Chapter 59 Lucian #2
The whisper of bare feet against the balcony stone barely registers until her scent hits me—cinnamon and honey, somehow untainted by the horror she's endured.
I turn—and fuck me sideways—those little pink shorts and that white lace top sliding off one shoulder are doing things to my heart that should be medically impossible.
"Hey, daddy." Seraphina's voice carries enough sugar to put Willy Wonka out of business, with just enough spice to make my fangs ache.
Jesus tap-dancing Christ on a pogo stick.
I roll my eyes at the reminder of my new 'parental' status to our bubblegum vampire witch, but fuck me running—the way those words just rolled off her tongue makes parts of me stand at attention faster than a soldier during inspection.
"Careful there, Cupcake," I manage to choke out, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. "You keep calling me 'daddy' like that, and I might just have to put you over my knee."
Shit. Did I just say that out loud? Apparently my brain-to-mouth filter is on vacation. Probably sipping margaritas with my sense of shame.
"You know, for... discipline purposes. Gotta make sure you're being a good little angel and all that jazz."
Seraphina smirks, a look that's equal parts heavenly and sinful. "Oh, I think you like it when I call you that... daddy."
Fuck. Me. Sideways. With a silver-plated dildo.
"You did good, Lucian." Seraphina steps closer, her scent wrapping around me like a heavenly security blanket. "You tried to save her and you did... just in another way."
Right. Because turning someone into a vampire is totally what they mean by 'saving lives' in medical school.
I sigh, the world's weight settling on my shoulders like a lead blanket. "Yeah, maybe you're right. But all of that never should've happened—none of it." I swallow hard, the memory of the night rising like bile in my throat. "Especially with you."
Fuck. The image of Seraphina, broken and bleeding, her wings torn... it's seared into my brain like a brand. A permanent reminder of my failure.
"You didn't deserve that, Cupcake. Any of it." My voice cracks, emotions threatening to spill out like a burst dam. "I should've protected you. Should've been faster, stronger, better."
But I wasn't. And now I have to live with the consequences. Forever.
Seraphina's hand finds mine, her touch a lifeline in the darkness. "Lucian, you can't blame yourself. We all made choices tonight. And I'd make the same one again in a heartbeat."
Fuck, I love this woman. This angel. This goddamn miracle in high heels and a halo.
The questions I should ask pile up behind my teeth—What all did they do to you? How did they hurt you? Who do I need to dismember first?—but they stick there, trapped by the fear of knowing just how badly I failed to protect her.
My hands find her waist before she can speak, spinning her into the space between me and the balcony rail.
The motion triggers something divine because suddenly the night explodes with light—her wings unfurling like living opals, casting rainbow shadows across the deck.
Each feather catches moonlight and transforms it, turning the darkness into our own private aurora borealis.
She even makes breathing look holy?
Those sexy eyes tilt up to mine, and the raw emotion there hits harder than any whiskey.
How can she still look at me like that? Like I'm something worth loving? After I let her get taken?
The balcony railing creaks under my grip.
"Stop blaming yourself, Sparky." Her voice is honey, wrapping around me like a caress. The nickname—that ridiculous, perfect nickname—falls from her lips with such tenderness it makes my chest ache.
"I'm sorry, baby girl." The words scrape raw from my throat. My thumb traces the curve of her cheek, needing the tangible proof she's really here. "This should never have happened. I got you hurt, taken, fucking tortured—"
Her smile—that goddamn sunrise of a smile—cuts through my self-flagellation. My body responds instantly—my cock inflates faster than a life raft on the Titanic, straining painfully against my zipper.
Great timing, Little Lucian. Nothing says 'I'm devastated about your trauma' like pitching a tent.
"Lucian," my name in her mouth sounds like a prayer. "You can't blame yourself for what that bloodsucking..." Her brow furrows, and angelic vocabulary clearly lacks the appropriate terminology.
"Bitch?" I offer. "Designer Dumpster Fire? Satan's Side Piece? Couture Cock-goblin? I've got a whole thesaurus of options, Cupcake. Been workshopping them for centuries."
Humor: the band-aid for soul-crushing guilt since... well, forever.
"Yes." That bitch did this. Not you." The profanity on her divine lips is so deliciously wrong it's right.
Her fingers climb my neck, sending electric currents through nerve endings, before tangling in my hair. My eyes practically roll back in my skull. "You came for me. Again."
Like I'd ever do anything else.
