Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) (38 page)

Despite the watchful audience, Rebecca returned the kiss. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, slid her knee along his thigh, and grasped his head by a fistful of hair, moaning into his mouth.

“Really?” Saxson said out loud. “We’re gonna do this again…with a larger audience this time?”

Julien growled and lifted his mate, cradling her to his chest, as he stepped past the king, headed toward the hallway, and made a beeline for the bedroom. The last thing he heard was Nachari Silivasi’s deep, melodic voice as the Master Wizard cleared his throat: “Yeah, all right, J! We’ll just let ourselves out. Don’t worry about your guests.”

Braden Bratianu laughed.

Then Tiffany Matthews Olaru apparently regarded Ramsey: “Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Hot Pants! Someone has to stay here and watch the baby while the two of them…reaffirm their vows.”

 
Rebecca giggled like a schoolgirl as Julien laid her gently on the bed and flashed a wicked, lascivious smile. “Did that embarrass you?” he asked, peeling off his shirt.

She bit her bottom lip and shimmied out of her skirt. “Oh, hell, they’ve seen it all before. At least Saxson has.”

Julien gazed at her suddenly exposed flesh, at the soft pink lace on the edges of her panties, and groaned. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed heavily, releasing the fly of his slacks.

She scooted back on the bed, unbuttoned the first three buttons of her blouse, and bit her bottom lip seductively. “I think you’re going to have to do the rest. So yeah, I guess I’m a little embarrassed—or shy—after all.”

“Oh,
ș
oarec micu
ț
, never…
ever
…with me.” He climbed onto the mattress like a large jungle cat, making his way toward the headboard in a slow, lazy crawl and reaching for her shirt. Slowly, carefully, and with reverence—all the while maintaining eye contact—he began to unbutton the rest of her blouse.
 

Rebecca shivered at his touch.
 

She marveled at the rock-hard definition in his chest. And she stirred at the thought of his amazing warrior’s body soon blanketing hers. “Wait,” she said softly, grasping for his wrists before he could slide the silky material off her shoulders. “Did you mean what you said…the other day?”

“What did I say, Becca?” His voice was thick with need, and the vibration gave her the chills.

She gulped and stared at his mouth: those thick, perfect, artistically defined lips, and almost lost her train of thought. “The other night, before I had Jayce, you said you were falling in love with me.”
 

His mouth turned up in an adoring smile, and his brows furrowed, just a fraction. “Mmm,” he groaned, and then he licked
those
lips. “I’m afraid that’s no longer true. I’ve already fallen, little mouse: deeply, passionately, eternally.”

Rebecca froze at his words, but only for an instant.

“You mean that?” she asked, her voice laced with wonder.

“I do,” he vowed.

Reaching for the neckline of her blouse, she slid the garment off her shoulders, then glanced down, toward his pants. “Then that’s all I needed to know,” she whispered. Arching her back and straining her neck to kiss him with abandon, she first breathed into his mouth: “I love you, too, Julien: always, forever, until the end of time.”

He bit down on her lip, gently this time, ever so careful not to draw blood. And then he claimed her words, her heart, and their future with a mindless, passionate kiss, his powerful hands making their way along her feminine curves with hunger.
 

His mouth was like fire as he scorched her from head to toe.

His hands were like twin prayers as he worshiped at the temple of her body.

And his hips, his thighs, that part of him that made him distinctly male was like Blood Ecstasy to her new Vampyr senses: filling her, consuming her, drenching her…in rapture.
 

Rebecca had never been more alive.

Rebecca had never been more in love.

Julien’s
ș
oarec micu
ț
had never been more…complete.

Epilogue

One week later

Saxson Olaru sidled up to the bar in Denver’s infamous LoDo, a native, urban term for lower downtown, and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

It was a losing proposition.
 

At six-foot-two, he had soft hazel eyes, the color of swirling caramel, and light-ash hair that was neat on the sides, wavy and wispy at the front, tapering softly down a strong, masculine neck. The eye immediately caught a strong, angled jaw and chin beneath a perfectly groomed, silken goatee and features so pristine, so precisely sculpted, that his high cheekbones looked as if they’d been carved out of marble: In other words, Saxson Olaru usually caught every eye in the room. He dripped sensuality, oozed masculinity, and practically radiated primal confidence. He was the muscular epitome of power, lethality, and grace; and women were drawn to him like moths to a flame. As for men? Well, they felt his presence like a blast of virility and dominance sweeping through the room—a twister devastating everything in its wake.
 

Intimidating
was a mild word for Saxson.
 

But yeah, his goal was to remain inconspicuous.

Good luck with that.
 

He ordered a second shot of Elijah Craig Single Barrel whiskey from the female bartender, gave her a gentle but effective mental command to go about her business—since she happened to be staring at him like a dolt with her mouth hanging open and drool rapidly pooling along the corners of her mouth, about to leak onto her chin—and turned to glance at the seemingly average businessman wearing an overly expensive tie with an extremely cheap suit, in the farthest corner booth of the bar.
 

Anthony Beckman.

Kate Beckman’s ex-husband.

