Chapter 29
EIRA
By the time I make it back to my apartment in the Tower, my nerves feel sanded raw and dipped in honey.
Absurd combination.
Accurate as hell.
I close the door and stand with my hand still on the handle, breathing like I’ve run a mile, even though the walk here was a controlled glide through polished corridors that whispered expensive danger.
My heart is still sprinting, my skin still remembers him, and my brain keeps trying to reboot into normal functioning as if I didn’t just spend the afternoon in Don Moretti’s bed learning far too much about my own body and nowhere near enough about how to stop my life imploding.
I take two steps in.
Stop.
Because I’m smiling.
A real, stupid smile, the kind I haven’t worn in Gods know how long. It sits on my mouth, uninvited and shameless, all because of his last warning. His growl. The way he caught me by the throat, reminding me of rules while his eyes said he liked the way I kept breaking them.
My face warms. ‘Get it together,’ I mutter.
Then the smile dies, because Tezra is still dead.
The reminder lands like a slap, shoving heat, humour, everything soft into a drawer and slamming it shut.
Then I remember the fancy package.
My gut says it’s Selphine’s promised delivery, although the old crone has never indulged in gift-giving despite charging me to the eyeballs. I set the slim black parcel on the table near the window. Matte wrapping. Unmarked seal. There’s a familiar residue, herbal-metallic and old magic.
My fingers hover.
Then I open it.
Inside, nestled in dark velvet, is a single vial of deep red-black glass sealed with wax stamped by a sigil that makes my skin prickle.
No note.
Of course.
I’m already calling before I decide to.
Selphine answers on the second ring. ‘There you are, child.’
‘Try not to sound so smug. You sent me a potion I didn’t ask for. I’m assuming this is the stronger fortification?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I was hoping for a lovely bracelet, or even a magic wand. I’m not taking more mystery fluids without at least a warning label and a vague threat.’
‘You’re taking it,’ she says mildly, ‘because you like living.’
I stare at the vial. ‘What is it? And don’t say help.’
‘It’s called Bride’s Mercy.’
A laugh bursts out of me. ‘Bride’s Mercy?’
‘Mock if you wish.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t prepared for you to name my mystery gift like a gothic candle scent.’
‘Eira.’
The way she says my name is warning wrapped in brambles.
I lean back against the counter and force my brain into the shape of caution. ‘What does it do?’
‘You wouldn’t understand if I drew you several diagrams. Just take it before he bites you. Not after. Defeats the purpose that way.’
My pulse jumps. ‘He’s not biting me.’
Selphine scoffs. ‘He’s a powerful vampire and you’re a shiny new penny living in his Tower. Tell me he hasn’t touched a hair on your head and the next package I send will be soap to wash the lies out of your mouth.’
Heat crashes into my face.
Touched a hair on my head does not begin to cover where Valentin Moretti’s hands and mouth have been, and divulging any of that to Selphine would be like describing your first orgasm to a crotchety grandmother with occult knives.
Not. Happening.
‘Your mistake,’ Selphine continues, ‘is believing you can keep stroking that beast like a cat and not get mauled. This way you may get mauled and still save yourself.’
I go very still. ‘How much is this going to cost me?’
We both know I don’t mean just money. It can cost me in danger. Identity. Cost me emotionally, because I’m beginning to feel things I shouldn’t for a vampire who can’t even look in a normal mirror and is apparently on a countdown to death.
‘Money?’ she says, almost amused. ‘Hardly. The cost comes later. If it comes at all.’
‘That is not comforting. What am I missing?’
‘I sent it to prevent your blood from naming you. The rest is out of my hands.’
My stomach drops. ‘Prevent my blood from—’ My mind races. ‘Did you know?’
‘Ask complete questions, Eira.’
‘Did you know he thinks Lyra is his fated mate?’ The laugh I tag on burns my throat. ‘Gods, is that even possible?’
The silence isn’t normal Selphine silent. It’s pretending to be patient but it’s alert. Hungry.
‘He said that?’ Selphine murmurs. ‘To your face?’
I close my eyes. Dammit. ‘It’s complicated,’ I say fast.
‘Tell me everything,’ Selphine says, and there it is, the extra edge under the sourness.
‘No.’ The swift answer surprises even me. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘You’re making promises to vampires now?’
‘I made a promise to him,’ I snap, then regret the emphasis instantly. ‘As his bounty hunter. Confidentiality, remember?’
‘How touching.’
‘Don’t.’
Another loaded silence. ‘Very well. We will speak of the potion.’
I exhale, relief and suspicion tangling.
‘Bride’s Mercy will blur your blood signature. For a time. Enough that a taste will not name you.’