I'm pretty sure 'rescuing angelic girlfriend' is in the fine print of the vampire handbook. Right under 'brooding on balconies' and 'always having a spare leather jacket'.
"What I saw..." My voice scrapes like gravel over the words. My eyes can't look away from hers—those golden galaxies I'd burn the world to protect. "It damn near killed me."
My hands trace the delicate sides of her ribs, memorizing every curve like a blind man reading braille. Her skin—that impossible silk—hums beneath my touch.
So fucking perfect. So impossibly mine.
"How did they get you to..." My gaze drifts to those wings—iridescent miracles folded against her back like living art. "Bring those out?"
Smooth, Lucian. Real smooth. 'Hey babe, quick question about your torture session?
Her eyes cloud with memory, but then her lips curve into that honey-sweet smile. "She threatened to kill you if I didn't reveal them. It wasn't even a choice worth considering, Sparky." She reaches up, thumb gently tracing my bottom lip. "Some things are worth sacrificing for."
Holy fucking shit on a sandwich.
My heart does something anatomically impossible in my chest. She surrendered her most sacred part—to protect me? A blood-drinking, smartass vampire with more baggage than an international airport?
I don't deserve her. Not in this lifetime or the next seven.
But my body disagrees completely, my cock throbbing against my zipper like it's trying to morse code "I worship you" directly through denim.
She tugs me down to her level, those fingers suddenly demanding in my hair. Then her lips claim mine, and sweet merciful fuckballs—it's like getting tased by pure sunshine.
Her mouth is warm velvet against mine, and the taste of her—sweet and delicious and something uniquely her—short-circuits my brain. My hands slide to her waist, fingers digging into the silk of her skin as I haul her closer.
The scent of her arousal hits me like a wrecking ball wrapped in Christmas morning. It changes the air between us, turning oxygen into aphrodisiac. Her heart thunders against my chest, each beat pumping more of that intoxicating scent into the space around us.
Vampire kryptonite. Angel-flavored.
My fangs descend without permission, primal instinct overriding centuries of control. Her blood calls to me like a fucking junkie, promising paradise… needing a taste.
Focus, dumbass. This isn't 'Fifty Shades of Fang.' She's been through enough without you going full vampire on her.
But then she makes this little whimpering sound against my mouth, and my restraint crumbles. I press her against the railing, my cock throbbing so hard I'm pretty sure my zipper is one heartbeat away from becoming shrapnel.
"Bite me, Lucian." Her words are a husky whisper against my lips, a plea that hits me harder than a silver bullet. "I know you need to feed. I can feel your hunger. Please."
Jesus, Mary, and the entire heavenly HOA.
I'm starving. After tonight's supernatural bullshit, I haven't fed since Discount Dracula and her Gucci Gang kidnaped Seraphina. And now her blood is singing to me like my greatest hits album.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, guiding my mouth to the delicate skin of her neck, then lower. I pay homage to that flawless canvas with feathery kisses that make her breath catch and her pulse dance beneath my lips.
The lace of her top is a flimsy barrier, doing absolutely nothing to hide the perfect curve of her breasts. I could recite poetry about these orbs—sonnets that would make Shakespeare weep. With a gentle tug, I reveal more supple skin, setting free those twin peaks that star in my dreams.
Tit-tacular. A divine work of art. God's greatest masterpiece.
She arches under my touch, offering herself up like a sacrifice.
My mouth waters at the sight of that perfect pink tip, straining toward me like a beacon.
I close my eyes, dragging my tongue across the taut peak before capturing it between my teeth and biting down.
She jerks against me, a sweet little moan escaping her throat as my fangs graze delicate skin.
I soothe the sting with my tongue, lapping up her taste like a starved man.
I worship that nipple like it's my new religion, suckling gently as my thumb strokes its twin. Her heart flutters against my lips—a symphony accompanying this heavenly feast. Her fingers tangle in my hair, urging me on, a silent prayer for more. And who am I to deny my angel's wish?
With infinite care, I pierce the delicate skin just above her nipple, twin pinpricks that well with red droplets.
The first taste of her—fuck—honey and cinnamon, sunlight and sin—shatters me, reforges me, brands me as hers for eternity.
My eyes flutter closed, colors bursting behind my lids, a kaleidoscope of rapture.
My Heavenly Honey's ambrosia. Vintage Seraphina. And the only elixir I'll crave for all my immortal days.