Chapter 21
21
ESME
I had five days left.
After spending forty-eight tumultuous hours vacillating between denial and utter despair, desperately trying to drown myself in the intoxicating haze of alcohol and lose myself in the vibrant people and lively spirit of the French Quarter, seeing Brogan again last night had been like a slap in the face, abruptly yanking me back to the inescapable reality I so badly wanted to forget.
What the hell was I doing, running around the city like I didn't have a care in the world? Did I think Marcus was just going to forget me? Forget the deal he'd forced me to make?
Did I think he wouldn't carry out his threats?
No. I would be a fool to believe that. I'd seen firsthand what he could do, and I had no doubt he would gleefully burn down this entire city and everyone in it right in front of my eyes if I didn't do what he wanted.
Which was how I found myself breaking into a cemetery in the middle of the night.
The full moon cast an eerie glow over the old marble chambers as I stood in the heart of the graveyard. Shadows danced across the ground, and a chill crept down my spine despite the warm clothing I'd worn. I knew what I had to do, but I wasn’t looking forward to it.
All magic took its toll.
The kind of magic I practiced took a piece of your soul.
I knelt in the shadow of an ancient mausoleum, far from the prying eyes of tourists or any night watchmen who might wander by. The graveyard's residents were my only witnesses as I unfolded a small cloth bundle containing my tools: a small obsidian blade, a vial of dried adrán-cascabel herb, and a weathered leather pouch.
"Forgive me, ancestors," I whispered, acknowledging the familiar tug of guilt. My grandmother had warned me about blood magic, how it created debts that could never truly be repaid. But I had no choice—not with Marcus breathing down my neck and Brogan...
I pushed thoughts of him away. I couldn't afford distractions.
The obsidian blade glinted in the moonlight as I raised it to my palm. One smooth motion—quick and precise—and crimson welled up from the cut. I hissed through clenched teeth, more from the violation than the pain itself.
" Es mi sangre. Es mi poder. Es mi derecho ." It is my blood. It is my power. It is my right.
I let the blood pool in my palm before adding a pinch of the adrán-cascabel . The dried herb, with its distinctive rattle-like seeds, mixed with my blood, creating a paste that smelled of copper and earth. Using my finger, I began to draw the sigil on the stone path—a series of interlocking circles and jagged lines that resembled a twisted tree with roots reaching into the earth and branches stretching toward the sky.
As the sigil took form, the air grew thick and heavy around me. The sounds of the night—distant traffic, chirping insects—faded away, replaced by an expectant silence.
" Sangre de mi sangre ," I chanted, my voice barely above a whisper. " Hueso de mis huesos. Yo invoco a los espíritus de mi linaje. Guíenme en esta oscuridad. "
Blood of my blood. Bone of my bones. I invoke the spirits of my lineage. Guide me through this darkness.
The sigil began to pulse with a dull red glow that matched the rhythm of my heartbeat.A connection formed as tendrils of energy linking me to generations past, to the women who had practiced these arts before me. Their knowledge, their power, their burden were now mine to command.
The sigil pulsed with power as my ancestors begin to answer my call. This was dangerous magic, forbidden by most covens. Magic that could corrupt. But I wasn't looking for power—I was looking for knowledge.
" Muéstrame el camino ," I whispered. Show me the way.
The blood in the sigil moved, defying gravity as it crawled across the stone in thin rivulets, forming new patterns within the original design—a small cottage surrounded by large trees.
A sharp pain lanced through my temples. The price for this knowledge. Blood magic always demanded payment, and information about the book wouldn't come cheap.
I gritted my teeth against the pain as more symbols formed. A humble home with handmade furniture. Herbs hung from the ceiling where they dried.
" Más ," I demanded, though my head throbbed. More.
The blood pulsed angrily, but obeyed. Dark tendrils snaked from the sigil, wrapping around my wrists like burning chains. I bit my lip to keep from crying out as the vision grew stronger.
