The Vampire Queen's Servant (7 page)

"He's… mine. Okay. Take us
home. Keep me safe. Good driver. Must sleep now. Won't wake for a while."

Her eyes drifted closed, her
head falling back on Jacob's shoulder. In the same movement she nestled in
under his chin, letting him tighten his hold over her shoulders. One hand
latched loosely inside his shirt front, her fingers brushing his bare skin. The
other hand drifted into his lap across his thigh, her touch an inch or two from
his groin.

Whether her affectionate body
language was done strategically to reassure the driver or from her own desire,
Jacob didn't know, but it did the trick.

As the driver raised a brow,
Jacob heard the Beretta uncock. Mr. Ingram shook his head. "If you ain't
hers, son, you're soon going to be. Hope you know what the hell you're
doing."

Jacob wondered the same thing
himself. As they pulled out of the parking lot, he felt burned to ash by her
touch and those two simple words.

He's mine.

Lyssa's sleep was deep and long,
filled with interesting dreams. Of a knight with pale blue eyes who tucked her
in before he went off to battle. She dreamed long enough that her dream brought
him back to her. Wearing full-skirted chain mail with a tunic of the Crusades
over it, the field of white bearing a red cross as pure as blood. She helped
him out of it in the sanctity of their chamber, removing his gauntlets from his
large hands, massaging her fingers over the calluses he'd earned from wielding
sword and mace.

When she unlaced the mail and he
lifted it off, she noted the dirt in the creases of his knuckles, the lines
that heat, wind and cold had etched on his handsome face. Reaching up, she
touched his lips, framed by the soft down of his beard and moustache. He kissed
her fingers, his tongue playfully teasing her skin.

A bath steamed behind him. As he
stood before her gloriously nude, muscular, powerful, aroused, she tried to
tease, to slip away. But he was having none of that. He seized her waist in
hands as gentle with her as they were powerful in the service of his Lord.
Drawing her into his arms, he pulled her full against him, her breasts pressed
into his skin, rising above the velvet and ribbon edge of her scooped-neck
dress. His lips sought hers when he pushed her gown away and held her. Tighter.
Even tighter.

Too tightly. He was hurting her,
and she couldn't get free. She threw her head back, crying out. It was Rex's
dark face, his lips pulled back in a snarl as he crushed her, her ribs breaking
beneath the iron band of his arms while her heart beat frantically like a bird
trapped in a cage getting smaller and smaller.

It's astounding the pain a
vampire can endure, isn't it? Almost nothing can actually kill us.

He would not take her in her
dreams. Not there, not in her life, not anywhere. Pulling her lips back in a
matching snarl, she met his gaze.

As you found out. Didn't
you, dearest?

His eyes glowed red. With a
roar, he broke her rib cage like a frame of matchsticks, his touch separated
from her heart by shards of shattered bone and so much more…

Lyssa woke, opened her eyes.
Well, the first part of the dream had been nice. She could still feel that
knight's rough palm, the strength of an eager male lover instead of a…

No, she wouldn't dishonor Rex's
memory by venting her rage on him with name-calling. She dwelled instead on the
knight, as if the other part of the dream had not existed. His blue eyes and
copper hair.

Her fingers moved down her body,
bare beneath the sheets. Finding her smooth sex wet, she shuddered at just the
touch of her fingers. That knight of her dreams had reminded her of someone.
Of…

She bolted upright in the bed, a
motion too rapid for the human eye to follow if any humans had been present.
She was alone in her bedchamber, which was an appropriate name for it, since
she had it appointed like a medieval fantasy. Heavy canopy drapes for the large
bed. A massive stone fireplace, the tapestry hung near it depicting hunting
scenes in the bold colors and poor drawing style of the early centuries of the
second millennium. Stained glass on her windows kept light filtered during
daylight hours. Lit candles on the dark wood dresser and the faint smell of
smoke lingering from matches being struck told her she hadn't been alone for
long.

He'd gotten her home somehow.
Gotten her to her own bedroom. Had Thomas described it to him, or had he
wandered through the rooms, carrying her in his arms until he found the one
that felt just right, like the fairy tale?

Well, Goldilocks she surely
wasn't. As she turned and put her feet on the floor, she grasped the tall post,
feeling the carvings of clematis flowers and leaves twining around it. Her hair
fell forward, tangling in her nails as she swept it from her eyes. If she was
cast in a fluffy animated retelling of one of those grim fairy tales, her
character would be a wicked witch, a darkly dangerous stepmother. The thought
almost made her smile.

She wondered what her knight
would do when she took him to her bed. Chained him as she'd imagined, making
him wait upon her pleasure. Even when he was allowed to sleep in her bed less
encumbered, she'd still require him to sleep with one wrist cuffed and chained
to the bed, a nominal reminder of his devotion, of the fact that he was her
property.