The one who had broken her jaw and was
this close
to molesting their three-year-old daughter during one of his court-approved visits.
 

What the hell…

Saxson repressed a growl: Anthony was one of the human males on Rebecca Johnston Lacusta’s hit list, and he was only too happy to take him out.

Okay, so it wasn’t supposed to be a hit list.

At least not necessarily…

But try explaining that to Nathaniel Silivasi. The Ancient Master Warrior had already removed Ely Thomas’ fingers for breaking Nancy’s arms; dismembered Rollo Jones for causing Sheila to have two miscarriages—and no, Rollo didn’t live through the ordeal—and gouged out Hugo Gonazles’ eyes for refusing to leave Teresa alone. Apparently, Nathaniel figured that would put a dent in Hugo’s stalking.
 

The “list” was supposed to be at least somewhat benign: The warriors were supposed to scrub their brains, implant new suggestions on how to live a
kinder
life, insure that these miscreants would never threaten a woman again, and Saxson supposed that Nathaniel had met that criteria…in his own creative way.
 

After all, three down; two to go.
 

As it stood, Nathaniel was off stalking Julius Schaffer, Patricia Sykes’ one-time, one-date NFL player, and Saxson was hunting in LoDo, handling Anthony Beckman, or at least he was about to…
 

Problem was: Saxson had already searched Anthony’s soul, and it was nothing but black, murky sludge. The man was as evil as evil came and as sociopathic as a serial killer. He possessed zero capacity for remorse or empathy, and he would never,
ever
stop terrorizing Kate. It was stamped all over his demented brain, and that meant only one thing—

This one had to be put down.

For good.

Saxson tossed back the second shot of whiskey, slammed the glass on the bar, and made his way toward the back of the room, trying to saunter past the booth as seamlessly as possible. There was no need to create a scene. No need to grab the bully by the scruff of the collar and drag him out of the establishment in order to…
handle the business
…in a dark, secluded alley. The way Saxson saw it, he could simply snap the idiot’s neck in the space of a heartbeat, leave him propped up like a drunkard, still sitting in the booth, and close his eyelids, if necessary, with the sweep of his hand, make it look like he’d simply passed out.
 

It might be an hour or more before anyone noticed.
 

Then again, it might only be five minutes.

Saxson grimaced.
 

Damn
, he hated to cause that kind of drama for the employees or the establishment, but when he weighed their angst against the threat to Kate Beckman’s daughter, it just didn’t seem that bad. Besides, humans could deal with their own affairs. After all, they had created the laws that allowed such injustice to continue in the lives of so many women; they had devalued their females and their children, in spite of what they claimed, in every penal code they wrote; and they still viewed outright violence, assault, and terror as domestic disturbances in nature—
whatever the hell that meant
—by slapping perpetrators on the wrist, releasing pedophiles from prison, and viewing rape in the context of sex…as if that had anything to do with it.

Violence was violence.

Assault was assault.
 

And crime was crime.

And a society that wielded a harsher penalty for stealing money than destroying virtue deserved a little mess in an otherwise pristine booth.

It was what it was.
 

As Saxson sidled by Anthony’s table, he met the human’s gaze with a nod, and then he felt his own eyes turn feral—he knew they were glowing red—it was simply a natural instinct. The human’s jaw dropped open, as if he were about to scream, and Saxson squelched the sound in an instant, turning it off with a brusque mental command. A sweet, primal moment laced with terror and imbued with fear, the knowledge that something horrific was about to take place flashed in Anthony’s pupils, but it never had a chance to reach his twisted brain.
 

Saxson grazed the human’s cheek with his thumb, anchored his jaw with his palm, and placed the opposite hand on the opposite cheek as if in a lover’s embrace. With a sharp, swift rotation, both wrists working in tandem, he twisted to the right, then back to the left, listening for the telltale pop that indicated the broken vertebrae.
 

It was swift.

It was effective.

And it was finished.
 

Anthony Beckman was dead.

Saxson pressed the human’s heavy body back against the seat, using one hand to steady his torso, the other to secure his balance. As the man’s head fell forward, suspended above his chest, Saxson allowed him to slump into a resting position, and then he closed Beckman’s eyes.
 

Smoothing his right hand through his hair, Saxson swaggered past the booth and instantly muted his appearance as he turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction, toward the establishment’s front door—he wasn’t completely invisible, and he wasn’t crystal clear. His presence was like an impression, a ghost or a breeze—others would feel him, they would know he was there, but they would not be able to see, touch, or discern his presence in a way they could actually place. He wouldn’t seem real or tangible.

As he stepped outside into the crisp night air, he drew in a deep, purging breath, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his neck before deciding to take a stroll around the block: Nathaniel was hunting on the opposite end of town, taking care of Mr. Schaffer—it might be another fifteen or twenty minutes before they could head back to Dark Moon Vale. 

 
Might as well see the sights.

Kyla Sparrow stood behind her identical twin sister in the tiny one-room bathroom at the back of the LoDo bar, watching as Kiera reapplied her liquid eyeliner in the murky
mirror, creating a perfect, symmetrical line; and she pretended to listen as Kiera talked.
 

Blah, blah…blah, blah, blah.