouth. She squirmed beneath the heavy, unyielding body, and nearly hyperventilated when she felt the push, the invasive wedge—the harsh, calloused thrust—of her own thighs being shoved open by a knee…
What the hell!
Panic slammed into her like a two-ton truck, and she gnawed at the furry palm pressed tightly against her mouth, clawing and biting at her assailant in desperation. His hand drew back, and she shouted her alarm. “No! No-no-noooooo!” She
tried to squeeze her legs together, but he was already settling between her thighs.
The thought was revolting…terrifying…mind-numbing, but it was suddenly the least of her worries. As viscous drool dripped down from his jaws, the creature—the wolf?—somehow managed to smile, and she recognized that menacing smirk: Xavier Matista.
But how could that be?
He dipped his head in a feral, undulating motion and dropped his jowls to her chest.
Oh, dear Lord, he wasn’t going for her breasts to violate her—he was aiming at her heart to devour her.
As his canines sank deep and the pain serrated her mind, she screamed like the world was ending.
The shrill, terror-stricken scream pierced the darkness, and Kiera came awake with a start.
Her heart slammed into her chest, and she panted, her eyes darting around the darkened room.
Oh, thank God, it had only been a dream.
A terrifying, indescribable nightmare.
She had been dreaming—about dreaming—dreaming about waking up.
She brought her hand to her chest and felt the flesh above her heart through her flimsy nightgown, audibly sighing in relief.
Her clothes were intact.
Her flesh was unmolested.
And there was no one—and nothing—above her.
And then she turned her head to the right, almost as an instinct, and glanced once more at the alarm clock.
Her forehead beaded with sweat.
It was two o’clock A.M.: the same as in the nightmare.
Was she reliving it again?
Falling back asleep?
Caught in an endless loop of a revolving night-terror?
“Wake up, Kiera!” she urged, frantically squeezing her eyes shut, then forcing them open, again…and again…desperate to escape the spiraling cycle. “Wake up!”
And then she heard a snarl from the corner of the room and turned to find a man, not a wolf…
Xavier Matista.
Watching her in the dark, stalking her sleep like a specter.
She bit down on her bottom lip: She wasn’t asleep, and this was no longer a dream.
“Xavier?” she croaked, quaking like a leaf, still caught between her recent nightmare and this equally disturbing reality. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he purred like an animal, his voice sending chills down her spine.
Kiera recoiled.
He couldn’t sleep?
What the hell did that have to do with her?
And why was he standing in the corner of Owen’s spare bedroom, in the middle of the night, stalking Kiera like a predator? “W…w…” She tried to reply, but she couldn’t form the words. Her mouth was filled with cotton.
“Play for me,” he rasped, his voice emerging as if through shards of glass.
“Play?” she mimicked, more confused than ever—and then it suddenly struck her.
The violin.
He wanted to hear the instrument.
Holy hell, this just wasn’t happening.
Remembering the alternative, the way he had climbed on top of her in the dream, the jaws of a canine that had gorged on her heart—or, at least, begun the bestial feeding—she quit arguing with fate and sat up in bed. This was as real as real got, however impossible, and as for her nightmare…perhaps it had been a premonition.
Or a warning.
Who knew.
Who cared.
She scrambled from the bed, uncaring that the nightgown Owen had given her was virtually sheer, and fumbled through the dark, trying to find the violin case. She didn’t need light to play the familiar instrument—she had practiced a thousand times with her eyes gently closed, feeling and hearing the music, relying on her instincts to find the notes, allowing her muscle-memory to rock the bow, transitioning perfectly from one string to another by feel.
Her fingers slid along the front of the case, unhooked the latches, and felt for the violin, then the bow, working each one free in turn. There was no time for a shoulder rest, no time to tune the instrument, no time to even tighten the bow hairs. She simply tucked the violin under her chin and began to play the first thing that came to her mind: a sonata.
“Not that one!” Xavier barked. “The one from before.”
Kiera halted her playing, took a deep breath, and shakily, began again…
Kneeling on the floor of her captive’s bedroom, Kiera performed “Song from a Secret Garden,” praying the man, and the beast inside his soul, would be soothed by the rich, haunting music.
Chapter Thirteen
Two o’clock A.M.
Saxson Olaru felt like he was going mad.
Like something elemental had seriously misfired in his brain. It was two o’clock in the morning, four days into his Cetus Blood Moon, and instead of being home with Kyla, he was wandering the streets of Phoenix, Arizona—he was prowling the back alleys of a neighboring state—hunting for prey, because he needed to feed…
He needed to quench his mounting thirst.
