Crave (Crave Series)

01 You Only Think You’re a Prince If You Don’t Have a Tower—Jaxon—

You Only ThinkYou’re a PrinceIf You Don’t Have a Tower—Jaxon—

I can’t believe Foster did this. Just flat-out can’t believe he did this. I’m spending every fucking hour of every fucking day trying to keep this whole thing from turning into a massive shit show, and Foster goes and does this. Un-fucking-believable.

“Is that her?” Mekhi asks from his spot on the couch behind me.

I look down at the girl currently climbing off the snowmobile in front of the school. “Yes.”

“What do you think?” Luca chimes in. “Does she look like good bait?”

“She looks…” Exhausted. It’s in the way she bows her head after she takes off her helmet. In the way her shoulders slump. In the way she looks at the stairs like they’re the biggest obstacle she’s ever seen in her life. Exhausted and…defeated?

“What?” Byron comes up behind me and peers over my shoulder. “Oh. Defenseless,” he murmurs after a minute.

And yes, that’s exactly the word I’ve been looking for. She looks defenseless. Which, no doubt about it, makes for great bait. It also makes me feel like shit. How the fuck am I supposed to use a girl who already looks like life has kicked her in the teeth about a dozen times?

Then again, how can I afford not to? Something’s going on. Something big. Something fucked-up. I can feel it, and so can the other members of the Order. We’ve been trying to ferret it out for days, but no one’s talking…at least not to us. And since we don’t want to come right out and start pushing in case we send whoever is responsible for what promises to be a disaster of monumental proportions scurrying for cover, we’re screwed if we don’t find some bait to follow.

“Defenseless is good, right?” Liam asks in typical asshole fashion.

I shoot him a look as he grabs a thermos of blood from the mini refrigerator at the bottom of one of my bookcases. He holds a hand up in semi-apology, then explains, “I mean, it’ll lull whoever’s behind whatever this is into a false sense of security.”

“Or it will make her that much easier for them to kill,” Rafael answers. The words are careless, though his tone is anything but. No surprise there, considering he’s always had a soft spot for damsels in distress. He’s also the only one who’s been against this plan from the beginning.

But I don’t know what else to do. I can’t afford to ignore whatever is happening below the surface. Not if I want to prevent another war…or worse.

I turn back to see that she’s made it up the steps now, though it looks a little like she’s going to fall back down. I want to see her face, but she’s so bundled up, I can’t get a good look at anything but the wild corkscrew curls sticking out from beneath her hot-pink hat.

“So what are you going to do?” Mekhi asks. “What will you say to her?”

I don’t have a fucking clue. I mean, I know what I planned to say to her. What I should say to her. But sometimes should is a long way from what is. Hudson taught me that…and so did our mother.

Which is why, instead of answering my best friend, I ask, “What else do I need to know about?”

“Jaxon—” Rafael starts, but I shut him down with a look.

“What else?”

“The dragons are back in the tunnels,” Luca volunteers in his rolling Spanish accent that makes everything seem not quite as bad as it actually is. “I haven’t been able to figure out what they’re doing yet, but I will.”

“And the wolves?”

Liam gives a sarcastic laugh. “Same old assholes, different day.”

“Like that’s ever going to change?” Mekhi asks with a fist bump.

“It’ll never change,” I agree. “But beyond the usual, anything I should be aware of with them?”

“Nothing beyond howling at the moon like a bunch of criminals.” Byron’s still looking out the window, and I know he’s thinking about Vivian. “When are you going to do something about that?”

“They’re wolves, By. Howling at the moon is pretty much what they do,” I tell him.

“You know what I mean.”

I do. “They’re not going to hurt anyone else the way they hurt her. I’ve got Cole’s word on that.”

“Yeah.” He snorts. “Like there’s anything trustworthy about Cole. Or his mangy pack of mutts.”

It’s been five years, but in vampire years, that’s nothing. Especially when it comes to losing a mate.