A face appeared—a woman with pretty features and eyes that sparkled with secrets. She wore simple clothing from the early 1900s. The blood spelled out a name: Alice Moss. But it wasn't the same woman I'd met at Lizzy's shop.
"Who are you to this book?" I whispered.
The blood responded by showing me the woman clutching an old book to her chest, her expression both protective and fearful. Then the vision shifted to show her casting a powerful spell, hiding the book away.
My nose began to bleed, warm droplets pattering onto the stone beside the sigil. Too much. I was pushing too hard. But I couldn't stop now. "The protections. Show me what guards it."
The sigil flared with angry red light. The blood bubbled and hissed, scalding my skin where the tendrils touched. Images flooded my mind—wards of ancient design, curses that would flay the skin from anyone unauthorized, and something darker... something that seemed to watch me through the vision itself.
I felt it then—a presence becoming aware of my scrying. Whatever guarded the book had sensed my magic and peered back at me through the connection.
I severed the spell immediately, gasping as the blood sigil dried and cracked, turning to black dust that scattered in the breeze.
As the glow faded, I slumped forward, exhausted and emotionally drained. All I wanted to do was curl up on the hard stone and sleep. But I’d only passed the first trial. There were more to come, and I had to stay strong.
Pressing my palms where the sigil had once been, I stood on shaky legs and brushed the dust from my knees. I folded the pocket knife and slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans.
I found a few tissues and my pocket mirror in my jacket pocket and used them to clean the blood from my face and check my lipstick. Then I turned to leave the cemetery. I still didn't know if I'd be powerful enough to find the book, but I had to at least try.
As I made my way through the city of the dead toward the front gate, a familiar figure stepped out from behind one of the larger tombs, blocking my path.
Brogan.
I froze midstep, afraid to get closer. How much had he seen?
"What are you doin', darlin'?" Brogan's voice was tense and laced with suspicion, but he didn't seem surprised to find me here.
My mind raced to come up with an excuse. I couldn't tell him the truth, couldn't risk putting him in danger. "I... I was just taking a walk. I needed to clear my head." I frowned. "How did you find me?"
He ignored my question to ask more of his own. "In the middle of the night? In a cemetery?"
I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "It's peaceful here. Quiet. And I'm not afraid of the dead. It's the living that scare me."
His green eyes bored into mine. "Do I scare you?"
"Sometimes," I admitted softly. But not in the way he would think. He…unsettled me. Not because I feared him, but because of how he made me feel. Vulnerable. Exposed. He made me want things I had no business wanting.
He walked toward me slowly, moving with that beautiful, loose-hipped, lethal grace that made my breath hitch. In my exhausted state, it was as if the shadows clung to him, shifting with every step as they caressed him with darkness. But it was his eyes that held me captive. Bright and green, glowing with that same unnatural light as the sigil. I felt the pull between us, urging me to go to him, but I dug in my heels and somehow resisted.
When he was so close that I had to raise my chin to look him in the eye, he stopped. His chest rose and fell as he inhaled and exhaled. "You're bleeding."
Following the direction of his stare to the cut I'd made on my palm, I instinctively clenched my fist, wincing slightly when it stung. "It's nothing. I tripped and scraped my hand on a headstone."
His nostrils flared slightly and I caught a flash of fang as his lips parted, tasting the air.
Shit.
"Brogan, I..." My voice faltered as he cocked his head. Tendons strained in his neck, like he was fighting for control. I quickly tucked my hand behind my back, out of sight, knowing it wouldn't do any good, but I tried to distract him anyway. "Why are you here? Were you following me?"
I swallowed hard as his gaze landed on my hip, behind which I hid my injured hand.
"Let me see your hand," he said, his voice rough and commanding.
I hesitated, my chest tight even as a deliciously decadent feeling uncurled low in my stomach. I started to shake my head, to tell him no, but he held my gaze, and I found myself slowly bringing my hand out from behind my back. Hesitating only briefly, I uncurled my fingers, revealing the long, shallow cut on my palm.