‘A taste?’ I repeat. ‘Again. He’s not biting me.’
Her silence is pure judgement.
Then, quieter, ‘Do not let him drink deeply.’
My fingers tighten on the phone. ‘Why? What happens if he does? Not that I’m planning on letting him anywhere near my throat,’ I add quickly, because my pride refuses to be reasonable, ‘but, you know… just in case. Academic curiosity.’
When she speaks, her voice is lower, almost intimate. ‘He might like it too much.’
My skin prickles.
‘And so might you,’ she adds.
My mouth goes dry. ‘Excuse me? What does that mean, Selphine? And don’t give me any of your cryptic bullish… jargon.’
She ignores the question wrapped around my mini-tantrum. ‘Take it before. Not after. Do not let him drink deeply. And remember this. Time is running out.’
‘Running out for who?’
‘For everyone.’
I stare at the vial, the pretty name that sounds like a blessing and feels like a trap. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
Selphine laughs softly, and my spine goes cold. ‘So many things, child. All you need to remember is that I’ve never steered you wrong.’
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, while somewhere deep in this Tower a vampire is counting down towards an ending he refuses to accept.
And in my palm, Selphine’s vial sits warm as a secret.
Bride’s Mercy.
A potion meant to save me.
Or ruin me.
Probably both.
I pace for exactly forty-seven seconds before admitting the truth.
I’m going to drink it.
Not because I trust Selphine. Gods, no. Even though I grudgingly admit that she’s right – she’s never steered me wrong. Because I trust the direction my life is going in even less, and because I’ve already let Valentin Moretti into too many dangerous places. My space. My mind. My mouth. My body.
If this vial buys me time, cover, one thin layer of protection from the thing that rises in him every time he looks at my throat, I’m taking it.
‘Bride’s Mercy,’ I mutter. ‘Sure.’
Then I uncork it and swallow.
It is vile.
Not herbal bitterness vile. Not medicine is gross vile. This is old-magic vile, metallic and sharp like blood held in silver, with a sweetness underneath that turns my stomach and burns all the way down.
The second it hits my belly, it spreads fast.
Heat blooms outward and my skin prickles. My tongue goes numb at the edges as my heart stutters once, races, then settles into a rhythm that feels tuned.
Too aware of itself.
I brace my hands on the counter and breathe through my nose. I’ve taken Selphine’s potions before. Panicking only makes them bite harder.
Then the sensation shifts.
And fuck, I feel like I’ve been zapped to life with a cattle prod.
Smell comes first. Layers everywhere. Linen in the couch. Polish on wood. My own soap. The distant iron tang of the Tower elevators, like old coins and secrets.
Then a faint throb behind my teeth, as if my gums have developed opinions.
A coolness slides through my veins, and when I swallow, my throat feels different. Open. Sensitive.
Waiting.
Fucking Netheris demons, what is this?
I stare at myself in the mirror, searching for anything obvious – glowing eyes, black veins, a gothic ‘congratulations you’ve been hexed’ forehead stamp.
Nothing… besides my pupils looking a touch wider, my skin seeming to catch the light like I’ve been sleeping and drinking water and making good life choices.
Which I absolutely have not.
‘Great,’ I mutter at my reflection. ‘So I’m not turning into a bat. Disappointing.’
An hour later, I emerge from the lift showered, dressed in black and strapped in all the right places. Weapons sit snug against my body, familiar and reassuring.
My hair is damp at the roots, face composed, pulse steady in that strange new rhythm.
Damn Selphine, but I feel great.
The Tower lobby is busy but hushed in that quietly efficient way that comes from standing too close to indescribable power. Five of the Twelve are stationed across the atrium, tailored menace and black stares.
And at the far end, near the private access corridor, Valentin waits.
He watches me walk to him with unwavering fixation that bites marrow deep.
When I reach him, he leans in, breath skimming my ear. ‘You washed my scent off. That does not please me, little hunter.’
A ridiculous flush skates over my skin. ‘I needed a shower. You’ll survive the indignity.’
His eyes narrow. Then he pauses. Frowns.
I feel the shift in him in my bones, attention sharpening like a blade finding its mark.
‘And why do you smell—’ He stops, jaw flexing, nostrils flaring.
‘Wrong?’ I offer, because my mouth cannot resist danger. ‘I thought we talked about that?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head once, like he’s fighting something. ‘The opposite.’
I blink. ‘I smell right?’
‘Better than right.’ His voice drops, roughening. ‘What did you do?’
‘I told you. Shower. Then ate the juiciest steak known to humankind. Remind me to thank the chef—’
Strong hands shackle my waist.