“She’s going inside,” Byron murmurs, and a quick glance at the front of the school tells me he’s right. The pink hat, and the girl it belongs to, are nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll be back,” I tell them, pulling off the red Katmere Academy hoodie I’ve been wearing all day and tossing it on the back of the nearest chair. After all, nothing says intimidating like a school sweatshirt…

I take the steps three at a time on my way down. I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do right now—if anything—but I do want a look at the new girl. I want to see what kind of trouble she is. Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that she is going to be all the trouble.

It’s a feeling that gets reinforced the second I see her standing alone, back toward the stairs and anyone who might want to sneak up on her as she looks at the chess table half hidden by the alcove at the bottom of the stairs.

And what the hell? She’s been here all of two minutes, and Macy and Foster just leave her alone out here? Where anyone could approach her?

And by approach her I mean hassle her…or worse.

In fact, I’m not even all the way down the stairs before Baxter is sidling up to her, eyes burning and fangs flashing, just a little.

I get his attention, give him a look that tells him to back the hell off. Not because I actually care if he drinks the little human dry—and she is little, barely five foot four—but because there are rules. And one of those rules is, very definitely, don’t eat the headmaster’s niece. More’s the pity, because she smells really good. A combination of vanilla and honeysuckle underlays the slight tang of too many hours of travel.

Makes me wonder just how she’d taste.

But since drinking her—dry or otherwise—is out of the question, I shove the thought down deep and take the last half set of stairs in one leap.

She still doesn’t notice, and I can’t help wondering if she’s got a death wish or if she’s just spectacularly unobservant.

I’m hoping it’s the latter, because the former would definitely complicate things. Especially here at Katmere, where, at the moment, it feels like nearly everyone is hanging on to civilization by a thread. Myself definitely included.

I move up behind her as she picks up a chess piece and starts turning it around like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Curious despite myself, I peer over her shoulder to see just what she finds so fascinating. But when I see what piece she’s looking at—dear old Mom in all her glory—I can’t help but lean in a little closer and warn, “I’d be careful with that one if I were you. She’s got a nasty bite.”

She jumps like I’ve actually bitten her instead of simply pointed out the danger. So simply unobservant, then, not a death wish. Things are looking up.

I start to warn her about turning her back on anyone in this place, but she whirls around before I can get the words out. And as our gazes collide, I lose all sense of what I was going to say.

Because fuck. Just fuck.

She’s everything and nothing like I expected her to be.

She’s fragile, like all humans. So easily broken—just a twist of my hand or a slice of my fangs and she could easily be dead. Problem solved, except, of course, for the shit storm Foster would unleash.

But as she looks up at me with startled eyes the color of rich, melted milk chocolate, I’m not thinking about killing her. Instead, I’m thinking about how soft her skin looks.

About how much I like the way her curls frame her heart-shaped face.

About whether the cluster of freckles on her left cheek forms a flower or a star.

And I’m sure as hell thinking about what it would feel like to sink my teeth into that spot right below her ear.

What she would sound like when she asked me to do it.

What she would feel like against me as she offered herself.

What she would taste like on my tongue… If it’s anything like how she smells, I’m afraid I might not be able to stop. And I can always stop.

It’s not a realization I’m comfortable with, especially considering I came down here to check her out and make sure she wasn’t going to cause any trouble when things are already so messed up. And here I am, suddenly thinking about—

“Who’s got a nasty bite?” Her tremulous voice interrupts my thoughts, has me looking past her to the chess table…and the piece she dropped when I startled her.

I reach past her, pick up the vampire queen—even though she’s pretty much the last thing I ever want to touch—and hold her up for Foster’s niece, for Grace to see. “She’s really not very nice.”

She stares at me blankly. “She’s a chess piece.”

Her confusion amuses me—as does her determination to pretend that she’s not afraid of me. She’s got enough bravado that it might work on another human, but not with me. Not when I can smell her fear…and something else that makes me stand up and take notice. “Your point?” I ask, because poking the human is way too much fun.

