Alasdair

  Ancient Athens – 47 BC

  HE WAS BEING followed as he wove his way between the columns of the deserted bathhouse. He slipped into the shadows cast by the moonlight, and as he waited there, Alasdair realized he enjoyed the feeling of being chased.

  The baths were a favorite place of his. They were where he went if he wanted to be seen, be heard, or to participate in delights of the flesh. At this time of night, he was most certainly there to partake in the last of the three, and he suspected that the man who had been watching him for days on end was there for the same reason.

  He pressed his back to the pillar he’d moved behind, and his cock swelled beneath the heavy wool of his toga. It had been a long time since he’d felt such excitement over a rendezvous. Usually, one was too busy watching their back for knives to enjoy any kind of lead up to a fuck at the bathhouse. But ever since the celebratory feast two days past, where he had beheld the most heavenly man he thought to exist, he had thought of little else.

  It had only taken a glimpse, and still, Alasdair was not certain the vision he had seen was real. He’d appeared godlike. Ethereal. And as quickly as he had seen him, the man had vanished.

  From that moment forward, Alasdair had felt him like his very own silhouette, could sense when he was near. And when the sun disappeared and the dark desires rushed to the surface, the hunger to be touched consumed him with the need to come face-to-face with he who was responsible for his state of sexual longing.

  “Alasdair…”

  As the bewitching voice floated through the air and entered his mind, Alasdair’s heart thumped. It was as if the word had been whispered right by his ear.

  “You really should not walk alone in the night, omorfo mou agóri.”

  Alasdair licked his lips as a breeze ruffled through his long hair and the material of his garment where it brushed his calves. In all of his thirty-one years, he could not remember feeling such anticipation, such build to a moment of meeting. And as this man, being, or night angel continued to taunt him, the thrill only intensified.

  “A lot can happen when the sun dips down and the moon comes out to play…” The seductive voice trailed off, and as he mourned the absence of it, a delicious pressure surrounded his swollen shaft.

  A strangled moan fell from his lips as he pressed his head to the column and looked from left to right. No one was there. No one was even near him. But he could feel—oh gods, yes—he could feel fingers stroking his turgid length, and then the voice… It was back.

  “Things you cannot even begin to imagine. I can give them to you.”

  Alasdair tried to take a hold of himself to ease the ache throbbing between his thighs, but he found his hands immobile by his sides, held prisoner by some kind of invisible force he could not fathom.

  “Ti mou kanis?”

  “Let go and enjoy. Give yourself to me,” the voice cajoled.

  Alasdair wanted to do nothing more. For, whatever kind of magic was being weaved, it continued to bring him pleasure beyond his imagination.

  “I have been waiting for you for some time, Alasdair Kyriakoús, son of Lapidos. Ise poli omorfos. A man worthy of my attention, if ever I saw one.”

  Alasdair’s breathing accelerated with every word and stroke of his flesh, and he wanted—no, needed—to see. “Show yourself,” he demanded on a ragged groan.

  The sound that reverberated in his mind was unquestionably immoral. A laugh that he swore was as effective as a siren calling him to the jagged edges of a cliff.

  “Are you so sure you wish to see me?”

  “Yes,” he panted, positive he’d never been more certain of anything in his life. And as the stroking between his legs changed to slow, languid pulls, his eyelids fluttered shut. “I desire your presence.”

  “Understand, Alasdair. Once you really see me, you can never unsee me again. You will be of my blood. Your life—tied to mine,” his angel explained.

  At that stage, Alasdair was willing to give anything to get another glimpse of the wonderment he had so briefly witnessed. “I understand. And still wish for nothing more.”

  With his hands still trapped and his shaft being deliciously manipulated, a warm tongue licked his ear as that melodic voice invited, “Then open your eyes.”

  AS THE MEMORY was brutally expelled from his mind, Alasdair was brought back to his painful reality. His traitorous cock stiffened between his thighs as his sire’s lips twitched. His response had been wanted and noted.

  This wasn’t anything new between the two of them. It’d been that way from the moment their paths had crossed and he’d been offered eternal life. He’d only had to promise one thing in exchange—eternal devotion.

  What was new was the declaration about the intimate side of their bond. It’d been rumored over the centuries, but never confirmed, and it was due to the humiliation he’d brought upon Vasilios that he was making such a spectacle now.

  I felt you return to the baths tonight, but then the feeling disappeared. So I thought I would remind you. Did you forget that I would sense when you entered them? You are my property, Alasdair. That is where I made it so. You belong to me, agóri.

  The possessive words were shoved into his mind with a force belying the velvety tone, which served as a balm for the confused emotions pulsating through his body as he was forced to submit in a way he’d never done before.

  “Please, Diomêdês,” Vasilios invited aloud, turning to the Ancient on his right—Isadora’s sire. Eton, Thanos’s sire, was sitting quietly to his left. “Tell my Alasdair what he is charged with. I’m too perturbed to deal with him any longer.”

  When several witnesses snickered, Vasilios roared out, “Enough!”