Brogan took my hand in his, his careful touch bringing a flush to my cheeks as he stared hungrily at the small cut that still oozed blood. His brow furrowed as he examined the wound.
"This doesn't look like a scrape from a headstone," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over the skin just beneath the wound. He pressed, and more blood beaded in a straight line across my palm. A wave of longing pooled deep in my belly as his tongue darted out to moisten his lower lip.
I tried to speak, cleared my throat, and tried again. "It's fine. Really. I can take care of it myself." I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip only tightened, holding me in place.
His eyes caught mine, and he shook his head slightly. Then he lifted my hand to his mouth and with the tip of his warm tongue, he licked the heel of my hand where the blood trickled, groaning with pleasure as his eyelids fluttered closed.
Desire, hot and sinful, shot through my body to tug at my womb. Again, I tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let me go. His bright green eyes flashed a warning, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, almost mesmerizing. "I won't hurt you."
My instincts told me this was true. Relaxing my arm, I stopped fighting as his tongue laved over the cut on my palm, the sight both unnerving and strangely erotic. His eyes were half-lidded, a look of bliss on his face as he savored the taste of my blood.
"Brogan..." I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper, as I tried to think of something to say to pull him out of this bloodlust. But he was lost in the moment, his lips caressing my skin with a reverence that made my knees weak. Then, without warning, he sank his fangs into the fleshy part of my hand.
I cried out, the flash of pain quickly giving way to a rush of pleasure that weakened my knees as he drew blood straight from my veins. Dios mío …Feeding a vampire was a sensation unlike anything I'd ever experienced before, a heady mix of pain and ecstasy that set my blood on fire and left me wanting more. Wanting him closer.
He groaned against my skin, the vibration sending shivers along my suddenly sensitive skin. I knew I should stop him, push him away, but I couldn't seem to find the strength. It was as if he had me under some sort of spell, my will bending to his desires, and I had no control over my own body anymore.
I couldn’t draw enough air into my lungs, and I found my head tilting to the side, baring my throat to him, but caught myself before I could do something foolish. Like beg him to take more. More blood. More of my body. Whatever he needed.
"Stop," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Please. You have to stop."
But he only pulled me closer, his other arm snaking around my waist as he pressed his warm body against mine. I could feel the hard planes of his chest, the inhuman strength in his muscles as he held me tight. If I tilted my face up, I'd be able to press a kiss to the clean-smelling skin on the side of this throat.
He drank from me, and the world around us seemed to fade away until there was nothing but the two of us, lost in this forbidden embrace. “Please…you're taking too much." It was a lie. Or maybe not, considering how much he'd taken the night before. But I was afraid if I didn't stop him I would lose myself to him again. And this time, I wouldn't have the strength to walk away.
I needed to walk away, if I lived long enough.
He immediately stiffened against me, and with one last, lingering lick of his tongue, he kissed the center of my palm and then ran his nose along the inside of my wrist, scenting me before kissing my racing pulse and reluctantly releasing my hand.
Dios mío. There was such an ache between my thighs. I barely stopped myself from offering him my wrist again.
His head dropped until his forehead was pressed against mine, his large body blocking out everything but him as the hand that had held mine slid into my hair, wrapping the strands around his fist at my nape. For a few seconds, we just breathed together as I gripped the front of his shirt, trying to ground myself.
"I'm sorry," he told me. "God, I'm sorry, Es. I didn't mean to do that. You just smell so fucking good." He raised his head, and I could see the battle warring inside of him. "All of you."
By the way he was looking at me, I knew he was talking about more than my blood. Knowing he could smell how much I wanted him, another wave of need rushed through me, and I closed my eyes, hanging on for dear life. "It's okay," I told him. "I'm fine."
But he shook his head. "It's not fine. None of this is fucking fine."
Beneath my hands, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Or flee. His breath hitched every time he inhaled, and his eyes—usually dancing with humor or darkened with lust—now burned with a raw vulnerability that made my chest ache.