“My point is, she’s a chess piece,” she answers, and for the first time, she’s brave enough to look me in the eye. Which I like, way more than I should. “She’s made of marble,” she continues after a moment. “She can’t bite anyone.”

I incline my head in a you never know gesture. “‘There are more things in heaven and hell, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’” Considering the clusterfuck we are currently in the middle of, a little Hamlet seems more than appropriate.

“Earth,” she responds.

Which has me raising a brow at her. Not only does she know the quote, but she’s not afraid to call me on my “mistake.”

“The quote is, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.’”

“Is it, now? I think I like my version better.”

“Even though it’s wrong?”

“Especially because it’s wrong.” She sounds incredulous and looks it, too. Which amuses me even as it concerns me. Because it means my first impression was right—she really is unobservant. Not to mention totally and completely clueless. All of which means she’s going to get slaughtered up here—or she’s going to cause a war. Or both.

I can’t afford to let that happen…for everyone’s sake. Not when I’ve worked so hard—and given up everything—to keep that from happening.

“I need to go.” Her eyes are wide, the words high-pitched and a little squeaky.

It’s the last straw, because if she can’t handle a basic conversation with me on my best behavior, how the hell is she going to make it so much as a day here?

“Yeah, you do.” I take a small step back, nod toward the common room—and the school entrance. “The door’s that way.”

Shock flits across her face as she demands, “So what, I shouldn’t let it hit me on the way out?”

I shrug just before giving her an answer guaranteed to send her running for the hills. The fact that it also makes me sound like a total douche is for me to regret and for her to never know why. “As long as you leave this school, it doesn’t matter to me if it hits you or not. I warned your uncle you wouldn’t be safe here, but he obviously doesn’t like you much.”

Anger flashes across her face, replacing the uncertainty. “Who exactly are you supposed to be, anyway? Katmere’s very own unwelcome wagon?”

“Unwelcome wagon?” I repeat. “Believe me, this is the nicest greeting you’re going to get here.”

“This is it, huh?” She raises her brows, spreads her arms out wide. “The big welcome to Alaska?”

The snark surprises me as much as it intrigues me—which is not acceptable…on any level. The knowledge has me snarling, “More like, welcome to hell. Now get the fuck out,” as much as a warning to myself as an attempt to scare her senseless.

Too bad it doesn’t work—on either front. Because she doesn’t shut down at my warning, and she sure as hell doesn’t run away. Instead, she just looks down her very cute nose at me and demands, “Is it that stick up your ass that makes you such a jerk? Or is this just your regular, charming personality?”

Shock washes over me—no one talks to me like that. Ever. Let alone some human girl I could kill with little more than a thought. With it comes a quick lick of frustration. Because I’m trying to save her life here, and she’s too unaware to even notice.

I need to change that—and fast. Narrowing my eyes at her, I snap, “I’ve got to say, if that’s the best you’ve got, I give you about an hour.”

It’s her turn for her brows to go up. “Before what?”

“Before something eats you.” Obviously.

“Seriously? That’s what you decided to go with?” She rolls her eyes. “Bite me, dude.”

If she only knew how much I want to do just that… The angrier she gets, the better she smells. Not to mention how good she looks with flushed cheeks and the pulse point at the hollow of her throat beating double-time.

“Nah, I don’t think so,” I tell her even as my mouth waters and my fangs threaten to elongate with every rapid pound of her heart.

I want to taste her. Want to feel the softness of her body leaning into mine as I drink my fill. As I drink and drink and— I cut off the thought. Force myself to look her up and down disparagingly before answering, “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t even make an appetizer.”

I step closer, determined to intimidate her—determined to get her out of here before all hell breaks loose and she gets hurt “Maybe a quick snack, though.” I snap my teeth fast and hard. Then do my best to ignore the way she shivers at the sound.