  Without so much as a glance in the direction of those who’d dared find enjoyment at his displeasure, Alasdair watched his sire’s fangs descend in a vile snarl that distorted his handsome face.

  The air practically vibrated from the tension weighing it down—and then the coil snapped. A vacuum sound of…one, two, no—three hearts being suctioned from their chest cavities echoed off the walls, and then they hit the floor with the dull thump of dead weight.

  “Does anyone else find my vexation amusing? If so, please make it be known so we can continue.”

  The Chamber remained deathly silent.

  “Sorry, Diomêdês. Please, begin.”

  As Vasilios took his seat, his eyes returned to their usual color, and the desire that had been humming through Alasdair vanished so he was left only with the searing pain.

  Nothing was more insulting to an Ancient than not showing upon command, and it was considered the highest and most punishable offense. And whatever was about to take place was something he would most certainly live to regret.

  “Alasdair Kyriakoús, first sired to Vasilios. You are charged with disobedience, indifference, and contempt. Do you refute these claims?”

  “I do not,” he managed, his gaze still held by the man he’d failed. His face wasn’t giving anything away, and the only way this would end was with his ultimate submission.

  “You admit to dismissing a direct summons from your Ancient without offering up perhaps a reason?”

  What reason could he give? Certainly not the truth.

  “I do,” he pushed out through clenched teeth.

  “Then you are willing to accept the punishment of Veinious Peeling.”

  Fucking hell.

  The malicious streak his sire was renowned for was in full effect tonight. But he’d be damned if he cowered more than he already had. Instead, Alasdair addressed his Ancient as only he ever did—the same way he did when he entered his bed.

  “It would be my pleasure, as the blood of your blood, to give to you my body to do with as you please, my king.”

  Those jewel-toned eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and a surge of pride flooded Alasdair, that he’d put it there—right before his arms rose involuntarily, palms up and outstretched, and the veins from each were stripped like ribbons to the elbow.

&
nbsp; That was when the incredible agony of near death dropped him to the ground like a fucking rock.

  LEO STARED AT the wall and wondered for the millionth time, How do I get myself into these situations?

  He had no idea how long he’d been wherever the hell he was, and it was making him crazy. It could’ve been days or weeks. There was no way to be sure, but he did know that it’d been a damn long time.

  Ever since he’d woken up, he’d been trying to work out where he was. He’d waited hours on end for someone, anyone, to walk through a door so he could ask—but no one ever came.

  He’d racked his memory to think back to the night he had been taken. Tried to remember when and how it had happened. But nothing was clear. All he had was a distant jumble of memories that made no sense.

  The last thing he knew for certain was that he’d walked home from the train station, climbed into bed exhausted, and read for a while about the work he was finally close to completing at the museum: Greek gods, ancient times, and myths.

  Then had come the nightmare.

  The one where he had been chased and attacked.

  Jesus, I’ve got to be losing my mind, he thought, scrubbing a hand over his face. He was definitely suffering from sleep deprivation, and after having been locked away—God knows where—it was no wonder he was starting to believe the unbelievable.

  While he’d had nothing to do but think, he’d come to the conclusion that his long hours and perpetual single status must’ve finally caught up with him to produce someone so damn hot that, even when he’d morphed into a vampire, he hadn’t had the desire to run away.

  But do I really believe that? That a vampire is holding me captive? Come on, Chapel.

  That seemed too ridiculous to even contemplate. Yet, as he sat there, hour after hour, scanning the opulent room he’d been locked inside, the only answers he had come up with were the impossible. His former life and any sense of normalcy seemed like such a foreign concept in his current reality that he wondered how much more he could take.

  How many days? How many hours would it take until his mind would start to play tricks on him? Tell him lies?

  Hell, maybe it already has.

  Because there was no way he would’ve kept envisioning what he was without having had some kind of snap in his brain synapses.

  Over the course of his captivity, he’d begun to catalog in great detail the objects and appearance of the room he’d awoken in. And he’d locked it away for that moment when he would escape and tell the authorities everything he could remember.

  The first thing would be: black and gold. He could register those colors in the muted light cast from the three flickering candles that were secured in iron candelabras around the wall. Candles that never seemed to go out.

  The second would be the wall itself—and that was the only way it could be described. It was seamless, save for the small en suite off to the side. No entry. No exit. And it was covered with studded, black leather. When he’d finally gotten brave enough to look closer, he’d noticed that each stud was actually a golden coin from the ancient Greek Archaic period—something he never would’ve known if it hadn’t been for his chosen profession.

  They were very old and very expensive. And the sheer amount of them had him wondering where the owner had acquired them. It also got him thinking that maybe that was the reason he’d been taken, something to do with his job.

  The room had no bed, but there was a massive chair in the center of some sort of raised stage. It looked like a mighty throne with wooden sides carved into flames that swept up towards the high ceiling. When Leo followed the line of them to the center peak, where the metallic roof struts met, he saw the one object that was causing him the most alarm.

  A thick, metallic hook hung from a dangling chain. A chain that was threaded through a pulley system and attached to a crank over on the far wall. It was menacing in its silent surveillance.

