Chapter 17
FRANK N. STEIN
“It’s huge, Frank. What are they putting in there?” she asks, gesturing for probably the fifth time on our ride across the countryside, at the large circus tent in the distance that’s being put up in the village.
Her red hair is like a flaming halo around her head, brushing and licking up my shirt front with every twitch she makes, driving me to madness.
“Stop moving,” I bite out. More annoyed than I can ever remember being at finding her outdoors. I expected her to rummage about, searching every nook and cranny in the house for any technology device to help her crack her way out of here, but she has done none of those things.
I was even about to make a trip to the city to see how operations are running when I spotted her location pin outside of the mansion on my tracking app.
I fully expected to watch her from my mobile as she ran around like a hamster in a cage flitting about the big house and instead, I find her outdoors playing about with this mongrel.
I hold the reins steady, my arms locked wide as I refuse to touch the woman more than necessary when being close is difficult. So far, the ride has been pure torture, although I would never admit it to her when she’s barely paused for breath since I bridled Brom in the stable.
“Have it your way, if you’re not going to answer me, I’ll just have to talk to Brom. Who’s a good boy?” she says in the most obnoxious tone imaginable, and leans down to rub at the horse’s shoulder as we ride, thoroughly shoving the swell of her ass into the air.
“Don’t,” I warn, pulling the reins taut when Brom bristles, wanting to be let free, and move to tug her back into my lap so she doesn’t break her fool neck.
As much as Brom obviously likes the human and wants her to ride him, he could very easily kill her, and the foolish woman just simply accepts the horse was on fire and isn’t deterred.
The human even said herself that she trusts him, all because Brom extinguished his flames, behaving like a well-trained pony the moment she neared him again.
Damn them both.
As far as my knowledge, Brom has never allowed another supernatural being to get close except his owner and myself, lighting on fire anytime anyone thinks to get near him or his paddock.
My jaw clenches at the reminder of what’s at stake.
I refuse to be a puppet to Odette’s games, having grown bored of them long ago, and this one is no different to the rest. Luckily, whatever magic she has wrought can’t affect me this time.
Probably the one and only perk to having a mate that’s long buried and dead.
I withhold a grunt, freezing in place when she sighs petulantly and falls back across my lap dramatically. My muscles seize at how her sweater rides up her midriff, teasing with her ample flesh.
“Then tell me what the heck that is,” she says, raising to point one small finger at the red and white tent.
“A renaissance fair,” I mutter to appease her, adjusting myself before she catches the action.
“Oh my gosh!” she squeals, and the sound reverberates in my eardrum. “Can we go?”
“No.”
The wind blows her scent my way, and my jaw ticks at how her hair tickles the underside of my chin.
Torturous female.
My palm tingles where I touched her moments ago to right her in the saddle, and my eye twitches.
The sensation is still almost pleasurable, her erratic pulse somehow non-abrasive where other human’s closeness sends shudders of revulsion through me.
My cock begins to lengthen, hardening in my slacks at just the hint of warmth from her when I barely gripped her arm. Why am I having this reaction to her?
I tug the reins, intent on getting us back to the stable yard. Brom requires riding once a week to keep his temper in check, but it’s never been an enjoyable task for either of us.
“Do I get to meet the headless horseman?”
“No.” The answer is immediate.
The horseman, cursed as he is, needs a specific witch to show up on Halloween to set him free. He only speaks of finding his lost head or his mate every time I’ve seen him on All Hallow’s eve, and Bernadette, no matter if she wishes or not, is no witch.
“We’ll just see about that,” she grouses, “Either way I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, Brom.”
“You will not.”
“Well, why not? He acts like he doesn’t get enough attention, and it can’t hurt.” A frown mars her brow as she turns to look up at me, twisting her torso in the saddle.
“No.”
“I don’t see how you can stop me,” she scoffs, and turns back around to face forward.
Argumentative brat.
I cover her mouth with a palm, delighted when her incessant talking is finally muffled. Holding her mouth shut, I notice how my hand dwarfs her entire face easily and smirk a bit when she unsuccessfully tries to break my hold with both of hers.