It’s so much fucking harder than it should be. Especially when she refuses to back down like anyone—everyone—else would. Instead she asks, “What is wrong with you?”

And shit. I nearly laugh at that, because “Got a century or three?” That just might be long enough to scratch the surface of my answer, if I was honest.

“You know what? You really don’t have to be such a—”

Behind us, everyone is circling, straining to hear. None of them is stupid enough to actually wander by too close, but I can feel them there just around the corner. Listening. Waiting. Strategizing.

Which means enough is more than enough. Time to get serious about scaring her away. “Don’t tell me what I have to be,” I growl. “Not when you don’t have a clue what you’ve wandered into here.”

“Oh no!” She does a mock-afraid face, then asks, “Is this the part of the story where you tell me about the big, bad monsters out here in the big, bad Alaskan wilderness?”

And damn, but she impresses me. Sure, it’s frustrating as hell that she’s not taking any of this seriously, but it’s hard to blame her when all she knows is what she’s getting from me. In fact, I’m impressed she’s doing such a good job of holding her own—not many people can against me.

Which is why I respond, “No, this is the part of the story where I show you the big, bad monsters right here in this castle.” I step forward, closing the small distance she managed to put between us.

She needs to know that if she’s going to walk around this place challenging people like that, there will be consequences. Better that she learn it from me than from one of the shifters who likes to claw first and ask questions later.

She must read the intent in my face, because she takes one trembling step back. Then another. And another.

But I follow suit, moving one step forward for every step she takes backward, until she’s pressed right up against the edge of the chess table. Nowhere else to go.

I need to scare her, need to make her run from this place as far and as fast as she can. But the closer I get to her, the more I lean toward her, the more I want to do anything but scare her away.

She feels so good pressed against me, smells so good, that it’s hard to focus on the endgame. And when she moves, her body bumping into mine again and again, it’s even harder to remember what the endgame is.

“What are—?” Her breath catches in her throat. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer right away—because I don’t have an answer beyond, The wrong thing. I’m doing the wrong thing. But knowing that doesn’t seem to matter when she’s right here in front of me, her brown eyes alive with a million different emotions that make me feel things I haven’t let myself feel in way too long.

But none of those is the answer I need to give her right now. None of them is even a thought I should have. So instead of saying what I want to say, I pick up one of the dragon pieces. Then hold it for her to see and answer, “You’re the one who wanted to see the monsters.”

She barely glances at the piece. Instead she sneers, “I’m not afraid of a three-inch dragon.”

Silly girl. “Yeah, well, you should be.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not.” Her voice is strained, and I start to think that maybe I’m getting through to her. Except right now, she doesn’t smell afraid. In fact, she smells— Fuck, no. I’m not going to go there, no matter how much I suddenly want to.

Instead, I pull back enough to put some space between us. And to watch her freak out a little as the silence between us grows longer and longer.

Eventually, I break the silence—and the tension building between us—because I know that she won’t. “So if you aren’t afraid of things that go bump in the night, what are you afraid of?” And then I work really hard to pretend that her answer doesn’t matter to me.

At least until she says, “There’s not much to be afraid of when you’ve already lost everything that matters.”

I freeze as her words slam into me like depth charges—sinking deep and then exploding so fast and hard that I’m afraid I’m going to shatter right here in front of her. Agony I thought I was long past rips through me, tearing me open. Making me bleed when I thought I had already hemorrhaged everything I had to lose.

I shove it back, shove it down. And can’t understand why it’s still right here in front of me—until I realize that this time, the pain I’m seeing is hers.

It’s terrible and terrifying to realize that she carries some of the same wounds, if not the same scars, that I do. Knowing that, recognizing it, makes it so much harder for me to back away. Makes it nearly impossible for me to do what I know I need to.

Instead, I reach out and gently take hold of one of her curls. I like them because there’s so much life there, so much energy, so much joy that touching one makes me forget all the reasons it’s impossible for me to let her stay.