  He stood up on the black rug he’d been sitting on and walked over to where a tray of food had been deposited. The latest of many. He wasn’t sure how the meals were being delivered since he never saw anyone enter or leave. But every few hours, a new tray with fresh food and water was left on the floor under one of the flickering candles.

  The entire situation was so unusual that he was starting to think maybe he’d never woken up. Maybe this was still part of the nightmare he’d been having.

  As he looked down to the most recent tray of food, the fleshy thigh of the roasted chicken called to him as his stomach rumbled. He’d decided on the first night that, if he didn’t die from eating the food that was left, he would take anything they gave him. That way, he would be strong enough to escape when the time came.

  He’d never had to fight a day in his life. Never had cause for it until now. But if it came down to it, he could be as determined as the next guy, and he wouldn’t go down without kicking, punching, and inflicting as much damage as possible to the asshole who’d taken him.

  As he leaned down to pick the plate up, he heard voices for the first time on the opposite side of the wall. Forgetting the food, he took a step closer and pressed his ear flush against the wall, trying to hear what was being said.

  “Christ, Alasdair. I couldn’t believe it when I heard.”

  Leo was surprised to hear a high, feminine lilt to the voice. It’d never crossed his mind that he might’ve been locked up by a woman.

  As if it makes a difference in the end, he chastised himself. Focus. What do they want? He wasn’t anyone important. He led a normal, everyday life and worked at the National History Museum. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of any reason why someone would take him.

  Then the woman started talking again. “It’s been—”

  “Thirteen days. Trust me, Isa. I am aware.”

  Leo’s entire body tensed at the second voice. He would have recognized it anywhere. It was the same voice that had rendered him mute. The one from his nightmare.

  “Diomêdês even seemed baffled over how unmerciful he was to you.”

  “He showed mercy. We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

  “Hilarious. But still, you can’t believe what he did was justified. For one misstep? After all these years.”

  “I humiliated him. Disobeyed him. Are you trying to tell me that Diomêdês would not do the same?”

  Leo thought he heard a shuffling sound, and then that all-too-familiar voice stated, “I’m lucky that’s all he did.”

  Before Leo could wrap his head around the words being said, a voice behind him asked, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

  Shit. Oh, shit.

  That voice—it was much closer now. In fact, he would say that it was inside the room with him.

  But how is that possible?

  Leo didn’t dare move other than to swallow the nervous gulp of air he’d taken. He didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to know who, or what, was now with him in a room that had no doors.

  “I apologize that it took me so long. I’ve been somewhat…detained these past few days. I trust that Isadora has kept you fed.”

  The one-sided, oh-so-polite conversation was odd, to say the least, and as Leo remained facing the wall, he wondered if it would be his last.

  “Could you perhaps turn around, file mou? It would make this much more civilized.”

  Greek. Leo instantly recognized the words—my friend. The man addressing him had slipped into Greek—just like he had in the nightmare. Which might explain the coins on the wall. He filed that piece of information away and slowly turned, not wanting to be “punished” for disobeying.

  When he came to a stop, he found himself face-to-face with the stranger from his nightmare. His breath caught in his throat, but this time, it wasn’t from nerves. No. This time, it was because he was allowing himself his first real look at the man.

  Attractive wasn’t nearly the right word to describe him. This man—he was divine.

  “There. That
’s much better. I always prefer conversing face-to-face. Don’t you?”

  Leo continued to stare as he took in every feature that he could see.

  A brooding brow emphasized the catlike shape of his green eyes but didn’t detract from the strength of his face. Rather, it added a predatory feel as the eyebrows narrowed on him while he continued his inspection.

  Leo anxiously licked his parched lips. He knew on a fundamental level he should be afraid of this man. He’d been holding him prisoner for nearly two weeks. But as he continued to look at him, his body was having different ideas altogether.

  Stop it, he admonished himself. Stop thinking with your dick, Chapel. Just because he’s hot as hell doesn’t mean shit. He’s not a good guy.

  But his body wasn’t listening.

  The classic Roman nose caught his eye next. It was perfectly proportioned for the man’s face and sat between high cheekbones that might have made some look feminine, but not this guy. They only enhanced an already stunning appearance. His lips were exactly how Leo imagined the devil would create them—so a lesser man would be tempted to sin. He had a full, pouting lower lip and a bowed top one, and the stubble lining his jaw and upper lip highlighted them in a way that made Leo very aware of his unwanted desires.

  “Are you choosing not to talk to me, human? Or do you need an extra minute to decide if talking is what you actually wish to do?”

  Leo blinked, snapping himself out of the trancelike state he’d been in. Then he lifted his chin and forced himself to speak for the first time in days. “Who are you? What do you want?” And then it occurred to him to ask the one question of utmost importance. “Are you going to hurt me?”

  The eyes pinning him to the wall like a thumbtack never wavered. “That’s an interesting question. And a couple of days ago, I would have said, ‘Wrong time, wrong place.’ But things have changed since then.”

  “What do you mean?” Leo asked, well aware he hadn’t answered his question regarding his well-being. “I don’t understand any of this.”