I gazed up at him, watching a storm of emotions cross his handsome features. Vampire or not, I knew deep in my bones that he was an honorable male. His true nature shone through in every interaction we shared, in the way he carried himself with integrity even when he struggled with his own demons. It was one of the things that drew me to him, an undeniable attraction to the goodness that lay beneath the surface.
“Esme,” he started, his voice like gravel. “I..." He stopped. Started again. "This is wrong. I know this is wrong. But I can't seem to stop myself. Hell," He made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "I don't even fucking try with you.” He stepped back, putting distance between us, but his hands lingered on my waist for a moment before he finally let go. "And I should try. I should. And for that, I really am sorry. I don't want you to be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you. I've never been afraid of you."
Confusion pinched his features. "But, last night, you told me?—"
"I lied," I admitted. I couldn't stand to watch him torture himself like this. "I lied to you last night. I wasn't afraid of you then. And I'm not afraid of you now." I took a step toward him, but he retreated as I did, keeping some space between us. "I wanted you last night, Brogan." Just like I did now. "And there's nothing wrong with wanting another person." I understood his passion because that fire burned in my blood, too. It was nothing to be ashamed of. "And please, stop fucking apologizing to me."
"You don't understand," he stated, his tone tense, bearing a burden more profound than I could comprehend. Green eyes met mine, pleading with me to listen, and I could see it then—the struggle, the conflict that tore him apart. “Every goddamn time I touch you, there's a war raging inside of me, Es. A battle between what I crave with every cell of my body and what I've been conditioned to believe." His hand trembled slightly as he reached for me, then dropped his arm before he made contact.
I could see how much this confession cost him, the vulnerability he hated to show. Every fiber of my being longed to comfort him, to help him break free from the chains of his past. But it wouldn't be that simple. The war he spoke of was one he'd have to win himself, no matter how badly I wanted to be his ally. And right now, I had my own battles to fight.
"The desire that I feel for you is a sin. But God, I want you."
Now it was my turn to be confused. "You're a vampire," I told him. "Don't you feel this blood lust every day?"
He ran a hand through his hair, his movements jerky, frustrated. “Yes, I’m a vampire. My desires aren't just a sin; they're dangerous. They're fucking lethal. But I can normally tamp them down while I do what I need to do to survive. But with you...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “With you, it’s like I can’t breathe. Like I’m drowning in it.”
My heart began to pound. “You're not some kind of monster. There's nothing wrong with the way you feel for me.”
He let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and hollow. “Aren’t I? Look at me. I just drank your blood. Again. I lost control. Again . Last night I fucked you in a dirty alley because that control was so far beyond my reach, it never once occurred to me to stop. Not ONCE." The muscles in his jaw jumped. "That’s exactly who I fucking am.”
“You did stop when I asked you to,” I reminded him, my voice firm. “Just now. You stopped.”
“This time,” he shot back, his eyes snapping to mine. “But what about next time?"
"There doesn't have to be a next time. We can just stay away from each other until I leave the city." Even as I said the words, something cracked inside of me that I didn't know if anyone else could ever repair. But that was ridiculous. I'd only known this male for a few weeks.
He stilled, staring at me. "You’re not serious about that."
I forced the words out. "I'm very serious." I realized then that I was. Whether I found this damn book or not, if I survived, I was leaving this city. I wasn't about to stick around and see what Marcus had planned.
He shook his head, and a deep sadness darkened his eyes. "You can't leave, darlin'."
His tone caught me by surprise. "Since when do you think you can tell me what I can or cannot do?" And why was I standing here arguing with him? I needed to figure out a way to get him to leave. To stay away from me. Now. Before he discovered what I was trying to do. What was I doing, trying to repair this male? He wasn't mine to fix.
"Since I realized that you're mine." He must've seen the pure shock on my face as he threw that word back at me. Before I could say anything else, he held up his hands, stopping me. "I want you to know that I didn't plan this. I didn't know it was going to happen. And when it did, I wouldn't admit it. Not even to myself. Not until tonight."