Or perhaps she wouldn't chain
and cuff his wrist, but his fine cock and scrotum. Jacob. When she thought of
the personality he'd shown, the temper, her hunger stirred. She was ravenous. A
side effect of the powder, she knew, but it was further stirred by her dream
and memories of the things that had happened between them before she fainted.

While the malady she suffered
had many drawbacks, including the inability to predict these attacks, one of
its better aspects was that the spells, like the tides, fully receded after
they'd run their course.

Her strength and potency had
returned with her hunger. As well as the sharpness of her faculties, her
ability to think and question.

Bran? How had Jacob gotten past
him? How had he gotten in, period? Why was she thinking of him as if she'd
already made the decision to keep him? He hadn't even told her the full truth
of why he wanted to be her servant. She knew almost nothing of him. Thomas's
endorsement held great weight, but normally she would have investigated far
more about the man before bringing him into her home. Perhaps desperate times
called for desperate measures, though she disliked thinking of her situation as
desperate.

After brushing out her hair and
sliding on a black satin robe and some jewelry to armor herself, she left the
room and the west wing for the stairwell. She liked her Atlanta mansion, built
in a fortress style with stone. While she'd have preferred it situated even
more deeply in the woods than it was, at least it backed up to thirty acres of
forest she'd had fenced, the outer perimeter regularly patrolled.

As she walked down the stairs,
she knew it was still night. Probably about two thirty in the morning, given
that the medicine usually knocked her out for two hours. The outside
landscaping lights mounted beneath the stained glass windows threw light before
her on. the curving stairwell and into the foyer. Reds, blues and golds merged
with the shadows.

Stopping halfway down the
staircase, she cocked her head, her exceptional senses picking up music from a
radio and voices. And… aromas.

He was cooking eggs. Speaking to
someone. Who? She deepened her probe, the possible need for aggression rising
in her. Then she relaxed. It was Mr. Ingram. The driver. With Jacob. Brow
furrowed, she went to the base of the stairs and headed for the kitchen.

Since she hadn't sent a
compulsion to Bran to conceal his response when he sensed her approach, there
was a sudden thunderous bark, followed by several slightly less vocal ones and
a surprised yelp from what sounded like Mr. Ingram. Then there was the clatter
of toenails. Many toenails.

Stopping in the wide hall, she
braced herself for canine assault.

Her hellhounds, Rex had called
them. He'd actually been fond of the two girls. Not as fond as she was of all
of them though, finding herself unable to suppress a smile as the pack of Irish
wolfhounds came racing out of the kitchen. Graceful as deer when they had
traction, they galloped pell-mell down the slick wooden floor of the long hall
that was the central feature of her home. She winced as Maggie skidded into one
of the mounted suits of armor and knocked the pike loose, sending it clattering
to the floor after it bounced off of Fionn's head, which deterred his speed not
a bit.

She suspected Rex's affection
had to do with their reputation from ancient times of being able to rip an
enemy's head off in battle. Plus the fact that, at one time, only royalty could
keep them. Even when Irish nobility had been allowed to have them, the quantity
of the dogs they were allowed depended on rank. While she found their ferocity very
useful, their heritage noble, she'd found many other reasons to love them.

Bran was in the lead of course.
The pack of nine dogs, seven males and two females, varied in color from black
to brindle, fawn to red, but he was her ghost, a rare pure white. He came to a
skidding halt just short of making contact, showing respect. Since he was
nearly a yard tall at the shoulder, Bran was level with her breastbone when he
raised his head as he did now. She stroked his head first as the pack leader,
acknowledging him, then dispensed touches and reassuring words to the others.
As she heard footsteps approaching, she raised her voice.

"You've been a very bad
dog, Bran. Letting riffraff into my house."

Lifting her head, she studied
Jacob, coming down the hallway toward her. Yes, he was just as appealing now as
he'd been at the salon. The edge of lust she carried made her want to sink her
teeth into him before another blink of time had passed. He still wore a shirt,
but he'd buttoned a couple more buttons and wore it loose over the jeans,
impeding her view in a manner that didn't entirely please her. But for the
moment she was content to study him as he was. The blue eyes assessed her,
concerned. The confident stride, the loose hands said he'd made himself
comfortable in his surroundings.

She could intimidate or seduce a
man with a look without any magical power. She'd had time to practice, after
all. But Jacob had a self-possession that made an impression. Perhaps it was
his colorful past and the secrets he'd yet to divulge to her that made him
handle himself so well. Since he had Thomas's confidence, she acknowledged
those secrets might be nothing to concern her, just the history behind his
private revelations and struggles. A man at ease with himself, who knew where he'd
been, what it meant and where he wanted to go. Which annoyed her exactly
because of how much it appealed to her.