I stretch out the curl, watching as it wraps itself around my fingers of its own volition. It’s silky and cool and just a little coarse, yet it warms me like nothing has in way too long. At least until she brings her hands up between us and pushes at my shoulders.

And still I don’t back away. I can’t. At least not until she whispers, “Please.”

It takes me a second—maybe two or three—before I finally find the will to move away. Before I finally find the strength to let that one, single curl, that one, single connection, go.

Frustrated with myself, with her, with this whole fucked-up situation, I shove a hand through my hair. Then wish I hadn’t when her eyes immediately go to my scar. I hate the fucking thing—hate what it is, hate where it came from, and hate even more what it represents.

I look away. Duck my head down so my hair quickly covers it up again.

But it’s too late. I can see it in her face and her eyes.

Can hear it in the breath that catches in her throat.

Can feel it in the way she moves toward me for the first time instead of away.

And when she reaches out, when she cups my scarred cheek in her cold, soft hand, it’s all I can do not to shove her away. Not to run as far and as fast as I can.

Only the irony holds me in place—the idea that I came down here to scare her away for her own safety and now am considering fleeing for mine.

But then our gazes connect, and I’m held in her thrall, completely captivated by the softness and the strength in her eyes as she strokes her thumb across my cheek over and over and over again.

I’ve never felt anything like it in my too-long life and nothing—nothing—could make me break the connection now.

At least until she whispers, “I’m sorry. This must have hurt horribly.”

The sound of her voice combined with the glide of her thumb across my skin sends electricity arcing through me. Has my every nerve ending screaming in a mixture of agony and ecstasy as one word washes through me over and over again.

Mate.

This girl, this fragile human girl whose very life is even now balanced on the edge of a yawning precipice, is my mate.

For a moment, I let myself sink into the knowledge, into her. I close my eyes, press my cheek against her palm, take one long, shuddering breath, and imagine what it would feel like to be loved like that. Completely, irrevocably, unconditionally. Imagine what it would be like to build a life with this smart and snarky and brave and battered girl.

Nothing has ever felt so good.

But people are all around us, watching us—watching me—and there’s no way I can let this continue. So I do the one thing I don’t want to do, the one thing every cell in my body is screaming against. I step back, putting real distance between us for the first time since I walked down those stairs, what now feels like a lifetime ago.

“I don’t understand you.” They aren’t the words I need to say, but they are the ones I have to.

“‘There are more things in heaven and hell, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” she answers, deliberately using my earlier misquote with a smile that slices right through me.

I shake my head in a vain effort to clear it. Take another deep breath and slowly blow it out. “If you won’t leave—”

“I can’t leave,” she interjects. “I have nowhere else to go. My parents—”

“Are dead. I know.” Rage burns inside me—for her, for what she’s suffered, and for all the things I want to do for her but can’t. “Fine. If you’re not going to leave, then you need to listen to me very, very carefully.”

Her eyes widen in confusion. “What do you—?”

“Keep your head down. Don’t look too closely at anyone or anything.” I lean forward until my lips are almost pressed against her ear, fighting the instincts roaring to life inside me with every breath we both take as I finish, “And always, always watch your back.”

Before she can answer, Foster and Macy come down the hall toward us. She turns to look at them, and I do what I have to do to keep her safe—do the only thing I can do in these ridiculous circumstances. I quickly fade to the stairs—the speed of it helping me pretend that each step away from her doesn’t cut like jagged, broken glass.

I plan on going back to my room, but I don’t make it that far. Instead, I stop just around the corner and listen to her voice as she talks to Foster. Not the words, just her voice, because I can’t get enough of her. Not now. Not yet.

Soon enough. I’m going to have to give this up.

Soon enough, I’m going to have to stay as far away from her as I possibly can. Because if I thought it was bad for her to be used as bait, that’s nothing compared to the danger of being a human mated to a vampire. And not just any vampire but one who holds the fate of the world in his hands.