“Now listen here, Brom Bones isn’t some pet you can come play with when you like.
He turns to flame when pissed. A stray hornet at his head and you’ll go up in ash just for being near him.
” The words ring true, and the idea begins to have merit as she knows too much to really be allowed to live now.
“If you value your life so little, get my property back and you can pet him all you like.”
The horse sidesteps beneath us, as if to argue, but I’ve seen him do far worse to humans in the past, and he knows it.
A wet sensation accompanied by the feeling of warm, wet metal sliding along my palm registers as my face screws into horror. “Did you just lick me?” I ask, ripping my hand away from her mouth lest she try to do it again.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve licked you Frank, and besides, Brom won’t hurt me. He likes me more than he likes you,” she announces, as if she’s known the creature all her life instead of a span of twenty minutes.
Brom whinnies as if in agreement, and my nostrils flare.
I don’t bother responding to her ridiculousness. It’s becoming clear she would argue with a fence post, and I’ve no intention of providing her entertainment.
“You’re just mad because I’m right,” she says in a singsong-like voice as if I rebutted her aloud.
“Stop. Talking.” I bite out the words between clenched teeth, trying with all my might to keep from strangling her where she sits.
“Fine,” she mutters, as Brom walks at a sedate pace beneath us, the twit docile as a lamb because of the shrew.
My eyeball twitches in my sockets when she wiggles in place on my lap instead of chattering my ears off, invoking a different type of annoyance altogether as my cock comes to attention.
She lets out a sigh, leaning back against my chest. Thankfully not noticing my predicament as my slacks get increasingly tighter.
A heavy grunt leaves her as she twists to get more comfortable, grinding her ass against me and the muscles of my face harden to stone.
I force every molecule in my body to not react, refusing to give an inch even as her orange blossom scent teases when she continues to stretch back against me like a cat.
She sighs again when I give no response, but when she begins to whistle a tune, I lose my temper entirely.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I thunder down at her.
She turns slightly to peek up at me from under her cat-eye glasses, her tone all innocence. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes,” I snap and sharply tug at the reins, turning Brom around back toward the stable yard, and tighten the one’s holding at my threadbare control.
“Riiiight, had to check. You know, you’re really hot to the touch, almost like a heating pad,” she remarks, rubbing her back into my stomach and chest. “Ha, how did I ever think you were a vampire.”
How indeed.
Although immortal, vampires are essentially parasites for all their supernatural abilities, vulnerable in more ways than one, and there are many downsides to their nature.
I’ve found a solution to most of them. A fact that Vlad hates, especially when I make a point to remind him of my obvious superiority every chance I get.
“You’re definitely not a werewolf either,” she murmurs, as if she has firsthand knowledge of werewolves.
I purse my lips and roll them to keep myself from questioning her, but in the end my curiosity gets the best of me. “And you know that because?”
She shrugs. “I’ve met one.”
My brows knit together in a sharp frown before I recall Vlad rarely moves without Doyle, and I read a report not long ago with the shocking news of Vlad making a trip to the states. It must be him, as the werewolves tend to stick to their own and rarely if ever move so far south. “Hmmph.”
“Let’s see, what kind of supernatural would the great Mr. Frank Stein CEO be? Are you the Dr. Frankenstein? How cool would that be.”
“No,” I answer, my tone hard as anger explodes in my sternum at the sore spot she inadvertently grazed with her questioning.
Odette and the lot of them, including Vlad and Doyle, have likened me to the monster from Mary Shelley’s horror story since learning of its inception, but in truth, I am nothing like the creature from her tale.
I suppose it’s Odette’s fault, as it usually is, that I was named such after a discussion with the lady in a drawing room, but I’m centuries older.
Vlad & Doyle, the idiots, only continue because of how vehemently I argued. If only it were that simple to reanimate a corpse.
“Eesh, okay. You can’t blame me for asking.”
I lean back in the black leather saddle, trying and failing to create more space between us.
I only wish it were an improvement since this is the longest Brom has kept a saddle on and not burned it off as soon as it cinched.
But riding with a raging hard on and parading around a human on another man’s horse isn’t how I expected to spend my day.