Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Selena
If I was going to be a prisoner, forced to be on the run with a man who couldn’t decide if I was his mate or his hostage, then I’d better know what the stakes were.
Because right now, I was risking everything—my safety, my freedom, my life—for a shard I barely understood and a plan I hadn’t agreed to.
I crossed my arms and leaned against the headboard, putting as much distance between us as the room would allow. “Why does he want the shard anyway?”
Rocco’s gaze cut to the door, then back to me. Checking. Always checking. “For his daughter.”
I blinked. His daughter. She was just a baby—couldn’t be more than a few months old. “Noelle? I don’t understand. Is she sick?”
He shrugged, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the casual gesture. “He wouldn’t tell me. Just wanted the shard. What exactly is its power?”
I held his gaze for a long moment, wondering how much to tell him.
He looked wrecked—dark circles carved beneath his eyes, his shirt still stained with my blood, his whole body wound tight enough to snap.
He’d lied about why he asked me to the party, knocked me out and now made me his prisoner.
Trust wasn’t exactly flowing freely right now.
But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the mask, I could see the fear he was trying to hide. Not for himself. For his mother.
Damn him for making it so hard to stay angry.
If Angelo Santi wanted this badly enough to send Rocco after it—badly enough to make deadly offers and manipulate strings for his infant daughter—then whatever was happening to Noelle was serious. And if I was already neck-deep in this mess, I might as well understand what I was drowning in.
“It shields someone from demons.” I watched his face carefully as I spoke. “Prevents demons from ever possessing or stealing their soul.”
Rocco went still. Completely, utterly still.
The color drained from his face. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
“Rocco?”
“If I’d had that...” His voice splintered. “Two years ago. If I’d had that shard, the demon never could have—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “I never would have hurt my mother.”
My heart cracked open. All this time, he’d been carrying the guilt of what he’d done while possessed. And now he’d just learned there was something that could have prevented it entirely.
“You didn’t know,” I said softly. “No one knew.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He turned away, staring out the window at the murky bayou water. “It happened. And I have to live with it.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Costin only procured it six months ago.”
Rocco snorted. “Beat Angelo to it.”
His shoulders curved inward, his reflection ghosting in the glass—broken, hollow. He’d been alone for so long. Whether by choice or not, he deserved to be comforted, to be loved. He was my mate and I wanted to take the pain away from him.
I pushed off the headboard, wanting to reach him, but my legs wobbled and black dots floated in front of my eyes. I swayed and fell backward.
Strong arms caught me. The room spun—walls blurring, ceiling tilting—and I grabbed fistfuls of his shirt just to stay anchored to something solid.
“You’re still weak.” His breath was warm against my temple.
I hated how good it felt to be held by him. Hated how my body melted into his grip like it had been waiting for exactly this. My legs were useless, my head swimming, and the bite mark on my neck pulsed with a dull, relentless ache that reminded me with every heartbeat why I was in this state.
Because of him.
“I’m sorry,” I managed, the words slurring at the edges.
“Don’t be. I’m the one who drained you. Betrayed you again.” His arms tightened around me, just slightly, like he was afraid I’d dissolve if he let me go. “You need more blood.”
“You said there’s more Chosen Blood?”
A pause. The kind of pause that shifted the air in the room.
“Take mine.”
My heart skipped a beat. Then slammed hard against my ribs like it was trying to break free. “What?”
He didn’t repeat it. Didn’t need to. The offer hung between us, heavy with everything it meant.
This wasn’t just blood. Not between vampires.
Not between mates—even rejected ones. Sharing blood was intimate.
Personal. It would flood me with his essence, his strength, his taste.
It would pull the bond taut between us like a wire and there’d be no pretending it didn’t exist.
He had to know that. He had to.
He laid me back down on the bed, gentle despite the tension in his shoulders.
His fingers brushed my hair off my forehead, the touch so tender it made my chest ache.
I stared up at him, searching his face for hesitation.
For regret. For any sign that he understood what was offered and wanted to take it back.
There was none.
I should say no. Every shred of self-preservation I had left screamed at me to refuse. He’d rejected me. Bitten me without my consent. Made me his prisoner. Taking his blood now—willingly, intimately—would blur every line I’d drawn to protect myself.
But my body was failing. I could feel it—the hollowness in my veins, the tremor in my hands, the way my vision kept fading at the edges like a photograph left too long in the sun.
He’d taken too much. And the part of me that was pure survival instinct didn’t care about pride or boundaries or the wreckage of our history.
And then there was the other part. The part I didn’t want to admit existed. The part that had been starving for him for two years—not just his blood, but his closeness, his touch, the raw and terrifying pull of the bond I’d never been able to sever.