He needed to slake the gnawing hunger in his gut.
He needed to fill the endless cavern of emptiness expanding in his soul.
To extinguish his confusion and his rage.
And none of it made sense.
Why he had called on Julien Lacusta to stand outside on his cliffside veranda and guard his destiny this night; why he’d had to get out of the house; or why he was so consumed by primitive, feral urges.
This wasn’t right.
It wasn’t even natural, not for a Master Warrior or a seasoned sentinel.
And Saxson was not the type to lose control. He didn’t get mired in swamps of confusion; he didn’t have difficulty controlling his urges; and he certainly never found himself at a loss when it came to entertaining women, knowing what to do next. He should not have been at a loss with his destiny.
If anything, he should have been going mad with passion, with the overwhelming urge to make love to Kyla, to fold her sweet curves beneath his hard body and sink his fangs into her jugular…just to taste her sweet, crimson essence. Every instinct in his body should be rising with the desire to father a child, to plant his seed within her womb: to claim her, need her, and possess her.
But that wasn’t what he was feeling.
Not by a long shot…
He recoiled as the wild, confusing thoughts swirled through his mind like eddies of ice-cold snow, cringing at the truth: He did not want to make erotic, passionate love to his destiny, to taste her or hold her, to make the two of them one. The hard, ugly truth was so much more demented and disturbing: He wanted to snatch her by the neck, toss her against the wall, and sink his fangs so deep into her carotid artery that he scored his canines against her bones. He wanted to drain her of every last drop of essence and watch as she fell, lifeless, to the ground: silent and unmoving at his feet…
No longer breathing.
He wanted to punish her—severely—for a crime he couldn’t name, and that was why he had needed to place some distance between them, to get out of his house and away from the female, to take his unspoken rage out on someone his own size.
Well, at least, theoretically.
He needed to find a human victim, one that was tainted, corrupt, and guilty.
And now, as he patrolled the streets and back alleyways of Phoenix, he wondered at his feral nature: Saxson Olaru was not a monster, yet he was riding this Blood Moon on a razor’s edge. Despite his casual, outward demeanor, he had been hyped up, confused, and driven by unconscious instincts since the moment the moon had turned red.
And holy hell, this—this overwhelming, rage-filled reaction—was so far over the top. He may as well have been a Dark One for the blackness that was roiling in his soul.
For the sin he was committing against Kyla, just by acknowledging his demented thoughts.
He could not begin to fathom what the female had done to deserve so much contempt. What crime had his destiny ever committed against anyone?
How could the gods be that wrong?
No, something was definitely amiss with Saxson.
Perhaps he wasn’t worthy of this gift…
And after so many centuries of waiting, the weight of that statement broke his heart.
A short, stocky human rounded the corner of a redbrick building, entering the dimly lit alleyway, his thin lips curved into a scowl, and Saxson instantly scanned his thoughts.
Bingo!
The guy was a twisted misogynist, and he had just returned from a seedy motel where he had hired a prostitute, tied her to the bed, and burned the bottoms of her feet with cigarettes before beating her within an inch of her life. Safe in the knowledge that she wouldn’t report it, he was now feeling high from his conquest.
In the blink of an eye, a flash in time—so swift the human couldn’t register it—Saxson dipped his hand into the human’s pocket, retrieved a cigarette from the crumpled pack, and tucked it between his lips. “Got a light?” he asked in a friendly voice, feeling the need to play with his quarry.
The human looked momentarily stunned by the sudden presence of the stranger, but he quickly regained his equilibrium. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” he grunted in a caustic tone. He reached into his other pocket, pulled out a Playboy lighter, and handed it to Saxson.
Saxson lit the cigarette and took a long, slow drag. “Thanks, man.” And then he snatched him by the throat, hauled him further into the alley, and slammed him up against a grungy wall. Removing the glowing cigarette from his lips, he held it between the human’s eyes. “So, tell me”—he paused to retrieve the guy’s name from his mind—“Jacob, how do you think this feels?” He seared the glowing tip into Jacob’s flesh, tightening his fist around his throat as the man kicked.
Jacob gasped and squirmed, trying to get away from the burn.
And then the cigarette went out.
“Damnit,” Saxson snarled, “don’t you hate when that happens?”
Releasing Jacob’s throat, he pressed one elbow against his neck, keeping him firmly tethered to the wall; reached into the pocket with the lighter; and lit the cigarette again. “There. That’s better.” He proceeded to place burns along the human’s forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and finally, over his tender lips—first the top, then the bottom.