His words finally penetrated my spinning thoughts. "What are you talking about?”
"I should've known the very first time I saw you. I've never smelled anything as good as you. Never wanted to hear someone's laugh like I do yours. Fuck, Esme, I want to crawl under your damn skin and I still don't think I’ll be close enough to you." He paused, searching my face. "I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner. Before I drank from you?—"
I cut him off. "Wait." I blinked, still not comprehending. " What are you talking about?" I repeated.
He glanced around. "Look, it's cold. Do you wanna come back to the house with me? Or we could go to your place, maybe."
"No," I told him, crossing my arms. "I want you to start talking."
He stared at me for a long moment. "Okay," he finally agreed. Then he took a long breath. "How much, exactly, do you know about vampires?"
"I only know my grandmother told me.” But an inkling suspicion began to take form.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, she probably didn't know. Hell, we even thought it was a myth until it started happening to us."
"WHAT started happening, Brogan?"
His eyes never left me as he geared himself up for whatever the hell he was about to tell me. "I've chosen you , Esme. And only you."
I stared at him, waiting for him to say more. "What are you saying?"
"I choose you," he repeated. His eyes burrowed into mine, like he was trying to make me understand something he wasn't saying.
But I knew. He wanted me to be what Lizzy was to Killian. “So choose someone else," I insisted, crossing my arms over my chest. The red fabric of my blouse suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. I couldn't be his mate or whatever the hell he was talking about. I was leaving. Soon. Going somewhere far, far away.
But would it be so bad?
I shut down that voice fast. Because yes, it would be very bad. For both of us. My feelings for him didn't matter. Not if I wanted him to stay alive.
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "It doesn't work that way, darlin'."
"Have you tried?"
He seemed surprised by my reply. "Have I…?" He frowned down at me. "I don't have to. I know."
But I wasn't so easily put off. "How do you know if you haven't tried?"
Anger tightened his jaw and flashed in his eyes. "Are you saying you want me to drink from someone else? To fuck someone else?"
My blood burned as it rushed into my face. No. No, I absolutely did not want that. Not after knowing firsthand how intimate it was for a vampire to feed from you. How closely the two were tied. How he felt inside of me. I opened my mouth to lie, but the words died on my tongue before I could speak them. "No," I admitted softly as tears filled my eyes. "No, I don't want that."
"Then what the hell do you want?"
What did I want? I wanted this entire nightmare to go away. I wanted to be back in my home in Mexico. I wanted my family to be alive. I wanted my life the way it was!
But then you would've never met HIM.
That crack inside of me split open wider at the thought. But it didn't matter. It would've been better if I'd never stumbled into that club on Bourbon Street. At least then, his life wouldn't be in danger. Lizzy's life wouldn't be in danger. And I would be far, far away from the djinn.
Brogan cocked his head the way he did when he was trying to figure out what I was thinking, searching my face, the anger gone as quickly as it had appeared. "What's this really all about, darlin'?"
I wanted to tell him. I truly did. But… "Nothing," I lied. "I'm just trying to understand."
He inched closer to me, almost as though he couldn't help himself, and brushed the back of his knuckles along my cheek and down the side of my throat, along my artery. "If I could go back in time and change this, I would. Please believe me." His eyes searched my face, and when he spoke again, it was almost as if he was talking to himself. "And I can still give you a choice. I can't bring myself to walk away from you. But you can."
There was something he wasn't telling me. I felt it all the way to my bones. "What about you? What will happen to you if I leave?”
At first he just stared at me, memorizing my face. Then he stepped back. "Nothing. I’ll be just fine, darlin'. Eventually." He held out his hand. "Come on, I'll walk you home."
A bit disconcerted, I allowed him to take my hand and lace his fingers through mine. Our walk back to my apartment was silent. Every few minutes, I looked up at him, wanting to ask him what would really happen if I left him. Because I knew he was lying. But in the end, I never asked.
I didn't want to know.