That part didn’t just want his blood.
It wanted him.
My fingers trembled as they reached up and curled around the back of his neck, drawing him closer.
“Okay,” I whispered. And I hated how much I meant it.
He turned his head, exposing the long column of his throat. His dark hair fell across my face like silk, and I could smell his blood pumping through his veins—rich and heady, calling to something primal inside me.
It was such a terrible temptation. Hunger gripped me, sharp and desperate. I’d dreamed of this moment for so long. Wanted to taste him. Wanted to know what it would feel like to drink from my mate.
I leaned closer, my breath ghosting over his skin. He shivered but didn’t pull away.
I scraped my fangs over his neck and trembled. His pulse jumped beneath my lips.
Then I sank my fangs into him.
His blood hit my tongue and it was like tasting fine bourbon—rich and warm and intoxicating. But there was something else beneath it. Something that was purely him. Something ancient and primal roared to life, flooding through me like liquid fire.
His blood pumped through me, making me grow stronger with every swallow. I gripped his shirt, pulling him closer, unable to stop. I didn’t want to stop.
A low groan rumbled from his chest, and I felt it vibrate against my lips.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with hunger—and not just for blood. His thumb traced along my jaw, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
Then he kissed me.
Soft at first. Testing. But when I parted my lips, something in him broke loose. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine, and I arched into him with a moan I couldn’t hold back.
I’d dreamed of this. For two long years, I’d dreamed of this.
He stretched out on top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, and I wrapped my arms around him. My hands roamed over his back, feeling the hard planes of muscle shift beneath his shirt. I wanted it off. I wanted to feel his skin against mine.
Oh, God. Rocco.
He broke the kiss and trailed his lips down my throat, his breath hot against my skin. I squirmed beneath him, my fingers digging into his shoulders. When his fangs scraped lightly over my pulse point, I gasped.
“Rocco...”
He slipped down one of the thin silk straps on my dress, his fingers cool against my flushed skin.
When his lips touched my bare shoulder, goosebumps rippled across my collarbone.
His mouth traced a delicate path down my neck, each kiss lingering longer than the last, until he reached the soft curve where my breast began.
My hands trembled as I threaded them through his thick hair, feeling the warmth of his scalp against my fingertips.
I’d dreamed of this moment in the quiet darkness of my bedroom, night after night.
Never thought this would happen, replacing all those lonely fantasies.
But then the dreaded phone rang.
The sound cut through me like ice water. Reality crashed back—the houseboat, the stolen shard, Angelo. I stiffened in Rocco’s arms, the warmth between us evaporating in an instant.
Rocco growled—a deep, feral sound—and reached for it on the nightstand. “What?”
I sighed miserably, cursing whoever was on the other end. My body was still humming, still aching for him. Two years of wanting this, and some asshole had to call now?
But then Rocco stiffened. The heat in his eyes vanished, replaced by something cold. Something afraid.
“I have the shard, Angelo. I’m not stupid enough to betray you.” Every trace of color left his face and he rolled off me like I’d burned him.
Oh, crap.
I pulled up my strap, my hands shaking, suddenly feeling exposed. Rocco paced the small cabin, his jaw clenched, listening to Angelo. His free hand curled into a fist.
He gritted his teeth. “No, I didn’t sell it on the black market. Who fucking told you that?”
Ice spread through my chest. Someone was setting him up.
He rolled his eyes. “And you believe him? Steve Dupont’s fucking lying.”
Excuse me? Black market? Joy’s brother? Why would Steve tell Angelo that? What was going on?
I slid off the bed and headed toward what looked like a bathroom. My reflection in the mirror made me wince—Rocco’s blood smeared across my lips and chin, my hair a disaster, my dress wrinkled and askew. I was a freaking mess.
I quickly washed his blood off my face and dragged my fingers through my hair, trying to make myself look like something other than a woman who’d just been ravished on a houseboat.
He headed into what must have been the living room, still talking to Angelo.
“No, Angelo. It was here. Somebody stole it.”
Oh shit. Someone had been on this boat. While we were—my skin crawled. Someone had slipped in and out without either of us noticing, and now the one thing keeping Rocco’s mother alive was gone.
Things crashed around in the living room.
Then Rocco burst into the bathroom and grabbed my wrist. “Angelo’s fucking sent Enzo after us.” His chest heaved, his expression caught somewhere between rage and panic.
Shitshitshit
Enzo Di Salvo. Angelo’s deadly enforcer. And he was hunting us.
Every hair on my arms stood straight up. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, his eyes wild. “He’s coming. We’ve got to get the fuck out of here. Now.”