He lifts me clean off the floor.
My squeal is undignified as the world blurs and the air snaps cold. One stomach-flipping heartbeat later, we’re in a private room, dark-panelled and soundproofed. Clearly the Tower has rooms specifically designed for vampires to lose their minds without witnesses.
Valentin sets me down, uncaring that my Mercy Pin is already at his throat.
Yeah, I don’t like being taken by surprise.
He crowds in, inhaling like my scent is an addiction and he’s starving.
‘Gods,’ he mutters, then groans, low and involuntary, his body grinding against mine like he can’t help it. ‘Tell me you did not do this on purpose.’
‘The weapon at your throat?’
‘Your fucking scent, hunter.’
I should answer.
I can’t.
Because a tiny bead of blood has welled where my pin nicked his throat, and I’m watching it swell with an absurd craving to lick it.
Taste it.
Instead, my mouth finds his with a helpless little groan.
The kiss is torrid from the first second.
Teeth. Tongue. Filthy urgency. His hands are everywhere: waist, throat, hips, dragging me closer like he’s trying to climb inside my skin.
He mutters things against my mouth that make my pulse jump and my pussy clench, words that feel like claims even when he doesn’t name them.
I want to rip off every item of clothing I put on ten minutes ago, and climb him like a fucking tree while sucking the bead of blood from his throat.
I want to turn back time and impale myself on his massive cock. Ride him until I go blind.
I want—
‘Sire.’
Malachi’s voice cuts through the room like a blade.
Valentin stiffens, mouth still at my throat, breath hot against my skin, hard body pressed to mine as if stopping is an insult.
‘Speak,’ he commands quietly.
‘Rafael Navarro has arrived.’
Netheris fire.
Valentin’s whole body tightens. Fury rolls through him like a storm held behind glass.
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, eyes silver-rimmed and dangerous.
I know what he’s thinking.
If he can smell me, so can Navarro.
‘If he looks at you wrong, I will tear out his throat,’ he rasps.
Pure carnage.
My heart shadowboxes my ribs when he reluctantly releases me.
I hate that it’s reluctant, hate that I love it.
I smooth my hands down my arms, pretending composure while my insides jump with giddy, reckless satisfaction.
This, being wanted like this, being watched like this, living on the edge of danger and somehow feeling a cushion beneath me, is intoxicating.
Worse, it fills something hollow.
I have not felt this wanted since my mother died and my father threw me away. Since I reinvented myself and dared the world to destroy me.
The thought is both soft and sharp, and for one heartbeat I almost break. Then I swallow it down, because falling apart is a luxury I do not have.
I look up at Valentin and, because I am apparently incapable of self-preservation, whisper, ‘I’ll happily pick up where we left off later, if you want.’
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, and his smile is pure arrogance edged with hunger. ‘You will,’ he says. ‘And you will not make me wait.’
We step out, and the Twelve close in to flank us like lethal shadows. Malachi is half a step behind Valentin, rigid with controlled displeasure. Aaron’s gaze flicks to me once, unreadable.
I ignore both because Valentin is staring again. ‘You’re staring,’ I mutter. ‘It’s rude.’
He licks his lips brazenly, silver-rimmed eyes not moving an inch. ‘You’re beautiful. I find I’m enraptured.’
The flash of surprise on Malachi’s face tells me he is not used to his sire speaking so overtly.
I slot that away, disarmed and annoyingly gleeful.
Too soon, we’re back in the lobby.
Rafael Navarro stands dead centre of Valentin’s Tower insignia, the marbled black crest etched with a stylised eclipse pierced by five descending blades.
It’s a deliberate taunt.
He’s flanked by four of his Seven – his version of The Twelve, all Chicago sharpness and coiled swagger. Clad in head-to-toe leather, he’s taller than I expected, built like trouble, smile lazy and dangerous, eyes bright with amusement that doesn’t reach the cold underneath.
Where the King of New York boils like a deadly volcano, the Don of Chicago is flashy magma raining down after eruption.
Both terrifying.
In their own special, murder-y way.
His dark brown, gold-rimmed gaze lands on Valentin first.
Then slides to me.
Stays.
The air changes.
Valentin’s hand comes to my waist with possessive certainty, his body subtly angling between me and his blood brother and growling mine without a word.
Rafe’s smile widens.
‘Oh,’ he drawls, looking at me like I’m entertainment. ‘So this is the famous hunter.’
Valentin’s fingers tighten at my hip.
And I realise, with a strange jolt of heat and dread braided together, that being in the presence of two centuries-old predators is about to spark all kinds of fireworks.